#a fucked up kind of '' you scratch my back i scratch yours '' mentality
Text
PUPPY DOG EYES
dog!randal ivory x cat!gn!reader | AO3
ᴛᴀɢs: hybrids, established relationship, suggestive fluff, pet names, scratching, play-fighting
ɪɴsᴘɪʀᴇᴅ ʙʏ: a sweet anon (🧛🏽♀️) will most likely do a p2 with smut if ppl are interested!
Randal lays on the sofa, stretching his frame the entire length with no regard to your comfort, “What ya watching, (Y/N)?”
You smile as his tail wags, hitting your leg roughly, “Just some Russian thing Nyon left on, I’m not sure…”
“In that case,” he flips onto his back, his yaeba fang glinting as he grins, “You wanna play a fun game?
Your whiskers twitch unconsciously, “Your last game ended up with half of my tail getting caught in the AC vent…”
“Oh, come on!” Randal cocks his head, smiling with faux innocence, “It’s only pin-the-tail-on-the-donkeyperson, don’t you just looove that game, pet?”
“Ugh, you know I hate that name!” You huff, thwacking him in the head with the remote. “Let’s just watch this, how about that?”
He grumbles, somewhat relenting, “You’re such a… what did Luther call it? Spoilsport! Party pooper!”
Ignoring him, you opt to turn up the volume. The droning foreign language and dated slapstick humor seem only to make Randal more determined— pushing him to grab the remote from your hands with his mouth, “No more Russki anime for you!”
“What the fuck, that’s gross!” You can’t help but let out a giggle as he shakes his head rapidly like the dogperson he was, growling with vigor. “You’re slobbering, ew!”
“And?” He crawls off you quickly, opting to crouch animalistically on the carpet, “What’re you gonna do about it, kitty-kat?”
So this is the kind of game he wants to play, huh?
You hop off the couch as well, stalking him with a smile playing upon your lips, “You’re in for it, mutt.”
Randal squints at the term you use for him, pleased with how easily you’re playing into his hand. He mirrors your movements, circling the coffee table as if it were a sumo match beginning. You squint back, your claws subconsciously flexing. You’re hyper-aware of how his tongue darts to lick his bottom lip— he was always so fascinated by them.
“Starting to think this isn’t even about the remote anymore, kuku…” Randal whispers as the circle closes in slowly.
You don’t grace him with a response as you finally lunge at him from across the table— pinning him to the floor. He scrambles as your nails dig into his shoulders through the fabric of his gakuran. Baring his teeth in retaliation, you press even harder into his flesh— much to his delight.
“Who knew you were such a bad kitty?”
“Do you ever shut up, Ran?” You lean close, your breath almost fogging up his glasses.
Randal’s wild eyes sparkle even more as you lick a stripe up his cheek— you feel the way his chest rumbles with satisfaction. You’d call it a purr if you didn’t know any better. You knew you had more or less ‘free roam’ of your boyfriend, with the catmen and their master out on the town. This was something you fantasized about often— finally getting the upper hand in your scuffles.
He manages to squirm a bit more out of your grasp, breaking you from your confidence-induced reverie, “Stay still and let me taste you a bit more… I know you like it, baby.”
You kiss gently at the corner of his lips as the entirety of his body vibrates from your rough affection. His silence was an unexpected bonus, as you had mentally prepared for his antics to continue. Your tongue slips between his lips, and he bids you entry easily. Randal sucks on your tongue almost instantly, desperate for even this small amount of dominance on his end.
Shutting this down with a scratch down his shoulder, he chokes out a muffled moan against your mouth. You pull back slowly from the kiss, leaving him panting unceremoniously. Watching him with lidded eyes, you suddenly spit on his outstretched tongue. Moaning again, he swallows without question.
“Good boy,” you whisper, antagonizing him further. “Know any other tricks to impress me?”
“I’ll do whatever you want,” Randal chuckles again, albeit with more bated breath, “As long as you keep those cute claws in me.”
28 notes
·
View notes
Text
btw why are people voting mahiru guilty and not kazui uhm ?
#milgram#mahiru shiina#kazui mukuhara#imo it should be either theyre both forgivable or it should be reversed#i dont think mahiru should be seen as guilty because while yes theres something wrong with her she didnt really do anything wrong ??#if her partner never told her she was doing anything or didnt try to help her for both of their sake then she couldnt of known how bad she#had been acting#shes really bpd coded !! i say this as a bpd haver whos been in basically her exact situation#meanwhile kazui was well aware of what he was doing to his wife and still didnt do anything#i dont think hes very unforgivable but theres a severe difference between a mentally ill / delusional person and a very self aware person#either forgive them both or acknowledge that kazui has to take more responsibility for his actions since he KNEW what he was doing#even if his wifes suicide wasnt his intention he would know how awful his actions were#mahiru doesnt seem aware at all that hurting in a relationship isnt good and thats definitely a trauma thing !!#besides with her ( possible ) bpd its likely she was delusional in thinking that this was just how love is supposed to be#a fucked up kind of '' you scratch my back i scratch yours '' mentality#tldr kazui was aware of his affect on his partner and mahiru wasnt just admit you hate women#ALSO DONT ???? CALL MAHIRU A YANDERE I SWEAR TO GODS
14 notes
·
View notes
Text
Tie's and Trends
Miguel O'Hara
Summary: You saw a trend and wanted to try it on Miguel...
Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x Fem!Reader
Word Count:
Warnings: MDNI 18+ ONLY, Smut, edging, porn with plot, PiV sex, Miguel begging, Switch reader, Switch Miguel, Cream-pie
A/N: This was kind of requested but heres the original post where it all started...
"Miguel! Can I do this to you please!" You ask on your knees begging to do this TikTok trend with him.
He stares at your phone again and you can see the way his mind is racing. Moving like Clockwork.
"I don't know Bebita." He runs. his fingers through his hair. Little did he know you were making those cute puppy dog eyes you know he couldn't resist.
He finally looks down to you still on the floor and see's your face. He mentally curses himself and out loud.
"Mierda, You little-" Before he could finish his sentence your smiling, getting up and sprinting to go find a ribbon.
You. already knew what the answer was because of his reaction. When you finally come back with the ribbon he is staring at you with a look you've seen time and time again, but did you care? Nope!
"This is so stupid." He says as you tie the ribbon around his arms. His arms were a lot larger than others so you needed a slightly longer ribbon.
Once you finish tying it, you step back and observe your man. He looks so cute, yet extremely hot with those bulging veins in his arms.
You observe his hands and ten move down to the sweatpants he's wearing. He always wore sweatpants to tease you.
He knew you couldn't stop looking. Every 5 minutes you tried to at least get one glance of down there before he caught you.
But now? He was dead staring at you with his beautiful brown eyes. That red tint sparkling in the light.
"Miguel..." You whimper. It was supposed to come out nice and clear but more thoughts entered your head.
Miguel sits down and spreads his legs as if he alrfead knows what your about to ask.
"C'mere princess." He whispers motioning to his thigh. You walk over and sit on his thigh. He jolts his leg slightly to tease you.
"Miggy?" You whine out. He raises and eyebrow and smirks. "Yes mama?" He asks.
"Can ride you p-please." You squeak out. You fiddle with your fingers and look down trying to hide from his intense gaze.
"Go on baby..." He replies. When you look up at him a surge of confidence bolts down your spine and you feel the urge to become dominant.
"Your keeping the tie on. And No touching. I mean it." You sday pulling down your pants. He pulls his down halfway, without breaking the ribbon.
You pull them down to his ankles and remove his boxers. His semi-hard cock springs out and soon stiffens at the cool air.
You rub your hand up and down on his cock making precum leak out from the tip.
You quickly lined yourself up with his dick and slid down on him. You moaned out as you felt his huge cock stretch you out. He throws his head back in pleasure dying to touch you.
He knows he could break out of this ribbon but for you and your wishes, he has decided to keep it on until you say otherwise.
"Yea? You like that Miguel?" You ask as you roll your hips in that way that has Miguel cumming in seconds.
"y-yes, oh fuck... Meirda my love!" He says tightening his fists in the sheets.
"You gonna cum for me Miggy? Huh baby?" You taunt bouncing on his deliciously huge cock. You feel him all in your stomach.
You move your hand close to his throat as you roll your hips, lifting your hips and sinking slowly back down on him.
"Please mama, let m-me cum. Please? I-I've been good." Miguel whimpers out. His eyes wide and glossy.
You nod your head and he suddenly rips out of the ribbon dying to hold you while he shoots his delicious load inside you.
He flips you over a fucks into you to keep his load in. Something animalistic emerges from him as he roughly thrusts into you.
You cry out before you orgasm comes rushing through you. You scratch at Miguels back leaving red fresh marks.
"OH Fuck Miguel! Yes, give it to me please!" You cry out. He gives you what you want. He helps you ride out your high before pulling out.
He watches as his cum drips from your abused pussy and admires you in your fucked out state.
"I hated that." Miguel speaks out into the silence. You look up at him and prop yourself up on your elbows.
"Too bad, we're so doing that again." You say with a teasing smirk on your face.
He whines and whimpers at the fact that you want to do it again but you can see him trying so hard not to smile at the idea.
You loved your good little boy Miguel O'Hara...
Strictly written for ( @luvrxbunny , @queerponcho and @sunve1ns)
Taglist: @obviouslynini @itzdarling @grixonsdoll @aerangi @
#miguel o’hara smut#miguel o'hara x reader#atsv miguel#miguel x reader#miguel o'hara#miguel ohara x you#sub miguel o'hara
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
Eddie develops a strange habit after sex. It’s not exactly cute or romantic or nice. Nothing bad either. It’s just… well, Steve isn’t too sure what it is. But every time, it’s the same damn thing.
He collapses onto Steve’s chest and says:
“My boyfriend is a cyborg.”
Usually, Steve is still recovering from the fucking downpour of post-orgasm endorphins. So he doesn’t question it. Hell, he stopped challenging Eddie’s tolerance to geek out months ago. Dude holds fantasy knowledge in his brain better than he holds his liquor.
Which is saying a lot.
Anyways, Steve never has the mental capacity to react or respond. Instead, he runs his fingers through Eddie’s sweat-soaked hair for awhile. Scratches out little patterns on his scalp because it always makes Eddie go limp. Quiet.
Quiet is a rarity for him. And while Steve is totally weak for Eddie’s chattiness, the quiet can be nice too.
The only reason Steve finally decides to ask about it is because Eddie slips up. Says it before they have sex.
Steve is against the bedroom door, his nails dragging down Eddie’s back. God, he loves this kind of kissing. The lung draining kind. The type that’s sort of filthy from all the heat and grinding.
Eddie hasn’t marked him up this bad since that time someone at work noticed his neck. Asked if Steve was having an allergic reaction during an office-wide meeting.
And this is going to be even worse. Steve can tell by the sounds and the soft pricks of Eddie’s teeth. He can tell by how long Eddie spends over each spot, like the bruising skin needs more attention than the rest of him. Like licking them over will make the colors last longer.
The damage has been done. Really no point in stopping him when it feels so fucking good. Steve forgets to worry about how mauled he’s gonna look tomorrow because his head is swimming with Eddie’s lips on his neck. His collarbone. His chest.
That’s when it happens. That’s when Eddie’s strange habit makes an early appearance.
He kisses over the blistery mess he made, practically growls the words out this time:
“My boyfriend is a cyborg.”
“Okay, time out.” Steve says. Heaves some air back into his lungs. Pulls Eddie’s face up before he can continue making Steve look like goddamn target practice.
Eddie blinks a few times. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No.” Gonna have to wear fucking high-collared shirts all week, but whatever.
He’ll bring that up some other time. “Why do you keep saying that?”
“Saying what?”
“That… thing.” Steve barely can spit it out. It’s like his throat is physically rejecting the nerdy shit he’s about to say. “You keep calling me… a cyborg or something.”
“Oh that.” Eddie sighs. Casually shrugs to one side. “It’s your fault actually.”
“How is it my fault? I don’t even know what fucking language you’re speaking.”
Eddie walks over to the bed, chanting Steve’s name over and over. Definitely not in the way Steve prefers him to chant his name. Very un-sexy chanting.
“Remember that day you asked me to grab your car keys?” He asks, patting the bed for Steve to join him.
No. “Kinda?”
Steve hesitates before walking over. He didn’t necessarily wanna stop their primal makeout session. But it was bound to lead to the bed at some point, so…
Just not like this. Not talking while fully clothed. Blech.
He sits next to Eddie. Hands awkwardly fidgeting in his lap.
“Well, I couldn’t find them.” Eddie admits. “So I ended up going through your desk drawers.”
Of course he did. Perpetual snooper.
“Ended up finding a binder full of medical records.”
Well shit.
Steve’s throat tightens. Swells around the sudden guilt he feels for keeping this from Eddie.
“Why didn’t you tell me you had a metal plate in your head?”
“Dunno. Hardly even remember it.” That’s only partly true. Steve doesn’t remember the surgery or much of the recovery process. He was only a kid when it happened.
But he does remember the hospital smells. He remembers the sounds of his IV bag dripping throughout the night. All the sensory indicators are still fresh in his mind.
“Well, that’s why. You're part-machine.” Eddie points to Steve’s head, expression softening. “And every time we fuck around, I think about your bionic skull. And how glad I am that it keeps your brain from leaking out when I bend you over the way you like it best.”
Steve laughs. The jokes help lighten the mood. Not enough to replace it entirely, but enough for it to be easy to swallow again.
They’re both quiet as they get ready for bed, folding the covers down. And yeah, sometimes quiet can be nice. Just maybe not right now.
“Hey, Eddie.”
“Yeah?”
Steve stares hard at the pillows. “Are cyborgs like… cool?”
Eddie pauses for a moment, then hops onto the bed. Starts crawling over to Steve with a smug grin. He lifts up to meet Steve’s lips. Kisses him sweeter than normal. Lighter. Starts nodding his head mid-kiss, keeps nodding as he breaks away.
“Yeah, babe. Cyborgs are so fucking cool.”
#steddie#steddie fic#hi it's very late and this is very short#but I had to get it out before sleeps so here you go#so apologies if it's riddled with mistakes#I just missed writing lovebites#and this is the hc that keeps me sane knowing how many concussions Steve has had#like this is how he keeps recovering so quickly from all of them idkidk#okay please enjoy and have nice day xx
3K notes
·
View notes
Text
“for whom the tongue craves to taste,” [d.d]
“the cdc showers”
a/n: quick disclaimer – this is actually just a snippet of a larger piece that I’m putting together (a smutty 5+1 prompt, five times daryl made you cum, and the one time he let you return the favor) but as it’s my first real attempt at smut, I wanted to post this as a means to garner some constructive criticism before finishing the piece. If you’d be so kind to read and lmk your thoughts/critiques, I’d really appreciate it!
EDIT: I know it’s not how the majority of 5+1 prompts are done, but I’ve decided to post each segment as they are finished. I just think it’s an easier/less stressful method for me, so I hope you guys don’t mind the posting choice. the posts will be linked together for easier access.
the cdc showers – arrow mishaps lead to frisky fun – ever done it in a loft? – cold iron bars – the watchtower – I want a taste, too
c/w: explicit sexual content, cunnilingus, shower cunnilingus, tongue fucking, fingering, language, dirty talk, undisclosed age gap, 18+
word count: 2.4k
that morning, had anyone scooped you off to the side and told you that mere hours after arriving at the pipe-dream that was the CDC you’d be corralled into a hot shower with none other than daryl dixon squished between your thighs, you’d have laughed straight in their face and directed them towards the nearest mental institution – not that that would do anyone much good, given the state of things; but had anyone declared a statement that outrageous, you’d have thought their mind already gone, much like the drooling, shuffling, decaying bodies wandering the earth.
yet here you were, a steady jet of hot water battering the sore muscles of your back, liquor-laden torso slightly slumped, thighs spread open by broad shoulders and daryl dixon’s wicked tongue licking your little cunny straight to nirvana.
how the fuck did you even end up here, anyway?
it was so uncharacteristic of you – you knew next to nothing about daryl dixon. he was simply a mutual stranger. you’d never even had more than a few fleeting conversations with the man, for fuck’s sake; if you could even call them that. daryl was brusque and wholly unapproachable, and his attitude left a lot to be desired. due to his unpleasantness, you’d opted to keep your distance and observe rather than to interact. to be completely honest, you’d been more judgmental rather than observant of the man before, back at the quarry, internally critiquing his sour attitude, accent and frayed clothes; and, shamefully, even at times presuming that he was some forty year old virgin that had been holed up in his mother’s basement before the world went to shit – but, fuck, were you ever wrong.
maybe he was forty, maybe he had been holed up in his mother’s basement, who the fuck knows, but he sure as fuck wasn’t a virgin – at least, his tongue wasn’t. the way he moved it, fucked it into you, made a mess of you with it, there was no way he wasn’t experienced with it.
you let out a loud, trembling gasp when daryl suddenly broke his tender tongue-flicks to slide his teeth gently against your clit before wrapping his lips around it and sucking.
okay, fuck, scratch that. he was experienced with his whole mouth.
unlike the few other men you’d allowed to taste the heaven between your legs, daryl used his entire lower face to devour you – his tongue was the star of the show, of course, but his lips, nose and chin made a hell of a supporting cast. when his tongue was busy fucking your walls, his nose was right against your clit in its place, his head shaking side to side, applying just enough pressure to bring you pleasure but not enough to stimulate you into orgasm; and then, as if he could simply innately sense when you were becoming desperate for more, his tongue would slip from your hole and return to your clit once more, circling and flicking it with expert movements, quickly bringing you right back to that sweet precipice.
how long had he been at it?
the water wasn’t cold yet – or maybe your body was just too hot to register that it was; but with the amount of times that daryl had built then robbed you of your orgasm, you drunkenly surmised that it had to of been a good fifteen minutes. any other man would have tapped out from exhaustion already.
of course, there were times when his tongue would get tired, but even then, unlike your previous lovers, he seemed loathe to leave you without any contact – he would alternate between giving your clit chaste little kisses and moving his lips against your entire cunt as if it were a second mouth that he was intent on claiming; then, when his tongue was rested enough, he would dive right back into devouring you.
it was absolutely wrecking you, in the best and worst ways.
maybe it was simply the affects of the alcohol swimming through your veins that fed you the illusion of this being the best damn head you’d ever received; maybe it was because you certainly didn’t have a lot of other experiences to compare it to; or maybe it was the warmth that came with the comfort of hot water and a full stomach that made it so much better – either way, you were almost at the brink now, again, thighs quaking with the effort of holding your body upright and staving off your impending orgasm; you knew daryl would more than likely take it away if he sensed it, and you weren’t sure if you could handle that.
“oh, god,” you hissed out when daryl flattened his tongue against your clit, flicking it with short, harsh movements, before slipping it down to part your folds and lick up your slit. he transitioned between the repetitive movements at a near imperceptible speed, without ever having to trade out accuracy and rhythm for it. it was a dangerous cocktail of pleasure that had you damn near seeing stars. each harsh swipe of his tongue against your clit sent zips of electricity up your spine, and built a familiar tension within your gut.
“ya like tha’, sweetheart?” daryl parted from your cunt just enough to inquire huskily, his voice so low that you barely even managed to catch it over the volume of the hissing spray. you nearly whined at the loss of his tongue, and, rather than answer his question, which you could hardly even decipher at the moment, you reached a hand down to tangle your fingers into the short hair at his nape, using what leverage you had to push his head forward until the tip of his nose brushed against your sensitive clit once more.
“no, d-don’t – don’t talk…” you slurred out, tugging at his hair insistently and pulling a deep, rumbling chuckle from the man below you.
“some manners you have,” daryl drawled, but to your delight, returned his tongue to your slit, parting your wet folds and slipping it past the rim of your tight entrance. your fingers twitched against his nape as you released a high, airy sigh, and your hips began to move of their own accord, humping your cunt against his face and pulling even more vibrating vocalizations from his throat. you just wanted firmer friction, damn it.
your stomach was stirring, tight, that pressure slowly mounting. it felt fucking good, the way he was thrusting and wiggling his tongue against your gummy walls, fucking you with the thick muscle, his nose bumping into your clit and sending subtle jolts up your spine, and those vibrations and sounds, fuck! – but it just wasn’t enough. you needed something different, something more.
“do… do what you were doing before…” you requested breathlessly, hips trembling, fingers digging into the skin of his nape in desperation. “‘m so close, daryl… just need more.”
the thought of keeping your impending orgasm away from his awareness seemed to have slipped away in the midst of the tremulous pleasure he was bringing you, and maybe you shouldn’t have let the information out, but you were so desperate. your tummy was so fucking tight, that coil winding and winding to a painful climax, and holding it in just seemed impossible, you needed to let it go – and at the moment, the only way you could possibly reach orgasm was through daryl.
daryl flicked his eyes up to meet yours, and though your vision was a bit hazy from the steam and alcohol, you swore the man was smirking up at you from within your cunt. daryl was silent for a moment, all movements against your cunny paused, before he leaned back slightly and said, lowly, “why don’ I do somethin’ better, instead?”
before your drunk, horny, fuddled mind could truly decipher his words daryl was in motion; his warm hand gripped the back of your knee, bending your leg easily and hoisting it atop his shoulder – distantly, you registered a strange sensation against the skin of your calf (was that a shirt? was daryl fully clothed right now?) – and once your leg was stabilized, he skirted the fingers of his other hand up your other leg, the one that was still planted to the floor of the shower.
his fingertips grazed your knee, then the plush flesh of your thigh, before reaching between your hips. you jumped slightly when you felt the pad of his finger run over your slit, the thick digit parting your folds smoothly, the tip dipping ever so subtly into your entrance every so often. like he was testing the waters, or something.
“d-daryl, what are you doing?” you inquired, heart tripping over itself, apprehension twisting in your gut for the first time since he’d invited himself into your shower and initiated this whole thing.
wait, had he invited himself? or did you do that?
you couldn’t remember.
“shh, jus’ trus’ me, sweetheart. This’s gon’ blow yer mind.” daryl responded back, calmly, warm breath fanning over your sensitive clit as he spoke. your breath shuddered in your lungs, but any further objections died in your throat when daryl’s hot tongue met your sex, circling, flicking, flattening, devouring – his pace was much faster and firmer than before, the pleasure much more intense than what had previously been given.
“o-oh, fuck! daryl!” you moaned, your hand sliding up from his nape to the crown of his head, fingers fisting into his hair to hold his head still as you rutted your hips forward to meet his skilled tongue.
“shit, that’s it, baby,” daryl panted, muffled, into the slick heat of your cunt, tongue drawing lazy circles between his words. “jus’ fuckin’ lose it. use my tongue, sweetheart.”
it felt so fucking good. it felt like your cunt was melting right into daryl’s mouth, searing hot and drippy, sloppy, coating his lips, jaws, nose, and neck with copious amounts of your arousal – all the while daryl growled, groaned, and moaned as he slurped it down, as if it was the very nectar of life itself.
your gut felt like it would burst – at any moment, with any flick of his tongue, in time with any of those vibrating groans, you’d be exploding all over daryl’s face, releasing every single ounce of the pent-up arousal daryl had inflicted upon your body over the last fifteen minutes in a single second.
“daryl, daryl, god, yes… fuck, don’t stop… don’t s-stop.”
you continued to repeat those words, falling like a river from your mouth, a mantra that seemed to keep you grounded as daryl’s tongue threatened to send you floating away –
a sound akin to a scream bubbled in your throat when daryl suddenly slipped two of his thick fingers into your cunt; the sensation was far from unpleasant but far too close to overwhelming – and when he began to pump them in time with the flicks of his tongue, and curled them just so on every outward pull, scraping against something at the top of your gummy walls, you simply couldn’t hold it in.
your entire body locked up, muscles freezing as your lips fell open to release mute moans, both hands now swinging down to grip daryl’s hair.
those silent moans you were releasing quickly morphed into loud, wanton, downright sinful vocalizations as daryl pumped his fingers into your cunt, still rubbing that sweet spot, fingerfucking you through your high and bringing stars to your eyes. you pressed daryl’s head impossibly closer to your cunt, humping whatever you could and burying his fingers deeper inside your walls with desperate, short, shaky movements, releasing a litany of his name and curses in between breathy pants and moans.
when the waves of your high had begun to recede, you slowed your hips until they came to a complete stop, your chest heaving from the deep lungfuls of steamy air you pulled in. your body felt incredibly fuzzy, your mind pleasantly foggy; but your body, and everything else, felt too hot, too cramped, too everything, and when daryl decided to give your throbbing, sensitive clit one last tiny flick of his tongue, you damn near smacked him in the head.
if only your arms would move.
a small gasp was pulled from your lips when daryl slipped his fingers from your sloppy cunt, the friction against your sensitive walls almost enough to have your entire body seizing, and it was only when daryl lifted his hands up to grip your wrists were you able to disentangle your fingers from his hair; only with his help, of course.
daryl then grasped the plump flesh of your thigh, the one that was still tossed over his shoulder, and pulled it down slowly, not releasing his hold until your foot was planted firmly on the wet floor of the tub.
when your balance was secured daryl scuttled back from between your legs, and when he’d rose to a standing position, his chest now centimeters from your own (which you distantly realized was bare) you couldn’t help but stumble backwards until your back hit the cold wall. your lids felt incredibly heavy, and exhaustion gnawed insistently at your muscles; but through the fog, you were able to register daryl, who was indeed fully clothed, the fabric of his shirt and jeans soaked and clinging to his body like a second skin – and you were certain that was a smirk on his lips.
a smirk that said he knew he had just blown your mind, even if you would never admit it to him.
it seemed as though your orgasm had sobered you up a bit, because when daryl sidled up to you, right beneath the harsh spray, and placed his large hands on your naked hips, you were able to lift your hands and plant them on his chest. he didn’t attempt to move closer to you, but his hands didn’t fall from your hips either; and when he spoke, his voice was chock-full of cockiness that you found simultaneously alluring and irritating.
“if ya ever want yer mind blown again, ya know where to find me.”
with that, daryl slipped his hands from your hips and turned, ripped open the shower curtain with little effort and then stepped out, as if he hadn’t just performed an intimate act on you. water dripped noisily against the linoleum floor as he stalked away, and, not one to give up the chance at having the last word, you croaked out,
“in your dreams, dixon.”
the only thing you got in reply was a haughty chuckle, echoing into the bathroom from somewhere within the quarters you’d claimed for the night.
490 notes
·
View notes
Note
hi hi, I loveee your animagus collection!! I was wondering if you could do one where reader appears all scratched up and injured cuz she got in a fight with another cat in her animagus form. thanks!!
part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6
--
Sirius knows to expect your presence from your spot on the map that's moving hurriedly towards his dorm, a powerful stride from how you're blowing past other names quicker than they can step out of your way. He's glad that none of them seem to stop you or confront your seemingly abrasive speed, and he's equal parts curious and petrified when you finally burst through the door.
Most of it melts away though, heated and liquified and dripping into his stomach by a burning panic that seals itself around his heart and lungs instead.
Your face is scratched, lines of blood-red crust slowly darkening the more you expose them to the air. He's sure they'd dried and scabbed quickly as you'd stormed through the castle to find him, and he's worried they're contaminated before he's had the chance to clean them out.
"Darling," He stands abruptly, noticing similar scratches across the rest of you, and even a bite mark, pinpricks of violence and spit laid into your arm like twin red flags, "What- what happened to you?"
"I got in a fight," You grumble, and for all of the enthusiasm you'd had storming into the room, you stand there now, letting it leak out of you like air from a balloon that had once been close to popping.
"With who?" Sirius's brain does not register the conflicting statements; how a punch to the eye could result in fang prints in your forearm.
"Muffy," You spit the cat's name like a dirty word, emphasizing it's dull stuffiness, "She came and sat in my sunspot, and I was gonna let her share it, too, but then she started bitching at me to move!"
Sirius's limbs loosen from where they'd been locked tightly in place, and he remains standing where he has been all this time, watching you explain your tussle with astonished curiosity written on his face.
"I didn't, but then she started batting at me," You recall with bitter disdain on your tongue, the same sting that you'd felt when the other cat's claws had sunk into your fur, "Before I knew it, she was just going at me, like- like some fucking animal! Well- like- like some other kind of animal."
Sirius steps forwards to take your arm in his own, and inspect the only bite mark he can see. It's angry and vicious, though it doesn't look like there's blood seeping from it anymore, and he makes a mental note to disinfect all of your abrasions in case Muffy had indulged in something unsanitary for breakfast.
"I'm sorry, darling." Sirius says, both because he means it and because he doesn't know what else to say. It's teetering on the edge of absurdity that you managed to scrap with a cat and come away looking like you'd lost, and he wonders if you'd fled the scene on four paws, or two legs. Both would be comical to him if you weren't hurt, so he pushes the thoughts out of his head and steers you into the bathroom by what he hopes is an uninjured shoulder.
He sits you on the counter with ease, and from the hiss that you let out, the cool marble bites at the scrapes on the backs of your thighs. But they seem to mellow into a soothing effect, and you relax into them, your flesh flattening out as Sirius rummages through the cabinet below.
"Muffy's quite vicious," Sirius muses, rubbing disinfectant on a cut along your cheek, "This one might scar."
You groan, the sound nearly gruff enough to be a growl, "Oh, get her back for me Sirius, would you?"
"Get her back-?" His raven-black brows furrow, and he glances away from the cut up a few inches to your eyes, "What do you mean, darling?"
"I mean you're a big scary guard dog," You push pleadingly at his shoulder, "Just- snap your jaws at her, or something! Please?"
"I'm not sure Prewett would like it very much if I traumatized her cat," Sirius muses guiltily, but he's persuaded when you let loose the most devastatingly gut-wrenching pair of puppy eyes that he's ever seen, far more powerful than anything even his canine form could produce.
"Oh, fine," He sighs, his lips finding purchase at the bridge of your nose, in an awkward crevice between your brow-split and your eye, "Darling, you know I love you, but next time, please tussle with a cat that isn't so terrifying?"
#sirius black x reader#sirius black imagine#sirius black scenario#sirius black oneshot#sirius black one-shot#sirius black one shot#sirius black headcanon#sirius black headcanons#sirius black hc#sirius black hcs#sirius black fanfiction#sirius black fanfic#sirius black fic#sirius black blurb#sirius black drabble#sirius black dialogue#sirius black fluff#sirius black x reader fanfiction
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
we want you!
pairing: Johnny Cage x Reader
summary: The hot military rep on your college campus finally talks to you, but what happens when he gives you his number?
word count: 2.4 k
tw: vaginal sex, vaginal penetration, oral sex, cunnilingus, afab!reader, very light dom/sub, sub!reader, gentle dom!johnny, he still whimpers tho, kind of anonymous sex, making out, biting, praise, hes actually rly sweet, smut, porn with plot
a/n: DILF JOHNNY DILF JOHNNY im so happy with how this turned out!! OH! and I've got another mk1 johnny fic halfway done so keep an eye out for that :))
other parts
Ao3
It wasn’t really fair to call you a college student. Were you still actively going to college? Yes, but! You were studying for your master’s degree. Totally not the same thing.
So you didn’t feel that bad about paying attention to the very hot military representative that you always saw on campus. He was insanely built for an older guy, tall and graying near the temples. Black sunglasses always cover his eyes, you couldn't tell if he was cocky or just avoiding the kids on campus. You wanted to talk to him but honestly? He made you sort of nervous.
He’s just so handsome and confident, nodding your way every time you pass him. But finally, after a couple of months, you decide it’s your turn to be confident. He’s stood next to a table under a pop-up canopy, looking around for more people to scout. You walk directly towards him, trying not to falter any of your steps. He finally notices you, quirking an eyebrow and smirking your way.
Fuck, that’s even hotter.
But it’s too late to back out now, as you stop a few feet from him. Nervous to meet his eyes, you clear your throat and manage to ask, “How’s the military this time of year?” He chuckles lightly, pushing his sunglasses further up his nose. “It’s not too bad. You know, I’ve seen you around campus, but you always seemed like you were in such a hurry that I didn’t want to bother you.” You mentally curse yourself for pretty much scaring him off.
“Well, you know how it is. Places to go, subjects to study. I have been wondering why you haven’t said anything to me. I always see you chatting with other students. I just figured it was because I wasn’t the right material.” You try to be less nervous and casual, leaning against the table as well. He looks down and laughs again, taking his sunglasses off and tucking them into his tactical vest. He looks up, wide brown puppy dog eyes meeting yours.
Shit, can he stop being so hot??
“Nah, you’re too good for us, you’re needed out here. Besides, they only have me out here for star power.” You look quizically at him. I guess he did look sort of familiar. Then it hit you. “Oh shit, you’re Johnny Cage!.” He laughs again, who knew you were this funny?? “You just realized? I guess I’m not as famous as I once was. That, or without the tattoo, you can’t really tell.” He unzips the vest slightly and pulls his collar down, showing hints of a large tattoo of his own name across his chest. You fluster slightly at his show, “Wow, yeah, that makes a big difference. Wait, why are you in the military?” He sighs, scratching the back of his head. “Well, my ex-wife basically recruited me and honestly, it’s been more fulfilling than being an actor.”
And there it is, the awkward reason that someone so hot is single. Coughing lightly, you look away. “A-ah, well, that’s…good.” Sensing that he might’ve just said something a little uncomfortable, he quickly grabs a leaflet and pen from the table and scribbles something on it. “Hey, I feel bad about taking up so much of your time. Here.” He hands it to you, sticking it almost directly into your arms. As you take it and look at the very rushed writing of what looks like his phone number, he flashes a signature smile. “So we can continue our conversation at your leisure.” Folding it up and putting it in your pocket, you try to smile back as confidently. “How kind of you, Johnny. I’ll take you up on that.” As you begin to walk away, you hear Johnny call after you. “Wait! What’s your name?” Turning around slightly, you wave and yell back, “Take me out first!” He laughs slightly and puts his sunglasses back on, light glinting off them mischievously.
As you get back to your place, you pull the paper out and put it on your bed. This is crazy, you know? He’s like twice your age at least. And a celebrity! But…he wouldn’t give you his number unless he wanted you to text him. But not yet. You didn’t want to seem desperate. You decide to eat a bit of food and check on your grades, trying to ignore your nerves. You can only wait so long though, and you grab the paper again. Putting his number in, you take way too long to figure out what to say. God, you feel like a middle schooler, getting nervous about some cute guy. But you finally pull the trigger, sending a simple hello and hoping that you were the only person he gave his number to.
He responds almost too quickly, immediately recognizing you and being happy that you decided to message him. You smile at his words, then quickly shake your head, embarrassed at how quickly you were getting giggly over him. But you can’t stop yourself, half-flirty messages sent back and forth the rest of the day. Man, a guy like this is dangerous. He’s smart, funny, secure in himself, and genuinely so nice. Plus, he spends half the time talking about you, asking questions, and seeming truly interested. It’s hard to find a guy like that.
As day turns to night, you get ready for bed. As you lay down in bed for mindless social media time, you get a text from Johnny. As you click on it, your eyes widen in shock. A selfie of him, laid out on a hotel bed, completely shirtless with wet hair lights up your screen. Finally able to see the full tattoo, plus the insane muscles he has, you need a second to catch your breath. He captioned it ‘ready 4 bed, but hotel beds r always uncomfortable’. You feel like you’re drooling over him, how can a 50-year-old look like that?? He quickly sends a ‘hope youre feeling comfy’ and you feel compelled to take a pic for him. Fixing your hair and lighting in preparation, you make sure that your pajamas are actually cute. After way too many tries, you get the perfect one. You send it with the caption ‘oh u know it ;)’ and immediately throw it onto your bed, nerves absolutely shot. After a few seconds, your phone buzzes. And buzzes again. And again.
Picking it back up with shaking hands, you see his praise flooding in. ‘oh wow’, ‘you look so good like that’, ‘comfy is definitely a good look on you’, and ‘ur room is so cool too’ are amongst the least of the texts he’s sent. After a short pause, a final text arrives.
‘i didnt think you could get hotter but you proved me very wrong’
All of a sudden, you lose the walls you set up to hold yourself back. The mood is switched rapidly, and honestly? You are no longer nervous about talking to him. It’s time to have fun.
Y: ‘you think im hot?’
J: ‘of course, i have eyes you know’
Y: ‘i mean, i thought i was too young for you’
J: ‘i wont say i didnt notice, but honestly, if you dont mind i dont’
Y: ‘perfect’
J: ‘god, youre so hot’
Y: ‘youre not so bad yourself. dont think i didnt notice those muscles’
J: ‘i was that obvious huh? sorry, i couldnt help myself’
Flirting back and forth, you begin to lose your inhibitions even more. Flirty turns to sensual to almost overtly sexual. Something weird about what happens when the sun goes down. Like a horny werewolf. That was, until, he sent the exact right message.
J: ‘i wish i could see you rn, teasing over text can only do so much’
Holding your breath, you can’t stop yourself from a much too bold text.
Y: ‘come over then’
J: ‘what’
Y: ‘come over, you said you dont like hotels and you wanna see me’
Y: ‘here (address)’
Y: ‘your move hollywood’
J: ‘omw’
Freezing and realizing what you did, you rush to pick up your house a little. It wasn’t messy but still. Nerves. It’s a surprisingly short wait until you hear a gentle knock at the door. Seeing him stand there in the pajama pants you saw earlier and a jacket, you unlock the door. Both of you stand there, waiting and breathing. Finally, he steps in, his right hand shooting to your waist and left hand closing the door behind him. Quickly, his lips meet yours in a messy clash, tongue and teeth and desperation. Finally, you pull away, panting and trying to catch your breath. Your brain finally processes that it’s really him, touching you, standing right there.
And it’s not too long before you begin to kiss him again, hands wrapped around his neck. His hands travel lower, squeezing your ass with a groan. With surprising ease, he picks you up and you wrap your legs around his waist. He breaks away again, asking in a breathy voice, “Bedroom?” With a nod, you manage to get out, “That way.” He starts the kiss back up, walking towards your room.
You expect him to toss you down on your bed. You’re kind of used to jacked guys having too big of an ego in bed. But he leans down gently, placing your back on the bed. His lips move down, kissing your jaw, neck, and chest, leaving little bites and hickeys along the way. You shiver at the feeling, he's much more tender than you expected, but you’re not complaining. One of his hands slides under your top, swiftly removing it. The cool air of the room can only be felt for a few seconds before his warm tongue latches onto one of your nipples, coarse fingers lightly twisting the other. Light moans slip from your lips as his other hand caresses your hip. He groans at the sound, pulling away slightly to mutter out, “Shit, you sound so good, baby.”
Continuing to play with you, his free hand travels lower. He finally dips below your waistband, quickly finding your wetness, another moan escaping his lips. Finally breaking away, he moves lower, crouching on the ground next to the bed. Slowly, he pulls the last of your clothes off. You’re fully exposed in front of him as he practically eats you up with his eyes. Placing chaste kisses against your pussy, he dives in, licking with a fervor.
Unable to hold yourself back, pornstar moans pour from your mouth. It eggs him on further, moaning against your sensitive clit, and gently curls a finger inside you. Pulling away to breathe, he rasps out, “You taste just as good as you sound. And feel even better.” He keeps working at you, pushing you closer and closer to cumming. Another finger pumps inside you, his thumb rubs your clit, and his free hand grabs the back of your neck, pulling you in for a kiss. He notices you about to finish, rapid pants and breathy moans, and leans in to whisper in your ear, “Come on love, come for me. Let me feel that pretty pussy clench around my fingers. Put on a show for me baby.” And there you go, grabbing onto his shoulder and throwing your head back, cumming around his fingers. He slowly removes his fingers, admiring you while lewdly sucking on them. That earns another groan from him and he cleans his fingers, not waisting a drop.
“Good job, you did so good for me.” He kisses your forehead, quickly removing his shirt. “You ready for more?” In your half-fucked out state, you nod rapidly as he finishes taking his pants off. God damn, aren’t older guys supposed to lose testosterone or something? Rippling muscles littered with light freckles, salt and pepper hair swept out of his eyes, and cock fully erect and waiting. He scoots you onto the bed further, climbing on after you. As he kneels at your legs, he looks down hungrily. He leans in and kisses you, body leaning onto yours. With a final questioning look, which is met with a resounding “yes please” from you, he lines himself up with you.
Slowly, he sheaths himself in you, hissing at the sensation, “Oh god, you feel so fucking good, so tight around me.” Your legs wrap around his waist again, pulling him even closer. It takes you a while to adjust, gentle kisses on the lips to distract you. With a final kiss against his cheek to reassure him, he begins to move faster and faster, grinding against you with each thrust. He’s unable to hold back from loud moans and whines. Readjusting, he leans back and grabs your legs, setting them against his chest. He starts fucking you even harder, nearly knocking the wind out of you. Both of you are definitely annoying your neighbors, loud and unabashedly lost in the feeling. He can’t help the praises falling from his lips, rasps of “so good”, “you sound so sexy”, “you look so good under me”, and “I’ve wanted this for so long, you don’t understand”. The lewd sounds that fill the room are drowned out completely by you two. He seems proud of how you bounce below him, hands desperately searching for a hold on him.
Moving your legs back around his waist and leaning down, his pace is relentless and he’s lost the rhythm in his movements. You kiss against his tattoo, biting lightly against it, which earns another delicious whimper from Johnny. He starts to snap his hips especially hard as you begin to scratch lightly against his shoulders and back, whining out “gonna come, ‘m gonna come”. There’s almost no time to react before his hips snap in violently one last time, coming deep in you. A final moan escapes his lips as his hips stutter with the force of his orgasm and how much physical effort this required. Both of you breathe heavily, trying to regain some composure. He's trembling slightly at how hard he came, pressing his forehead against yours. He pulls out very slowly, a light whimper at the feeling as he lays down next to you. After a long pause, he starts to speak again, voice shaky but words confident.
“So I’ve got two questions for you. Can I know your name now, and do you wanna go again?"
#johnny cage x reader#johnny cage#johnny cage smut#mk x reader#mk smut#mk11#mk11 x reader#mortal kombat#mortal kombat 11#x reader#afab reader
966 notes
·
View notes
Text
strike a pose - jeon wonwoo
This is a work of fiction. Mature content ahead.
wc: 3.4k
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
The rough scratch of pencil gliding over scrapbook paper brought you solace in the chaos of life. The movements of your wrist have grown your ideas to places beyond your wildest imaginations. It was your reminder of why you were in this profession in the first place.
Your parents had always reprimanded your younger self for doodling on every free space available which painted you as the victim for the colorful streaks of crayon that danced the walls of your childhood home.
One of your parents never failed to bring up their favorite story of you at the semi annual family dinners you attend.
“I remember her wailing until she had no tears left to cry. It broke my heart to scrub her drawings off of the walls, but the landlord was not having it.”
Every retelling about your humble beginnings never failed to push a couple stray tears out of your eyes.
Pursuing your passion challenges your physical and mental capabilities. Continuing with art in university was like toying with a double edged sword; for once you were delighted at the thought of attending classes, but the viscous environment during your internships caused you to turn your back on art for a brief moment in time.
Nonetheless, the trials and tribulations of university led you to where you are today. The studio was furnished with blinding lights and eye-catching backdrops. The scent of hairspray lingered in the air as it is seemingly sprayed every couple seconds.
You shouldn’t be this nervous; it was just another photo shoot showcasing your newest creations. Honestly, you weren’t nervous at all until your assistant was, figuratively speaking, bouncing off the walls as they were delivering important news regarding the shoot.
“I had no idea he would agree so easily. I wouldn’t have stressed for days, weeks even if the negotiation was this simple.” Your assistant rambled. “The one and only, Jeon Wonwoo, agreed to be the leading model for your newest line!” followed by an earth-shattering squeal.
The oxygen supplying your lungs had magically disappeared in that very moment. You must have done the greatest act of kindness in your past life to receive this kind of opportunity.
Jeon Wonwoo is the top male model in the industry; his lean physique and fierce gaze was highly critiqued in every magazine column dedicated to the alluring man. To top it all off, Wonwoo was given an innumerable amount of praise for his seemingly contradicting persona behind the camera.
You recalled the countless interviews of Wonwoo’s diligent care towards all the staff members regardless of titles. You also, not that you were intentionally looking for more information on the man, know that he held a soft spot for any type of cat. How fucking adorable.
Wonwoo was paralyzingly attractive and his charming personality was sufficient to captivate even the most hateful people in this world.
Mindless drawings of multiple pieces of clothing occupied your downtime. The shoot was not scheduled to start until later, but you wanted to settle into the ambiance of it all to fully immerse yourself in your work. It was like a pre-shoot ritual for you.
Whenever you wanted to let your mind wander, you’d pick up the ratty sketchbook you had received for christmas one year. The ideas stuffed into said sketchbook were not worthy of being turned into reality, but you loved the brief moment of complete creative freedom.
The familiar scrape of your pencil on paper casted a hypnotic response on your hand. You were just doodling free from the confines of profit and pressure.
“That is absolutely beautiful.”
You whipped your head around at the sound of a deep and melodic voice. His eyes were trained on the worn out page of your sketchbook. You were speechless. Jeon Wonwoo wasn’t just a passing topic of many promiscuous conversations with coworkers. He was here. Right behind you. And he had complimented your work.
“Thank you. Kind words like yours inspire me to stay in this business.”
It was an automatic response whenever someone complimented your work after countless interviews, although your response had been more timid than anticipated.
A searing blush already crept up your neck, and soon to invade the tips of your ears. You turned back around in your chair effectively facing away from where he was positioned.
You had found relief from the busy outside in an empty dressing room, and you were in a comfortable position in one of the vanity set ups.
He wasn’t clueless. Wonwoo thoroughly enjoyed how flustered you became in his presence. Wonwoo also didn’t miss how you were deliberately checking him out in the reflection of you both. He looked good in your clothes.
Suddenly, you found yourself enclosed in a pair of biceps. You stared into the mirror to meet Wonwoo’s eyes as well.
“Thank you for this opportunity to work with you. It is my greatest privilege to showcase your newest clothing line.” His head dipped lower to level with your own. Without breaking eye contact through the mirror Wonwoo added,
“See you out there sweetheart. I look forward to working with you.”
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
The shutter of the camera was another sound you learned to appreciate over time. Usually, the photographer would barrel directions towards the model, but not Wonwoo. He was confident in his abilities, and that energy was carried on to everyone in the room.
His movements were fluid and natural; he was posing just enough to display the clothes but still highlight his abilities.
It was as if he was born for the camera.
To say you were mesmerized by him was an understatement. You were bewitched by the man known as Jeon Wonwoo.
You lost count of the stolen glances you shared with Wonwoo. Every time your eyes hovered on him for a split second too long he would immediately sense it, and subsequently meet your own gaze.
His eyes devoured you. As if Wonwoo was attending an art exhibit and was bidding to take you home.
“The female model just called in saying she can’t make it.” Your assistant was out of breath trying to deliver the news as soon as possible. These situations happen more often than not, but what got your palms sweaty was the absence of a standby model.
A wave of deja vu crashed over you. This has happened only one other time. You had to step in, but in this case you were modeling with the most attractive man you had laid your eyes on. There were no other options.
There was only one outfit you envisioned that required the female model to pose with Wonwoo.
Red chiffon draped your figure, and the cowl neckline only did so much to cover your chest. The rounded swells of your breasts peaked out from the top, sides and down the plunging neckline. A small bunch of ruffles placed on your right arm lightly resembled a flower as the trim ran down the side and flowed past your ankle; the free moving trim was a contradiction to the form fitting body of the dress.
You loved this design on paper, and it only excited you to bring it to life.
A team of staff members scrambled to get yourself ready for the shoot. The angular placement of the deep brown eyeshadow pointed your eyes towards the temples of your face. A subtle peach lip topped off the look.
You were ready for the camera.
Upon walking out of the dressing room, you noticed that Wonwoo had changed into an all black outfit. The shirt was slightly see-through and equally as plunging as your own ensemble.
The concept for these photos were to showcase the sultry red dress hence Wonwoo’s monochromatic garments. Most of the poses consisted of you in front of Wonwoo with his hands on your waist while your head was on his shoulders.
Mundane is what you would describe the poses you were put into with Wonwoo. Up until the last pose.
“Wonwoo, I’m going to need you to take off your shirt bud.” The photographer instructs. Instinctively, Wonwoo began to unbutton his top. Tantalizingly slow. He also made direct eye contact with you.
A chair was placed in the middle of the white backdrop.
“Wonwoo, please take a seat while I direct our leading lady for our final pose.”
Your leg closest to the camera was bent on top of his while the other was firmly planted on the ground. Wonwoo’s hand grasped your waist, but his arm laid relaxed on the mound of your ass.
He was instructed to lean into your chest; right where the tip of the plunge was located. You snaked your arm around the nape of his neck to complete the final look.
A thunderous round of applause commenced after the final shutter of the camera. You and Wonwoo had made your way to the monitor storing all of the taken photos.
You had to admit, you and Wonwoo looked damn good together.
“Maybe you should switch professions so that I can see you more often. I would love to share the camera with you.” Wonwoo had said this low enough for only your ears to hear.
His broad figure disappeared after nearly sending you into hysteria. Wonwoo probably headed out to change out of the one article of clothing that he was wearing by the end of the shoot.
He probably had to attend scheduled obligations after the shoot. You were slightly upset that you may never see the gorgeous man ever again.
After Wonwoo had scurried off, you took it upon yourself to finish all of the administrative work left for you to complete. Being involved in the shoot pushed back all of your priorities, so you needed to catch up ASAP.
You had been so busy that you were still in the red dress.
At this eerily late hour, everyone had already gone home, and it was your job to close up the studio; the owner had slipped the keys into your palms after you explained the long night ahead.
Your personal belongings were tucked away in the same vacant dressing room you were in prior to the beginning of the shoot. The clack of your heels echoed on the linoleum floor as you made your way into the room.
You twisted the door open just to reveal Wonwoo sitting on a chair just scrolling on his phone. He was in his attire from earlier; shirtless with a pair of slacks. His head looked up to meet yours. You blinked once. Twice. Three times before you broke the silence.
“What are you still doing here?”
“Waiting for you of course.” He replied. The beat of your heart sped up ten fold.
Your legs had a mind of its own, because you started walking where Wonwoo sat. He held out his hand for you to take. As soon as your hand was in his, Wonwoo yanked you onto his lap.
His chest felt firm pressed against the side of your arm. The inviting warmth radiating from his body was intoxicating.
Your hands were kept folded together on your lap. The dress rode up your thighs just a bit higher, but still covered enough to be decent. His hand rested on the side of your thighs playing with the hem of the dress while the other was placed underneath your chin.
“You were spectacular out there. Your confidence and grace was admirable; you deserve to be a role model to people everywhere.” His praises never ended.
“Thank you Wonwoo.” Sincerity laced your voice. “I see now why you are constantly booked for shoots.” You chuckled softly.
“I owe that all to you. You were ravishing out there.” You were speechless. And Wonwoo was the reason. Again.
“I’d love to work with you in the future if you are available.”
“Only if you’d have me.” Wonwoo’s smile was so bright that his eyes folded into cute crescent moons.
“It would be an honor.” You replied in a funny British accent. Even his laughs were perfect.
The laughter died down into a comfortable silence. You couldn’t focus with Wonwoo so close.
Wonwoo’s thumb toyed with your bottom lip. His warmth was a feeling you could get used to. You didn’t stop him nor did you want him to stop. Ever.
“Tell me I’m not imagining things darling. Tell me you want this as much as I do.”
You gave him a weak nod. Your brain was filled with nothing but him.
“Words sweetheart. I need words.” He softly chastised.
“Take me Wonwoo. I’m all yours.” The desperation in your voice would have made you cringe on a regular day, but something about Wonwoo made it so easy.
That was all he needed. Wonwoo moved his hand from your ass to the back of your neck to press his lips to yours.
Something about the kiss lit your whole body on fire. It felt so right.
The slight nip of Wonwoo’s teeth on your bottom lip emits a small gasp from you. That allowed Wonwoo to slip his tongue in to dance with yours. The sounds coming from the both of you could rival PornHub’s most popular video.
Wonwoo disconnected his lips from yours. “Spread your legs. Let me see your pussy babe.”
You shifted your body so that your back was pressed against his chest. Your head slumped against his while each of your legs fell on either side of his left thigh.
The end of the dress gathered on the tops of your thighs until Wonwoo pushed the bunched up fabric to sit around your waist.
Staring back at him was the image of your flimsy thong. The crotch area was covered by a thin layer of mesh with some sort of floral detailing.
You couldn’t recollect the specific attributes of your underwear because Wonwoo was slicing your pussy in half with the help of your thong. He tugged the skinny damp fabric upwards as it nestled itself in between your swollen pussy lips.
“You are the most breathtaking sight. Right? You’ll take everything I give you because you're my good girl.”
Any response you wanted to give him was lost in your never ending moans. Wonwoo released the tension on your underwear only to tease his index finger along your soaking slit.
“Fuck Wonwoo, that feels so good.” That was the first coherent thought you were able to voice. Wonwoo settled on playing with your clit stimulating the bundle of nerves.
“You’re so wet sweetheart. Were you this wet during the shoot too? Walking around with slick thighs and your cunt crying to be fucked?”
His words were too much to handle. Wonwoo’s finger circled your hole.
“Won–” you choke back a moan. “Wonwoo I need you now. No more teasing.” You mewl.
“I haven’t even stretched you out yet. Do you want this fat cock now? Are you that much of a greedy whore?” You desperately nodded.
Wonwoo removed his hand from your throbbing core, and you flinched at the contact of the frigid air.
“Up.”
You immediately stood up in between his legs. Wonwoo zipped down his slacks to reveal his hardened cock covered by the fabric of his underwear.
As for the dress, you slipped the straps off of your shoulders freeing your tits before completely stripping from the dress. Your nipples stood erect from your growing sexual desire.
Wonwoo grabbed you again and positioned your body to be kneeling in front of him. The gleam in his eye signaled you to pull the waistband of his underwear down until they bundled around his ankles.
“C’mon baby, you know what to do. You’re smart. I haven’t had the chance to fuck you dumb yet.”
His cock was red and pulsating. The bulbous tip was leaking beads of precum. Starting from the base, you licked the length of his cock all the way to the tip.
You circled your tongue on his slit to collect the leaking cum.
You collected a wad of saliva at the edge of your mouth before you spat it onto his penis. You lowered your head to completely take him in your mouth.
You were bobbing your head up and down and sucking him in. Whatever you couldn’t reach your hands were taking care of it.
He felt hot and heavy in your mouth, and you swore that your arousal was about to drip onto the floor.
“Shit. You’re a piece of art. The prettiest fuckin’ thing to ever grace this Earth.”
You glanced at Wonwoo through your eyelashes. His head was thrown back in pleasure, and that only motivated you to continue with what you were doing.
His hands found their way to the back of your head creating a makeshift ponytail.
He pushed your head down far enough where your nose met his pelvis. You gagged around him before he released you.
A string of saliva connected your bottom lip to his cock.
“C’mere baby.”
He placed you across his lap again. His hot mouth was sucking a deep bruise that would be a pain to cover in the morning. Wonwoo’s hands trailed down your leg and removed the uncomfortable heels on your feet.
You couldn’t have been more relieved.
Now, it was your turn to whisper lowly into his ear, “Let me ride your dick Won. I want to be good to you.”
You maneuvered yourself in order to straddle his hips. Wonwoo took this opportunity to tease your entrance with his tip.
“Stop teasing.” You were growing impatient after all of the foreplay.
Wonwoo harshly grabbed your neck. He pressed the sides just enough to feel a lightheaded buzz course through your head.
“Ask politely.” His grip tightened in the slightest. “I didn’t know you were a brat. I thought you wanted to be good for me.” It felt like he was scolding you.
“Give me your manners before I make you beg like the dirty fucking slut you are.”
God, you were so wet that it was starting to hurt having nothing to fill you up.
“Wonwoo please fuck me. I need you fill me with your cock and fuck me like the whore I am.”
“Are you asking?” He raised his eyebrow.
“No, I'm begging.”
The vulgar exchange of words was enough for him to slam your hips down and take him all the way. The mouthwatering stretch of his cock felt heavenly.
“This pussy was made for me. No one else could take this tight and dirty little hole like I can.”
You rhythmically moved your hips up and down while pausing every couple seconds to grind down on his dick. You felt every ridge and vein protruding from his cock.
Your eyes were clouded from lust
“You feel so good baby. Wrapped so well around my fat cock. Do you like it that much? Hmm?”
“Yes, yes Wonwoo love your cock. S’good.” You were panting like you had won a marathon. Your activities could possibly be considered one.
You knew you were clenching hard around Wonwoo, and he knew by looking at the drag of your pussy lips every time you’d lift yourself up.
“You’re so tight, baby. My good girl is doing so well for me.”
The familiar coil in your abdomen was about to snap. Wonwoo’s words only pushed you closer to release.
“Cum for me sweetheart. I’ll cum for you, fill you up to the brim darling, if you cum for me.”
That was enough to send you over the edge. Pleasure came crashing down on you. Wonwoo roughly thrusted upwards, and the stuttering of his hips let you know that he came too.
You looked down at where you and Wonwoo were connected and saw a white ring of your mixed arousal around the base of his cock. You were certain that the sticky mess had spread onto your inner thighs as well.
Suddenly, Wonwoo placed you on the desk of the vanity. You jumped at the contact of your bare ass against the cold surface.
He pulled up the pooled clothing pieces at his ankles so that he was wearing them again
You felt exposed. You were still completely naked. Wonwoo had been gazing at you longingly before speaking. “Let me clean you up at my place. It’s not far from here.”
“Is this a trick to get me to go home with you Mr. Jeon?” It was your turn to raise your eyebrow.
“Did it work?”
“Yes Wonwoo, I’d love nothing more than to go home with you.”
Wonwoo handed you his extra sweatshirt and pants. You quickly got dressed, and soon enough you were out the door with your hand in his.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
Hi everyone! I am so grateful for the support on my past two works. Feel free to leave any comments in my asks or on my posts!
I hope you enjoyed this fic as well.
#kpop#seventeen#seventeen smut#seventeen x reader#svt#svt x reader#wonwoo#wonwoo smut#wonwoo x reader#wonwoo imagines#jeon wonwoo#jeon wonu#jeon wonwoo smut#jeon wonwoo x reader#jeon wonwoo x you
411 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Girl Next Door ~ Part 1
A Constantine x Reader fic based on this imagine.
Summary: John Constantine has a crush on you. He wasn’t going to do anything about it though, until you strong arm him into coming over for dinner. Little do you know, this paints a target on your back for the local vampire coven… (I had to write something sweet for my mental health y'all 😆)
Rating: Explicit, NSFW, but no dead doves...😮
You are the very archetype of The Girl Next Door. Well, literally. John Constantine lives in 202, and you in 204. You share a wall, and occasionally, he sort of smiles at you when you meet in the hall.
Like tonight, as your arms are full of groceries, returning home after work. You don’t know what he does exactly, but you assume it’s the same for him, though he is only clutching a brown bag that very poorly disguises a bottle of scotch.
“Hi, John,” you say brightly over a proud sprig of celery sticking out of your bag. It’s almost a running joke between the two of you, your sunny brightness aimed at him like a weapon.
There’s a long pause, like always, before he finally answers reluctantly in his deep monotone, “Hi, y/n. Bye, y/n.”
Before you can engage him any further he disappears into his apartment, closing the door hard behind him, the slam in the air like an exclamation point. You stare for a moment at the space where he’d just been, tall, handsome, his suit rumpled, that tie half undone around his neck. He looked like he’d had a rough day, whatever he does.
He dresses like a professional something, but imagining that man as a door to door salesman with his attitude is laughable, and so is the thought of him working amicably in an office setting.
You go inside and put away your groceries, then spread out what you need to make dinner. It’s Friday night, and you’ve had a long week too. You are making comfort food—it’s kind of a shame to eat it alone.
Half an hour later, while the sauce simmers, you find you just can’t stop thinking about that man next door. He seems lonely, every time you see him. There is something about him that just makes you want to wrap him up in a hug.
He’d probably push you off if you tried, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t need a hug.
The thing is…you have this thing. He pretends like you annoy him, but sometimes in the hall, or down in the lobby when you’re collecting your mail, you catch him looking at you when he thinks you’re not looking. And the look on his face is never exactly lecherous, like you’re used to with most men who eye-fuck you on the street. His look is more…just…lost, and it tugs at your heartstrings.
You’re sure he’ll say no, but your feet seem to carry you of their own accord, when you find yourself at his door, knocking loudly.
Some time passes and you hear him grumbling on the other side before he jerks open the portal just a crack. “Yeah?”
“I’m making my Nonna’s meatballs and marinara for dinner.”
“Good for you?”
“From scratch.”
“Sounds time consuming.”
“Want to join me?”
There is a very long pause, in which he just looks at you. You can tell he’s at least one drink in already; you smell the fumes on his breath. And maybe it’s stupid, and you’re asking for trouble you don’t need, but the thought that that will be this man’s only dinner squeezes your heart.
Finally, he answers with a question. “Why?”
“Why not?”
This, amusingly, seems to actually flummox him, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. In the end he narrows his eyes at you, (those lovely brown eyes, you can’t help but notice), like you’re trying to trick him into something truly heinous.
It’s…kind of funny, truth be told, and you can’t stop yourself from grinning. “Come on. I know you can smell it.” Your door is wide open.
“Maybe I don’t like Italian food.”
“Everyone likes Italian food.”
“Maybe you’re a terrible cook.”
“Only one way to find out.”
He actually growls a little, which for some reason gives you a thrill to the base of your spine.
You really need to get back to stir the sauce. You didn’t anticipate getting this far in the conversation (argument?) with him, honestly.
“Well, door’s open,” you tell him, turning to go. You throw one last little come-hither look over your shoulder, to find he is definitely staring at your ass. Or, glaring, more like.
Maybe you have a screw loose, but you find this adorable.
You go back to your sauce, and lose yourself in the preparation of the other ingredients, watching the pasta to make sure it doesn’t boil over, checking that the meatballs aren’t burning. (Your oven is a dinosaur from the 1970s, and sometimes the temp spikes for no reason).
You are about to drain the pasta, when you find a tall, rumpled man standing beside your rickety thrift store table, looking a bit confused as to how he’d ended up there. He looks so big in your shoebox of an apartment, and if you’re being honest, maybe there’s a little bit of lust tied up with your desire to mother this man.
You offer him a welcoming smile, and for a moment, you swear he looks like he’s drowning.
“Glad you could make it,” you say somewhat teasingly.
“Can I…help?” He says the last word like it’s a completely alien thing to him.
“I’ve pretty much got it under control…” you say, which is mostly true. You peruse the sparse offerings of your 3 slot wine rack, picking a $6 bottle of Chilean red blend. “Want to open this?” The face he makes looking down at the decidedly weaker-than-whiskey beverage is almost comical, but he takes the corkscrew from you as you transfer the meal to serving bowls and put glasses of water on the table.
He removes his suit jacket at the table, rolling his sleeves up over muscular forearms that are, if you’re being honest, totally distracting. After you sit down you fill your plates, and the first few minutes of the meal goes by in semi-awkward silence.
Surprisingly, it’s John who speaks first. “This is really good,” he admits begrudgingly, and you utterly fail to damper your I-told-you-so smile.
“Thanks.”
You make halting small talk. You get the feeling he doesn’t chat much with anyone, of his own free will. When you ask him how his week was, his simple answer is, “Hell.”
You have no idea he’s being literal.
You ask him what he does, and he tells you he’s a sort of private detective, and he can’t really talk about it. He asks what you do, more to get the conversation off of him than anything. You let it go, for now, telling him that you’re a receptionist at an office building for a mega corporation downtown.
“Fitting,” he grumbles, you think because of your innate cheerfulness.
You feel the urge to tell him that half the time it’s just a thing you wear like armor—but you don’t know each other that well yet.
As you loosen up a little with food and more wine, he slowly asks more questions about you, where you’re from, what do you do in your free time, and maybe it’s stupid, but you feel like he’s actually kind of interested in your answers.
You enlist him to help you with the dishes, and as you stand together at the sink you bump him playfully with your hip. He peers down at you, his dark hair in his eyes. He is so tall, and there is a hint of a smile on his lips now. For him, it’s like a full-on toothy grin, and it doesn’t fail to quicken your heart in your chest.
Constantine can’t help but feel…puzzled, by you. Yes, you’re his cute neighbor, who teasingly likes to hail him in the hallway. And maybe he does look forward to the way your eyes sparkle, when he begrudgingly acknowledges you before retreating to the safety of the quiet solitude of his apartment. But you are so…nice. He can just tell, and he has no idea what a girl like you might want with a degenerate demon hunter like him. There are enough assholes in L.A. who would be happy to take you out. Why would you waste your time chasing him down?
And there is that smaller nagging voice in the back of his head. You are damned, and you don’t deserve her.
Fuck if it doesn’t make him want to touch you even more.
Later, he will look back on this as a moment of weakness. You, looking up at him with your big eyes, like you're old friends. You made him feel, for a fleeting moment, like he wasn't some doomed asshole with nothing to live for. Like he was an actual person. A man who could matter, to someone. Maybe even to you.
When you splash him with a flick of dishwater after he insults your favorite TV show he narrows his eyes down at you, and you get the fluttery feeling that he might like to eat you a moment before he cups your cheek in his big hand and catches your lips in a kiss. It’s everything you’d hoped for, even if you never actually expected it to really happen. Maybe the wine helped? Or maybe…he likes you? Luckily you get over your surprise, standing on tiptoe to meet him, looping your arms around his neck.
You yip with surprise when suddenly he lifts you to sit on the sink, pulling you close as the kiss deepens. “Was getting a crick in my neck…”
Your answering laugh is shaky at best. “Sorry.”
“Is this why you invited me over?”
“Sort of?”
He lifts an eyebrow at that, waiting for further explanation. You reach up to toy with his collar, tracing the line of his loosened tie, totally distracted by the shape of his collarbone and what’s bared of his neck. This man has a jawline that looks like it was sculpted from stone. There’s no shortage of beautiful people in L.A., of course, but you’ve never met anyone quite like him. He doesn’t seem vain, an oddity in this town, but underneath his rumpled suit this man definitely has the physique of a movie star. You try not to dwell on how odd it is, that he would choose to spend his Friday night with you.
“I mean, I’m definitely not complaining,” you offer with a sly little smile.
However, his answering expression is nothing less than stern.
“I’m warning you now, sweetheart. I’m not boyfriend material, and I’m not going to be your project.”
Even if both of those things may have crossed your mind, your thoughts are too hazy with lust from his lips on yours. Maybe he’s a grouch…but he’s a great kisser.
“Okay.”
“Good.”
He kisses you again, and you melt even more under his exacting touch. Those mitts for hands make you feel small, and you arch against him as they travel the ladder of your ribcage to your spine.
The wine was good, but you know you are mostly drunk on him.
Then he is lifting you again, like you weigh nothing, carrying you to the couch. You settle down into the worn vintage cushions and make-out like teenagers, all lips and teeth and pawing hands.
You’re the one who actually initiates something further, pulling off your shirt, and John blinks as he takes in the swathes of your bare skin. He glares at your lacy bra like it owes him money, and you can’t help but laugh breathily. You haven’t felt thishappy in a long time, truth be told.
“Something funny?” he asks, nipping at your neck. With a flick of his fingers your bra falls away, and your breasts are in his hands, and you forget how to speak intelligibly. With his lips on your nipples you manage to loosen his tie without strangling him, unbuttoning his shirt with an increasing desperation. You sigh when at last the bare skin of your torsos is pressed together, his weight pressing you down into the couch.
It occurs to you, how small your couch is, and this man is definitely over six feet tall. “Would you prefer…the bed?” you ask between kisses.
“Up to you.”
You nod, but find you can’t really stop kissing him long enough to move. You can feel the impressive length of him through his pants and yours, aligned with your center and you dry grind, thinking even that is wonderful. He, however, lets out a frustrated growl, and pulls you to your feet again.
Dizzy with desire, you lead him by the hand to your bedroom, and you make it there eventually between kisses and shedding the rest of your clothing. His thick fingers between your legs are a marvel. “So fucking wet for me,” he groans, and it’s too embarrassing to admit, but sometimes after seeing him in the hallway you’ve fantasized about something like this going down, and it always leaves you soaked.
“I…like you,” you admit, moaning as a second finger finds its way inside you, his thumb circling your clit.
“I still don’t get that,” he admits, but kisses you hard before you really have a chance to answer. It would be a little too crazy, to tell him right now that you’ve always just felt pulled towards him, like the Universe was giving you a nudge any time you saw him. He’d laugh at you, or he’d leave, and either of those at this point would be unbearable.
You are close already under his masterful touch, and you whine even as you flex your hips, all your muscles tightening in anticipation.
“Don’t make me cum yet,” you beg. “I want you.”
He groans in response to that, desperately pawing through the pockets of his pants on the floor for a condom. You watch with stars in your eyes, propped on your elbows as he rips open the packet and rolls it on that impressive length, your lip between your teeth. You feel empty while looking at him like this, longing to be filled to the brim.
There is a moment of raw eye contact between you that sears your soul, as he pulls you to the edge of the bed with those large hands on your thighs. For a fleeting second he looks almost vulnerable. It’s there and gone like a ripple in a pool, then his thick tip is at your entrance, and he is slowly pushing himself inside you.
It’s better than you ever dreamed, and you arch against him, moaning as he works inside.
“Fuck you are tight,” he pants in your ear, your walls clenching around him, seeming to fight him even as they crave the relief of his big cock stretching you out. You breathe deeply, easing him in. When at last he bottoms out inside you, your head rocks back behind your shoulders, blissed out.
“God, you feel good.”
This man actually snorts at the comment, though his voice is pure gravel, rough with need. “He wouldn't appreciate you saying it about me.”
Your laugh is half moan.
“What, are you on a first name basis?”
“Yeah, sort of.”
You're not sure what to make of that, and you're too cock drunk to even begin to reason it out.
He can tell you're a nice girl. Or at least, that's his perception of you. So he doesn’t bend you at impossible angles or whisper filthy things in your ear. Really, there's no time for it. Just pure vanilla missionary in your sweet little snatch is more than enough to slake his need tonight. He fucks you on your back, his thumb on your clit as he glides in and out of your tight little pussy, your legs wrapped around his narrow hips.
Your pleasure builds in the cradle of your hips, wound so tight you feel like you'll either die, or fly. Usually...alright, it's never like this for you the first time with someone. There's always fumbling, and awkwardness, and half the time, if you're honest, a faked orgasm because you're too shy or too embarrassed to ask for what you really need from a new partner, afraid he’ll think you’re too much trouble.
Well, that is not what is happening tonight. Tonight, John is taking care of you, and you can hardly believe your luck.
“You gonna cum for me, baby?”
“Yeah.” Your reply is breathy, and you almost laugh just for the pure, unexpected joy you feel in that moment. “Oh, John...” Your ability to say real words escapes you as your body erupts with scintillating pleasure spreading through your loins. You actually scream, and the fierce clench of your cunt around him brings him too. He loses himself with a groan, his face buried in the curve of your shoulder as he shudders against you.
Afterwards, you are laying against his broad chest, his heartbeat a steady drum in your ear. You don't know it, but this is not something John Constantine usually does. Snuggling. But you are sweet and soft in his arms, and he can't quite bring himself to vacate the premises just yet. In fact, he's so comfortable that he dozes, and you follow close behind him.
In the middle of the night you wake to kisses on your neck and caresses down your curvy side. You sigh, arching into him. You feel his manhood at the seam of your buttocks, his thick head kissing your hole.
“Fuck. Sorry,” he whispers with a shuddering sigh, rolling over to reach for his pants again. How many condoms did he bring? The fact that he's not careless with you, even in the sleepy haze of the early morning second round, is incredibly endearing to you. How many times have you had to insist, and been made to feel like an uncool bitch for not wanting to risk pregnancy or disease in the heat of the moment?
Maybe it's utterly insane, but you're half in love already as he hauls you on top of him, his cock freshly capped with a new Trojan Magnum.
You are still drenched from earlier, and it's no problem to impale yourself upon him.
In the blue dark of early morning your eyes meet his, and again you sense that fleeting vulnerability before he distracts you with that clever fucking thumb finding your sensitive bud. He works you just right as you ride his beautiful dick with your back arched taut as a bow, his other hand toying with your nipple. It makes you cum in record time, so quickly it's almost embarrassing, though he doesn’t seem to mind. Within a minute he's followed along with you, his big hands digging into your hips hard enough to bruise as he reaches his own release. Your name on his lips raises gooseflesh all over your body, as though your lovemaking has invoked something powerful, something binding.
You collapse against his chest, and the both of you nearly fall asleep again, with him still inside you.
“Let me get this thing off,” he requests gently, and with a plaintive little groan you roll off of him, curling in at his side. He knots the condom before throwing it in the general direction of the bin. You are both too tired to care if it actually hit home.
Again, you snuggle close and the two of you doze tangled together until morning light streams through the window.
You wake to kisses on your forehead this time. It's a miracle you rouse. You're a heavy sleeper—and he worked you out.
“I have to go, honey.”
“Want breakfast?” you murmur, half asleep.
“Yeah, but I can’t. Rain check?”
“Okay.”
Through half lidded eyes you watch as he gets dressed, half way, at least. A good portion of his clothes are still strewn around the living room.
My god, what a beautiful specimen of manhood you bagged last night. Nonna would be proud. She was an appreciator of male beauty, and if you told her that her special recipe had gotten you the best sex of your life with the handsome boy next door she would have cackled with delight.
“See you soon?” you dare ask as he buttons his pants.
“Yeah,” he agrees, after a pause, bending down to kiss you one more time, with tongue this round.
“Careful mister, or you'll start round three.”
“Jesus, woman,” he teases with that heartbreaking almost-smile. “You've drained me dry.”
You look him over appraisingly.
“Doubt it.”
He huffs with laughter, shaking his head.
“Bye, y/n.”
You sigh.
“Bye, John.”
With a surprisingly heavy heart, you watch the best lay of your life slip out the door. You really hope you'll get to do this again, and not just go back to awkward acknowledgements in the hallway.
***
Maybe John Constantine had told you he’s not boyfriend material.
But earlier that day, while he was having a smoke out on the sidewalk, he found himself looking over at the wares of a flower vendor and wondering if you would like them. He didn’t buy any, of course.
He wasn’t a total sap.
But it’s possible as he scales the stairs to his apartment, there’s a lightness in his heart as he thinks of you, and the possibility of seeing you in the hallway.
That's when he finds your door ajar, and your apartment ransacked, and a note in red ink on the table addressed to him.
If you want to see your girlfriend alive again, come to this address.
It’s a place in L.A. that’s deep in vampire territory, and something black and heavy weighs like a stone in the pit of John’s stomach. He’d deported a few big players of the local coven not too long ago, and he’d figured the Master would want revenge, but this?
Fucking diabolical—and just their style.
Goddamn vampires.
Without a moment to lose, he goes to his apartment to get his kit, praying he’s not too late to save you.
#constantine 2005#constantine#constantine x you#constantine x reader#keanu reeves#keanu reeves x you#john constantine#constantine x y/n#constantine fic#constantine imagine#constantine fanfic#the girl next door constantine x reader fic
150 notes
·
View notes
Text
i would freeze over hell just to get a chill
Summary: The boys have overblotted, but their defeat wasn't so quick. Rather, they spent much more time in their overblot forms, and you? You had a front row seat to it all. (The Overblot gang remembers their romantic interest towards you and keeps you by their side. Your only option is to stay by their side until help arrives.)
Warnings: Riddle injures himself with thorns and doesn't care, Leona scratches your face (to give you powers but still), general Overblot themes, not beta red we die like the overblotted dwarf from the prologue
Notes: READER IS NOT YUU; Yuu is gender-neutral and so is reader, and Reader will mention Yuu. Reader is from each of the boy's respective dorms,,,, Title is from Would You Love a Monsterman by Jodi, and characters might be OOC??? I doin't have the game but also we only get like. Two minutes with their Overblotted forms.
Characters: Riddle Rosehearts, Leona Kingscholar
Riddle Rosehearts
Many of your fellow dorm members would say that Riddle was a merciless dictator who believed himself to be the Queen of Hearts. On the surface level, one could agree, but you didn't, for the Queen of Hearts created the rules in the first place, and Riddle was simply following them.
However, with the most recent unbirthday tea party having gone horribly wrong, perhaps Riddle himself thought he was one of the Seven, and the entity that followed his every command was but a mere card soldier.
From what you knew, the main perpetrators of his Overblot had run away, seemingly to form a plan. A few first years who you had only talked to maybe once, the magicless student, and even the Vice-Housewarden yourself! (You said from what you know, which might have been deemed weird considering you were there at the tea party, but in your defense, the moment Riddle had an egg thrown at him, everything was a blur.)
The rest of the unlucky dorm members had Riddle's signature collars around their neck. Some were crying in fear of the ink-dripping entity, while others were forcing a smile in order to not trigger the newly Overblot Riddle's wrath. You were just about to accept your fate, when the glass headed minion grabbed you effortlessly, and put you right next to Riddle, who's arms were wrapped in ink and vines.
You were relieved to hear that no, you were not being executed, but that relief was replaced by a different kind of fear; the realization that Riddle Rosehearts had a crush on you.
In any other circumstance, you would've been overjoyed. You had hung out before, having sit next to each other while studying in the library, and you'd be lying if you said he hadn't piqued your romantic interest. But Riddle was overblot now, his mental state shattered just like the glass head of the ink entity, and you really didn't want to be the darling to a potential Yandere.
Thank fuck you weren't shoved into a cage.
Instead, with a flick of his fingers, Riddle summoned a throne made of roses and vines, thorns like there were on his outfit non-existent. A bigger one (with thorns) was placed right next to it.
"You shall be my side in this new world," Riddle's voice was almost demonic, yet you could still hear everything he said clearly "We shall sit on these thrones and gaze upon it all. Those who defy us will lose their heads! Wouldn't that just be beautiful, darling?"
So, you were forced onto the throne, cringing everytime the thorns on Riddle's throne sliced his skin. Screaming at all of his collared-roommates, he ordered them to bake both of your favorite meals and paint the roses and to slice their fingers on the thorny roses and to say that he was correct in all things; he just kept going on with new orders, and you could only look at them with pity everytime Riddle placed a new command down.
Some brave or stupid soul (you couldn't tell), talked back, snarking that Riddle's floating was to try and cover up for his small size. You heard a flamingo squawk admist the silence before Riddle screamed, before making it so the collar choked the lad, and you knew that was going to leave a scar. You couldn't feel bad for long, because Riddle started sobbing, throwing his head into your lap, leaning on his throne, and not showing any discomfort at the thorns piercing him harder. He sobbed and screamed, and you could only pat his head until one of the students came back with the requested tarts (not chestnut).
You hoped that those first years and Trey were doing all right and coming up with a plan. Because even if the entity gave you a beautiful red rose from the bush they were clutching, and Riddle stated that you were the only one he could trust, you knew that this wasn't Riddle and that being in this form hurt both his body and his brain. That magicless Prefect had grabbed a magestone from the abandoned mine and fought an entity just like the Queens of Hearts lookalike, hadn't they? They seemed smart and competent, and their friends were........brave.
So, in your head, you went against the rules, and begged for help.
Then the Overblotted Riddle screamed in your ear again, due to someone having walked too slow, before clutching your hand with a lot of force, murmuring frantic threats towards him as tears threatened to spill. (You would wake up the next morning to find that you had gotten splinters. Woohoo for you.)
Leona Kingscholar
The Spelldrive Competition this, Spelldrive Competition that; was this your punishment for being associated with a bunch of bully jocks?
Savanaclaw was not being subtle at all; in the security of the dormitory, they went on and on. 'With that champion from Scarabia gone and Housewarden Leona by our side, they'll never stand a chance against us!'
You were going to hit your head on the entrance's tree if they kept this up. They did keep it up. Whether you did so or not is up to you.
Perhaps it was kind of selfish of you, but Diasomnia was good at everything. They were the shiniest of gold, and even in the most roughest and toughest game of all, they still glimmered the prettiest shine. Maybe it was time someone else became the champion. And besides, you weren't competing. It wasn't like it was going to effect you.
....As the sand blinded your eyes and terrified screams destroyed your ear drum, you cursed yourself for jinxing it.
Your housewarden had a mental breakdown in front of the whole stadium, tried to kill the guy who was basically the vice-housewarden in all but name, and now he was talking about turning everything into sand- wait why is the glass lion looking at you?
The crack in the glass seemed to make an impromptu mouth, as it quickly put you inside of its jaw and sprinted back towards the Overblotted housewarden.
You were unceremoniously dropped onto the floor, ink now on your clothes. Being in the center of the sandstorm got every possible grain of dust into your eyes, and despite your deep squints, the large, floating form of an Overblotted Leona was as clear as day.
"Tch, and I thought you would go running like the rest of those weaklings."
Ah. The screams were all gone, and even throughout the sandy fog, you could see the silhouettes of the Ramshackle prefect and their friends try and make a run of it.
"Stop squinting, would you? It makes you look stupid."
"Not all of us have a glowing eye," You snarked back, seeing the orange flame on the right side of his face. That was probably how he could still see amidst the chaos. Or he was just that good.
He tch'ed again, leaving you to the assumption that no, he was going to kill you, because he already would of.
Instead, he scratched your face, and you screamed in pain, falling back to your ground, clutching your eye. Leona's hand dripped more ink, and he stared at you.
Suddenly, everything around you became much clearer. The sandstorm was practically a transparent curtain, and in the glass reflection of the lion's head, you knew why.
Just like Leona, an orange flame covered your right eye.
"There, now stop complaining."
The silhouette of the Prefect was gone now, leaving only you and the overblotted Leona. Rising from the sand, a lone throne sat, becoming one with the stadium's hoops. Leona floated over before sitting down, dragging you with him. You were placed onto his lap, while the inky King of Beasts sat by the throne's side.
"You're the only one is the damn world that's worth a fucking dime," Leona stated, as one of his braids fell loose. "Everyone else is some moron who thinks they so great for no reason at all. You're not like that."
...Holy shit was this a love confession???
"I was gonna burn it all to ashes," Leona continued. "That Diasomnia kid said it himself. I ain't ever gonna be king."
He took an ink covered hand and dragged it across your cheek. "But you're here. You aren't a coward and you weren't obsessed with this stupid schoolkid game. And I ain't gonna give up when you could be by my side, because you're worth fighting for."
You never knew Leona felt this way about you. Were you supposed to? Sure, this wasn't unwelcome; you had a crush on Leona yourself and your worries about it not being reciprocated were now disappearing like dust, but....this wasn't Leona. This was clearly years of trauma, and an attempt to finally be deemed good enough gone wrong, resulting in a mental breakdown and Overblotting. You didn't want this to be your first date. Who the fuck would?
The Prefect would come back, right? They had fought an Overblot before and won, and everyone in your dorm was talking about the 'damned Prefect', getting into other people's business and trying to be a hero. You'd like a hero right now. That would be pretty nice.
Well, hopefully hope was coming, but by then you should try and get used to it. The sandstorm was practically nonexistent to you now, and Leona didn't seem like he was going to scratch you again.
You repositioned on his lap, leaning into the fur around his neck. It was soft, yet it felt as though gum or honey had gotten stuck in there and left the fur coarse.
Wait, was he just sitting here, tiddies out-
The disturbing thought paused as Leona let out a roar. You looked up, but no-one was around. After doing so, he let out more softer animalistic growls.
Ah, so couldn't control it.
The King of Beasts nuzzled against you, getting more ink on your cheek. In response, Leona growled at the entity and licked your face. Luckily, there was no ink.
You were never going to a Spelldrive tournament again.
#someone had to do it so i did#twst x reader#twisted wonderland x reader#riddle rosehearts x reader#leona kingscholar x reader#simper scribbles
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
I Wondered If I Could Come Home? (Astarion x F! pregnant reader) Part 4
Synopsis: The Hag learns not to underestimate an angry mother and Eowyn decides to make an early appearance.
CW: Mentions of gore, mentions of torture, labor, breast feeding
Author note: thank you for your patience! I’ve had a lot of big life changes lately and have been struggling with my mental health. I have a couple other fics I’m working on that I’m super excited about!
This will also have more parts in the future! I have lots more ideas!
Pic is mine!
You know you need to stay in bed, but you will be damned if you are going to let Astarion face that terrible Hag alone. You knew he’d never agree to let you go with him considering your current condition, but you had always fought side by side together and not being there to protect him feels wrong to you.
They have been gone far longer than they should have been and there is a sick pit in your gut that tells you something is wrong. You don’t know what, when, why, or how, but you have a feeling Astarion’s life is in danger.
Jaheira had caught you sneaking out right away and even though Shadowheart was skeptical about the safety of the situation, she also agreed that something felt off and that they probably should have been back a few hours ago.
So you squeezed yourself into something that you can move in- settling on an oversized Wizard’s robe you had accidentally bought right before you found out you were pregnant. It’s like the retailers knew before you did.
Shadowheart and Jaheira are right behind you as you follow Scratch to Astarion’s location. The hag must not be very social considering the trail has led to a remote part of the beach. You feel even more uneasy the further you go and then you hear it.
Minsc is screaming at someone to stop and then there is a scream of pain from Astarion. Your entire body feels on fire and your rage is bigger than your own body. You can feel Eowyn’s fury too- no one is allowed to hurt her dad.
You storm in and you blast an ice shard straight through Hag's chest and send her away from Astarion. Based on the cuts along his chest- she was slowly, painfully torturing him with some type of weapon. Minsc, Halsin, and Gale are in equally bad shape and are hanging up shackled to the wall.
Astarion is blinded by some kind of spell because when you race over to him- he flinches away from you. His skin is torn up in nonsensical designs and your chest hurts looking at him. Tears are pooling in your eyes, but you have to contain yourself- he needs you to be strong right now.
“It’s just me, Star,” you say softly, “I’m getting you out of here.”
The fear and horror in his eyes intensifies, “you need to leave now!”
“Oh I’m afraid that ship has sailed little spawn,” the Hag cackles, “I didn’t even have to do any of the work- you came straight to me!”
You put yourself between the Hag and Astarion. You stare daggers into the Hag and she looks taken aback. She was a fool to believe you are just a blubbering pregnant woman who enjoys an apple cupcake.
“The only thing I will be giving you is a very painful death,” you snarl.
Shadowheart and Jaheira attack her first and you silence the Hag- preventing her from using any spells. In between Shadowheart and Jaheira’s melee attacks, you throw cantrip and spell hand over hand at the monster.
When the Hag finally goes down, you feel absolutely victorious! You untie Astarion and Shadowheart casts restoration and healing before moving onto the others. Astarion immediately pulls you into him and places lots of kisses on your face while chastising you for taking such a massive risk, but you can also see the shining pride in his eyes.
Then your water decides to break.
“Oh are you fucking serious!?” You shout in alarm.
“What’s-“ Astarion looks at you in confusion and then stops when he sees the puddles on the ground.
“Shit!” Shadowheart is racing over to check on you and puts her hand on the lower part of your stomach, “she’s ready to come at any minute- we need to get you h-“
She doesn’t even finish her sentence before Astarion picks you up and begins rushing back to the house. Everyone is hot on your trail, but you are too afraid to even be worried about that right now.
“My love, it’s going to be okay,” Astarion whispers, “you’ll be okay. Eowyn will be okay.”
“But she’s early,” you sob, “and Isobel and Dame Aylin aren’t here and what if I di-“
“No- don’t even begin to think that,” Astarion scolds you, his pace picking up, “you are going to live through this and we are going to be a family. There is no other outcome.”
You don’t argue with him because you don’t want to scare him. You’ve read a lot about Dhampir babies and their birth. Your understanding is that it’s up to the child whether you live or not- they can either make the labor excruciatingly easy or they can claw their way out of you until you bleed out. You hope that Eowyn loves you and wants you in her life. You really don’t want to die.
Everything moves in slow motion as everyone frantically moves around you. Your contractions came on much faster than Shadowheart anticipated and thank the Gods that Halsin was there because he’s delivered several children before. He was equally as surprised- this is a process that could take hours, days even, but it’s been mere minutes. Astarion asks if that’s a good thing, but neither Halsin or Shadowheart know.
Jaheira and Shadowheart push your legs as you fight through the pain and push as hard as you can. The pain is searing, but you don’t feel like you are being ripped apart more than necessary so that’s a good thing.
“You’re doing such a good job, my Love,” Astarion whispers as he wipes the sweat from your forehead, “you are so so strong.”
Yes, you are. You just fought a hag and then immediately went into labor, but that doesn’t settle the fear in your heart when you are told to push again. The pain just continues to increase but nothing feels scary, if anything, the more the pain increases, the more relief you feel. Not your own, but Eowyn’s and for some reason, you feel like she’s excited to meet you.
So you push a few more times over the next two hours until a high pitched cry echoes through the room. Halsin asks Astarion if he wants to cut the cord and he agrees, but looks like he’s going to throw up the whole time. Halsin is laughing as he shows Astarion how to bathe Eowyn- your poor partner looks like he’s about to have a conniption.
“Congratulations,” Halsin says while handing Eowyn over to you, “you are the proud parents of a very healthy little girl.”
Eowyn stops crying the minute she’s in your arms and she opens her eyes- she has topaz, sun elf eyes with red flecks and you smile widely- she has your eye color!
“Well hello my sweet girl,” you coo, “thank you for not killing me.”
Eowyn is the most precious baby in the world as she squeals happily at you. You giggle and hold her tighter. Your heart feels so so full when you look at her. It was just the two of you for so long and you are so happy to be here to know her.
Wispy, blonde silver curls adorn her head and her ears are adorably pointed. Her skin is the same color as Astarion’s but with more life in her cheeks. Her lips are in a happy little pout and she is inquisitive while taking in your features. Oh and her rolls! She is a chunky little gal!
You understand now what all those parenting books were saying. You would destroy the world for Eowyn.
“And!” Shadowheart pops up from in between your legs, “you’re totally okay! Besides the expected, that is.”
A relieved laugh leaves your lips and Eowyn happily squeals again in unison. Eowyn’s eyes then seem to wander around the room, her head turning ever so slightly. You read that Dhampirs are stronger than normal infants, but you are still weary of her moving without your support.
She doesn’t stop looking around until she meets Astarion’s eyes. You follow her gaze and you smile softly at Astarion who looks so happy, scared, and relieved at the same time. Eowyn offers a chubby hand to him and you watch as Astarion walks towards both of you as if hypnotized. He hesitantly lets her take his finger and Eowyn smiles before closing her eyes and relaxing against you.
“She’s beautiful,” Astarion says in awe, “but she’s also too smart for her own good.”
“I told you so,” you say with a huff, “but noooo no one listens to mom.”
Astarion smiles brightly at you and kisses your chapped lips slowly and lovingly. He sits next to the two of you, his finger never leaving Eowyn’s hand.
****************************
The Hag had overtaken them. Astarion still isn’t quite sure how- he just remembers a big flash and something in the room taking him down to his knees. When he woke up being tortured- he felt as helpless and pathetic as he had under Cazador.
Astarion was certain he would die there or just be there for eternity. The hag blinded him and carved into his skin as much as she pleased.
Hearing your voice had felt like a balm for his shattered spirit, but that feeling was quickly overtaken with fear for you and Eowyn. You were not supposed to be here trying to protect him. He’s supposed to be protecting you.
Today was humbling. You killed the hag and saved him. You then proceeded to give birth not even three hours later and you still had asked him if it would be okay for you to take a nap.
In spite of today’s lack of success, Astarion can’t help but feel nothing but pride towards you as you snore softly next to him in the bed. Your arm is absentmindedly thrown over his torso and Eowyn is napping in his arms. You are truly a miracle walking and it’s in these moments that he still can’t believe you took him back. You’re incredible and you could easily have done this on your own.
Astarion is extremely nervous. He knows he has absolutely no paternal instinct, but he does know he loves Eowyn and you. At the end of the day that’s the important part, right? He can figure out the rest as he goes- he’s smart and quick enough on his feet.
Eowyn begins crying and suddenly that process of thought is completely gone. You stir and begin to sit up with a yawn.
“She’s-“ another yawn cuts you off, “probably hungry.”
Astarion passes Eowyn to you- once again feeling entirely unhelpful. Sure enough, she immediately begins to suckle and her crying ceases. You smile at her and then look to Astarion- your features quickly changing to a look of concern. You use your other hand to wipe his tears.
“Star, what’s wrong?”
He struggles to fight the lump in his throat and to stop the tears in his eyes. You continue to look at him lovingly, providing him with comfort and assurance. Astarion can tell you what he’s feeling- maybe you can even help him get a new perspective.
“I feel so useless and well, worthless,” he chokes out, “I didn’t kill the hag, I couldn’t do anything but watch you be in pain, and I can’t even feed Eowyn.”
Your hand pauses on his cheek for a second before you shake your head.
“Astarion, you saved me from that horrid creature earlier this morning. If you hadn’t been there, I would be chopped up somewhere and Eowyn would be turned into a hag,” you say tearfully, “and I could not have gone into labor without you here. That was one of my biggest fears before you arrived at my door- I just wanted you here with us.
“And you are certainly welcome to try and feed Eowyn,” you tease, “but last time I checked you aren’t producing milk and besides, it’s not your fault. She’s mere hours old and I haven’t even begun to try to fill up a bottle or two for you to use. Just please don't beat yourself up, my Star. You mean the whole world to me and I couldn’t have done any of this without you. Not to mention- Eowyn adores you so you have to stick around.”
Astarion’s heart glows and cracks at the same time. He would never leave you- he may raise Eowyn with questionable morals, but he has no intentions of not being a part of her life until both of you are long gone and his own time comes.
Everything else you said though? It did help to throw the worst of his negative feelings out.
“I never intended on leaving,” he says quickly, not thinking about how his feelings may have sounded, “but thank you, my Love. I needed to hear that.”
“Of course, anytime.”
The two of you talk and obsess over how adorable she is, what features she seems to have from who, etc. You eventually fall asleep leaning against Astarion while feeding Eowyn.
When she’s done, Astarion gently takes her from your arms and burps her like every parenting book says to do. It’s not a ridiculously hard process, but the spit up on his shirt is definitely not his favorite.
“Really? This is my nice shirt!” He whispers at Eowyn who just smiles at him, “okay fine, you can spit up on my shirts.”
Eowyn yawns and goes back to sleep- it takes everything in Astarion not to melt into a puddle. He didn’t think a yawn could be so adorable in his whole life.
You begin to snore softly again and Eowyn is right behind you. Astarion chuckles to himself and places a soft kiss on Eowyn’s forehead.
He’s excited to introduce her to everyone- Dal has been sending letters non-stop asking when she can visit. Astarion has been procrastinating because he knows she’ll bring Petras too and if you hadn’t made it… well it would not have been a happy union.
Dal is already referring to herself as Eowyn’s aunt which made Astarion slightly uncomfortable at first because he and his siblings had never truly been close, but then she visited with Petras, Aurelia, and even Violet during your 7th month of pregnancy and you all had hit it off very well and, without Cazador, Astarion found he actually enjoys his siblings’ company. They are actually decent people now that they aren’t all being horribly abused. Well, Violet may be the exception, she’s still a shit who loves to play pranks, but at least they aren’t painful or out of vengeance.
Then there are his traveling companions- his chosen family as you refer to them as. Every single one of them is going to want to meet Eowyn and smother her in love. He’s most excited to see Lae’zel’s reaction- she’s going to be horrified by how squishy human children are, but Eowyn will win her over.
Astarion decides to talk to you about having them visit once you are awake and if you seem to be feeling much stronger. He knows one thing for sure though- Eowyn is going to have the biggest and most loving family anyone could ever have.
#astarion#baldurs gate 3#astarion x reader#astarion x tav#baldurs gate astarion#bg3 spoilers#astarion romance#astarion x you#bg3#karlach#astarion acunin#astarion x pregnant reader#astarion x f!reader#astarion x f!tav#astarion baldurs gate#astarion fanfiction#astarion fic#astarion ancunin
112 notes
·
View notes
Photo
she can’t finish and they fight - part II
“why don’t you tell me who you’re cheating on me with, darling.”
part I
⌁⌁⌁
“pardon?” her eyes were wide and her brows furrowed as she tried to process the accusation at hand.
“you heard me, sweetheart.”
the way he was speaking made her blood run cold. silence, once again, fell heavy among them, even heavier than previously and for a moment, she thought she was hallucinating.
cheating? was he serious?
“harry, what on earth are you talking about?”
he audibly sighed, turning around to throw his finished cigarette out. his hands gripped the railing and he was trying to keep his composure. nausea was rising in his gut and he was wondering, just for a moment, if he should just drop the subject entirely. but alas, he knew that it was too late. he was sick, physically and mentally, of trying to hide from his version of the reality of things.
“you faked it. your orgasm.” he tried not to sound so ashamed as he felt pathetic enough as is. her eyes widened once more, though harry wasn’t there to see it. his body was there, physically, with his back facing her; his mind, however, was entirely elsewhere and running a mile a minute.
depending on how this conversation evolves, it could very well mean the end of it all. it was aggravating, frustrating and most of all, entirely heartbreaking. what harry felt predominantly, though, was fear. he was afraid of living a life that she wasn’t a part of, afraid of finding out who he was without her and who he would leave behind. that is, if he is even strong enough to do that. sadly, his pride happened to be at the forefront of things, hindering him from showing any sort of vulnerability. he wasn’t strong enough to show how broken he truly felt, and she was too consumed in her own problems to realise.
so he noticed that she faked it, that much she did understand. where his claim of her disloyalty came from, however, she had yet to figure out. as her palm found her forehead before it travelled through her hair, scratching her scalp in its wake, she was in desperate search of a way to explain herself. she was a lot of things, but a cheater was not one of them.
a sudden breeze made her aware of the lack of clothing on her form, so she crossed the room in two large steps in search of his shirt that was thrown across the room a mere ten minutes ago. as she bent down to pick it up and put it on, she was ripped out of her thoughts so violently, it shook her to her core.
“don’t you dare put my shirt on, y/n.”
she turned around to find him looking at her with a certain iciness that she had never before seen from him. his eyes lacked any and all warmth, even though it was still alive and present when they were making love just now. in an instant, her arms crossed over her torso to cover herself somewhat; she felt extremely exposed and vulnerable under his judgemental gaze. for the first time since she had known him, she felt uncomfortable because of him.
“are you actually serious right now, harry? what the fuck is going on with you?” her shame and guilt were momentarily replaced by anger and confusion.
“tell me that you faked your orgasm.”
in utter disbelief she replied, “yes, harry, I had to fake it! now let me put some clothes on.”
harry crossed the room while she reached for her blouse just next to his shirt. and before she knew it, he stood before her, tall and proud and maybe even kind of scary. she, too, felt too proud to show him her fear, though.
“why?”
she took a moment to ground herself and looked at him. she took note of his frown, the creases on his forehead, his flared nostrils, his heavy breaths and the emotion in his eyes. and where she should feel anger at his outrageous accusation, she now mostly felt heavy. her heart felt like there were physical weights attached to it, pulling it to her guts. she felt like somebody who was taking a rollercoaster ride and the massive drop was just ahead. she felt uneasy and thrown off balance and it pained her to realise that she did this to herself, too. but he would never know any of it.
thus came the calm before the storm,
“harry, listen-“
and then: thunderclap.
“who is he? or she or- fuck! who are they, y/n? answer me!”
followed by deafening silence.
she waited for a few beats before she replied, involuntarily so, as the air felt like it was knocked out of her chest.
“what on god’s green earth makes you think you can just raise your voice at me, huh?” the fear and discomfort she felt a few moments ago have turned into a monsoon of agony and rage. she loved him, more than anything, but she wasn’t going to let him speak to her like that.
harry looked visibly distressed. her reaction and the situation at hand made his guts churn and his hands clammy. he knew that he shouldn’t have shouted, that he cannot deny. her avoidance of the topic, however, led him to believe that his fears were justified.
he settled down, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself. he looked down at her and continued, “I asked you a question. who are they?”
now it was her turn to rage.
“I'm not bloody cheating on you, are you out of your mind? what the hell made you come to this ridiculously stupid conclusion?” she never once broke their eye contact, wanting him to feel how ridiculous the accusation felt to her.
“you faked your fucking orgasm, y/n!” he shouted back, “matter of fact, you barely fucking looked at me while I was literally balls deep inside of you. what the hell am I supposed to think?!”
she never thought she’d have a fight like this with him. they were usually very good at handling their discussions without raising their voices. she hardly remembers a time where they fought, period. times have changed, it seems.
“so?! you immediately think I fucking cheated on you, harry? how fucking fragile is your ego?”
“stop avoiding the fucking question!”
“I didn’t fucking cheat on you!”
“then why did you fake it?”
“because I almost had a fucking panic attack but I tried to brush over it to make you feel better!”
now harry was the one who was at a loss for words. was she lying or was his ego actually this fragile? he didn’t know, but he needed to find out soon, or he was going to lose his mind.
unfortunately, harry had a tendency to turn into a bit of an arrogant prick when his pride overcame him. he wouldn’t necessarily claim to even be ridiculously proud. still, whenever he had to decide between giving in and standing his ground, the latter happened to be his knee-jerk reaction, tragically so for him.
“bullshit.” he scoffed, still not breaking eye contact. he knew that something was off and he wouldn’t rest until he knew, for sure, why. so he continued, “I know you and your body like the back of my fucking hand, y/n. things have been going downhill for us for weeks now, and you know it. we barely do anything together anymore, we barely see each other, hell, we barely fucking speak, y/n!” he raised his voice again. she kept quiet, taking it all in. “I wreck my brain, day and night, about when it all burned down around us and I still don’t have a definitive answer.” he takes a heavy breath as he tries to swallow the lump in his throat. it was getting harder and harder for him to keep his composure, he realised.
“so, please, y/n. for the love of god and everything holy, just tell me who they are so we can get this over with.” he said, in a terribly weak voice.
then, they looked at each other again. and suddenly, the world felt cold and lonely.
he thought that he was about to get a confession. she was going to tell him their name, apologise profusely and maybe beg for forgiveness. she was going to explain to him that she did it in a moment of weakness, that she didn’t mean to and that she loved him, and he was prepared to shut it all down, even if he wasn't strong enough to do so. nevertheless, he already hated himself for it, but he swore to himself that he wasn’t going to get hurt like that, again. and when he saw the first stream of tears run down her face, he was entirely certain of what was going to happen next.
or so he thought.
she looked at him with a look that combined fury and sadness in a way that slightly caught him off guard. she looked angry, incredibly so, and it seemed like that anger was directed towards him. she silently let her tears fall and stared at him in what seemed to be utter disbelief. and when she went to wipe them away with her right hand, harry was faced with something he definitely wasn’t expecting.
she laughed.
confused and irritated, he asks, “what on earth is so funny?”, with his chest physically puffed up and his fists clenched, and that only made her laugh more, with her tears falling heavier.
and for what felt like the first time in too long, she finally spoke.
“harry, I swear to god, you are the most arrogant dickhead I have ever met in my entire life.”
harry gathered his breath once more, ready to interject. he was immediately interrupted, however, by her raised hand. in complete and utter dominance she kept him silent, without having spoken a single word. when she was sure he wouldn’t try to interrupt, she continued.
“so, let me get this straight. you’ve been noticing how things have been rocky between us lately, or as you so accurately put it, ‘going downhill’. that’s good! at least that means I wasn’t the only one who felt that way.” she pauses momentarily, blinking some more tears away. “and then, after being with me for, what? 4 years? and after everything we’ve been through, your first thought is that I cheated on you? and not just that, you’re so bloody sure of it, you’re expecting me to fucking confess? because there couldn’t possibly be another valid reason as to why I am not constantly all over you, correct?”
there was not a trace of laughter when she spoke and towards the end, she sounded like she was seething. so much so, that the hair on his arms stood up. and thus, they stood across from one another. both of them were angry and frustrated and confused and hurt and, most of all, sad. heartbroken. lost.
this wasn’t supposed to happen to them. they were supposed to be the ones that made it through it all, or at least that’s how they both envisioned it. unbeknownst to each other, they both envisioned a life together. a house that felt like home, a couple of cats and dogs running around, many plants to look after and love shared in every way, shape or form. but now, as she stood before him and he stood before her, they felt like everything crumbled underneath them in that very moment. maybe they weren’t that lucky after all.
“why aren’t you answering me, harry? I asked you a question.” she mocked. his pride was fading, albeit too slowly, as he spoke again.
“again, can you blame me, y/n? it’s not even just about how we’ve been drifting apart.” his guard was crumbling at his feet, tears dangerously close. “when you came home today and we started speaking, I just felt so defeated because it all just felt so… forced? but then you finally, after what felt like a fucking eternity, initiated an actual conversation again! it honestly felt like my heart was leaping with joy, especially when I told you about my day and the things that are going on in my life. y/n, it felt so, so good. until I didn’t know what else to say. then it was fucking heartbreaking. but when you touched me, I had this glimmer of hope, that things could maybe go back to how they were. that you and me could go back to being you and me. and, god, when I realised you faked whatever that was I just… I felt fucking disgusting. I felt like I used you to get off and you used me to sell some kind of story, to keep up a fake image of this perfect relationship we used to have. but what kills me the most, is that you dare to stand here and talk to me about ‘daring to accuse you’ of something as outrageous as disloyalty, when you seriously believed that I wouldn’t notice how your body wasn’t reacting to me. we used to share something, my love. this otherworldly connection that I wrote so many fucking songs about. before this all changed, we used to want to be around each other. I remember how you would randomly call me throughout the day, just to tell me a funny thought that you had, or how you would send me pictures of sunsets when I wasn’t there to see them. or how I used to do the same, until you stopped reacting. there you were, suddenly, completely uninterested in anything I had to tell you after you came home from that godforsaken job of yours! you were too exhausted to even notice my presence sometimes. and then, sometimes turned into most of the time. and you came home later and later and you told me less and less and all of a sudden I found myself living with someone I barely know! and all of this, all of it, changed in a mere six weeks and three days, y/n. it changed so quickly that I had no other choice than to think of the worst possible option. and it’s not like I could ask you about it, because anytime I did ask you about anything, about your day or work or your fucking life in general, all I got in response, were short, dry and unspecific answers that just led me to believe the worst. and I’m tired, y/n. I’m tired and upset and heartbroken and, just, so… so tired.”
hot, chubby tears made their presence known on not only her cheeks but his, too. and for the umpteenth time that night, they went quiet. both of them wrecking their brain for the right thing to say, do or change. for the very first time, however, they felt like they ran out of time; like they ran out of chances to make things right. it was then and there that their house felt no longer like a home, but an empty space. like they both didn’t belong there.
she spoke in a small, shaky voice in complete juxtaposition to how she spoke moments before.
“harry… I, fuck. I don’t even know what to say.” she said, frantically wiping tears away and trying to compose herself. he just stood there, letting them fall. he didn’t have it in him to keep fighting.
“you know how long I’ve been working to get to where I am now. I used to tell you all about it, remember? and, god, I know I’ve been home less and practically running all over the place but harry, you have to believe me that none of this has anything to do with you. I’ve been acting out of fear, if anything, because I’m doing anything in my power not to fuck this up for myself. I know I’ve been neglecting you and us and, fuck, myself too! I know that and I am well aware of it, but for you to genuinely believe that I was cheating; it just… it breaks my heart, harry.” she choked on another sob and he felt his hand twitch, begging to reach out to her, begging to hold her close and kiss her pain away. unfortunately, he needed someone to hold him, too.
“and you know what the worst part is? after everything you’ve said, I get it. I get where you’re coming from. it does nothing to ease the pain though. or the embarrassment or the fear or fuck-all.”
she sighed, deeply, as did harry, trying to soothe their own pain, somehow.
“y/n…” he started, knowing that the topic he was getting into was sensitive enough as is, even without the added weight of their argument.
“you know you don’t have to work, you know I could take care of you and-“
“don’t you dare bring this up now, harry. don’t you dare.”
and like many times before, she shut him down completely. and it frustrated him to no end.
ever since harry and y/n got into a more serious stage of their relationship, he had been bringing up the topic of her financial distress, constantly. whether it was her student loans, her parents asking for money, or just regular living expenses, she was always struggling in a way, at least at first. now that she earned a decent amount though, her anxiety has seemingly doubled. she can pay for her life now but is also in constant fear of it being taken away again. she also will not let him spend a dime on her, for some reason, and it frustrated harry endlessly. he knew where she was coming from, as her explanation always danced somewhere along the lines of ‘not wanting to use him for his money’ and ‘her being able to take care of herself’. harry tried being respectful, he really did! but when he saw how her job was ripping her flesh from her bones, destroying her mental, physical and emotional wellbeing, he couldn’t help but feel agitated. she was just too proud to tell him that she needed help and it made him feel like she did not trust him. it was a topic that they had yet to work through, but harry did not feel like that would happen tonight, either.
still, with another heavy sigh to brace himself, he bravely continued.
“y/n, listen-“
“no, harry, we’ve been through this-“
“don’t fucking interrupt me, y/n! I mean, for fucks sake, look at you! look at us! you haven’t been sleeping or eating or getting a fucking break ever since you got this fucking job, and it got even worse when you got the damn promotion! your body is giving up on you, the stress is fucking you up from the inside out. and you just said that you almost had a panic attack during sex, for heaven’s sake! I’m willing to bet everything I have on your job having something to do with it. am I right?”
she fell silent and that was all he needed as confirmation.
“there we have it. you know I’m right about this.”
a few beats of silence passed.
“harry, I worked too hard for myself just to let a man take care of my finances. I don’t care how right you are, this is not something you will ever be able to change, okay? please just accept it so we can move on to work on actual problems.”
“actual problems? then what the fuck do you expect us to do?!” he shouted, “for fucks sake, y/n, look at us! if I am just ‘a man’ to you then what the hell am I even fighting for? you know I’d give my fucking life for you. I’d do fucking anything to make you happy. do you know how infuriating it is to be faced with a problem that is fixable and the only reason I can’t do anything is because you are too proud to accept some help?! this is ridiculous, fucking ridiculous.”
“this has nothing to do with my pride, harry. this is my own choice and it’s based on my own principle.” she responded as calmly as possible.
he was not calm by any means.
“principle?! what fucking principle?!” his fear turned into rage, once more. now, however, much worse than before.
“the principle of never letting anyone have that kind of power over me, especially somebody who could just up and leave whenever they please! I need to be able to support myself and that is not something I am willing to compromise.”
his rage made his eyes glow a warmer shade of green. harry didn't think it was possible to feel both crushed and furious at the same time, and yet here he was, pitifully.
“do you even trust me, y/n?” he shouted for the last time that night.
“honestly harry? right now, I’m not exactly sure I do!
and it was right at that moment that harry felt his heart snap clean in half. if he had to describe the kind of pain he felt, he would probably compare it to having the weight of a cargo ship right on his spine. and before he could give it much more thought, he did everything he could to shield and protect himself from even more pain.
so he spoke.
“then get the fuck out of my house.”
her eyes were wide. his? tired, defeated and unbelievably hurt.
did silence always feel this suffocating? she wasn’t so sure. but as she looked at him for what would be the last time that night, she could barely breathe as she spoke out three simple words in complete and utter disbelief.
“fuck you, harry.”
and so, she left.
⌁⌁⌁
3.7k, not proofread (sorry!!!), lowercase intended
SHE’S FINALLY HERE!!! i’m so very sorry for the delay but i am so, so, SO grateful for the wonderful feedback i’ve received !!! it means the world to me, truly. also, please forgive me for how short this is, but it's only because there will be a part 3 (woooo!) so you cannot off me just yet <3 anyways, I hope you’ve enjoyed it !!! and as always, feedback is greatly appreciated!
mwah ily <3
- ve
p.s.: many people have asked me to add them to a tag list, but I am honestly quite overwhelmed with the sheer amount of people who so kindly asked. its currently 3am and i don't think i have the physical capacity to tag hundreds of people under this, please forgive me. i hope those who wanted to be tagged still find this.
#harry styles blurb#harry styles one shot#harry styles fanfiction#harry styles au#harry styles drabble#harry styles angst#harry styles series#harry styles#harry styles x y/n#harry styles x reader#harry styles x you#antiodote
3K notes
·
View notes
Text
In Heat [I]
Lo'ak Sully x Fem!Omatikaya!Reader
Keep reading: Chapter II, Chapter III, Chapter IV
The rundown: You seek out Lo'ak, your best friend, in the midst of your first heat cycle. Like the good friend he is, Lo'ak eases you through it.
Warnings: 18+ content, smut, language, characters are aged up, minors do not interact!! please
WC: 5.5k
A/N: user @teyamsxawng's first fic is about lo'ak??? yeah...i have neteyam fics in the works but this was the first avatar fic i wrote so i'm pushing it out now :) i'm also really scared to post my work so please be kind lol. i have like six chapters of this fic written so far with no clear ending in sight, so expect to see more of this soon.
Your first heat was about to begin, and you tried to mentally prepare yourself for what you heard would be an excruciating experience. You had a rough idea of what your first cycle would entail–discomfort, fatigue, and a touch of humiliation–but little did you know just how much it would affect you. Bracing yourself for the onslaught, you grappled with an intensity you had never anticipated.
As you lay on your sleeping mat in the solitude of your home, you curled into a tight ball, desperately trying to cope with the nearly-unbearable pain. The sensation was comparable to harboring a living, breathing creature within you, its heartbeat sending shockwaves of agony throughout your body.
You imagined it being a tiny drummer, vigorously banging its drums in tune with your torment. Hopelessly, you squeezed your legs together, desperate for even the slightest relief amidst the immense pressure emanating from your core. Never in your wildest dreams had you expected your heat to be this intense and all-consuming, turning your routine upside down and leaving you at the mercy of your body.
Amid your futile attempts at alleviating the mounting pressure with your own untrained fingers, you realized that you had no clue what the fuck you were doing. Your anxiety levels skyrocketed as you envisioned the possibility of exacerbating your situation, fearing that you'd end up hurting yourself even more if you tried anything on your own.
With every passing moment, your mind betrayed you–compulsively circling back to the one individual you were trying to distract yourself from: Lo'ak, your best friend.
Tackling that emotional behemoth would be a mental expedition akin to scaling the Hallelujah Mountains with your eyes closed, and you lacked the cognitive stamina for such an endeavor. Regardless, the stubborn recollection of the boy proved to be relentless, a mental scratch that demanded to be itched. Memories of his ability to make your world right again resurfaced, and you couldn't help but contemplate that maybe he was the secret recipe to your current dilemma.
You couldn't deny that you were on the verge of making a catastrophically bad decision, one that would go down in your personal history book as an all-time low. However, it was as if your body had mustered all of its strength to overpower your subconscious completely, that annoying little voice of reason, and take matters into its own hands.
Before you knew it, you were on your two feet, feeling slightly wobbly but determined, run-walking out of your tent like a woman on a mission, seeking out your best friend.
You didn't even have to engage in any sort of exuberating journey to figure out where he'd be. It was as if your very soul could smell him.
His clean, robust musk seamlessly mingled with the sweet spice of his cleansing balm, creating an alluring fusion that your senses simply couldn't resist. The aroma captivated you entirely, and you found yourself drawn to him like a moth to a flame, your feet carrying your body toward the source of sensory delight.
Venturing into the forest, you kept a discreet distance from Hometree and the rest of the clanspeople, desiring solitude, with the only exception being Lo'ak.
You stumbled upon him near a shallow creek, his posture keen and attentive as he scanned the water for signs of fish darting through its depths. His back was a mesmerizing sight, his dark blue stripes tracing the outline of his sinewy, lean muscles.
So alluring was the view that you clenched your fists tightly, restraining yourself from fulfilling the irresistible urge to reach out and touch him. It was as if every fiber of your being demanded that you do so, and it took every ounce of your willpower to resist.
Against your will, an entirely embarrassing sound that was half sigh and half whimper escaped your lips. The unexpected noise caused Lo'ak to jolt in surprise, his hand swiftly reaching for the dagger at his hip as he whirled around to confront the sudden intruder.
In a fleeting moment, the anxiety etched on Lo'ak's face dissolved, replaced by mild amusement as he realized it was none other than his best friend. However, it didn't take long for his concern to resurface as he took in your bewildering appearance.
It was clear you were utterly discombobulated, a far cry from your usual poised demeanor. Your cheeks were flushed a deep purple. Your usually sleek, well-groomed hair had gone rogue, appearing as though you had either been tossing and turning in a fitful slumber or wrestling with a goddamn palulukan.
Adding to your unkempt appearance, your chest was drenched in sweat, heaving rapidly up and down as though you had just sprinted to your location yet still found yourself gasping for air. But what really captured Lo'ak's undivided attention, and sent a shiver down his spine, were your eyes.
Gone were the golden irises he knew so well, replaced by a dark hazel hue that was almost brown. Even more disconcerting, your pupils were dilated to an unnerving degree, appearing as wide as your irises themselves.
Without hesitation, Lo'ak rushed to your side and extended his arm to grasp your forearm gently. "y/n, are you good? You look kinda…"
He couldn't even bring himself to finish the sentence. The only way he could describe you was looking completely disheveled. And the sound you made earlier was definitely not something he was going to dwell on.
You blinked at Lo'ak's hand on your arm. You heaved several deep breaths, attempting to compose yourself. Opening and closing your mouth, it was evident you were wrestling with the right words to convey your thoughts. Eventually, you shook your head in defeat and covered your face with your hands, groaning loudly.
Witnessing this only served to heighten Lo'ak's concern. He furrowed his brow as he studied your condition. "y/n?" he inquired nervously, imagining the worst-case scenario.
Still shielding your face with your hands, you managed to mumble something that might've resembled a sentence. Lo'ak couldn't help but let out a snicker that briefly reverberated through his body. Regaining his composure, he tilted his head in confusion, entirely unable to decipher your garbled words. He admitted honestly, "I have no idea what you're trying to say."
You sighed in defeat. The close proximity of Lo'ak, combined with the overwhelming frustration you felt between your legs, completely overshadowed any embarrassment you may have otherwise experienced.
"I said," you started, your dark eyes fixated on Lo'ak's with an intensity he couldn't ignore, "I just started my first heat cycle." Lo'ak's eyes went wide with shock at your confession.
Of all the things he'd imagined you saying, this possibility ranked the lowest on his mental list. He found himself at a loss for words and unsure what to think or do, especially as he involuntarily pictured you in a state of undeniable sexual frustration.
In response, all he could muster was a weak "oh," his voice faltering mid-syllable, making the situation all the more awkward.
You emitted what sounded like a pained groan, your emotions threatening to overflow into tears. In a vulnerable gesture, you allowed your forehead to rest against Lo'ak's shoulder. He couldn't help but tense up in response to your warm body pressed against him.
"Lo'ak," you whispered through clenched teeth, "it hurts so bad."
Lo'ak found himself struggling for air in the tense situation. With a shaky nod, he attempted to comprehend your words and determine the next course of action. As your best friend, it shouldn't have been a shock that you sought him out during your time of need, especially when that need was your first heat cycle.
Lo'ak hesitantly cleared his throat, trying to dislodge the uneasy feeling that had taken up residence there. "Uh. Are you gonna be okay?" he asked hesitantly.
Blinking repeatedly, your eyelashes tickled Lo'ak's shoulder, causing him to shudder. Your voice was filled with uncertainty as you admitted, "I don't know. I can't… I'm scared I'll make it worse or hurt myself or…I don't know. I just need—"
Your grip on Lo'ak's arms tightened, your words trailing off. The message was clear—you had no idea what to do, and you were scared, turning to Lo'ak for solace and support.
In that instant, Lo'ak found himself filled with a sudden surge of empathy and understanding. With newfound determination, he placed his hands on your back, extending his fingers across your skin as he gently rubbed up and down.
Upon feeling his reassuring touch, you exhaled sharply, adjusting your position to bury your face in the crook of his neck. For a while, you two simply remained like that, sharing gentle caresses and the soothing sound of your uneven breaths.
At last, you found your voice amidst the silence. "Lo'ak," you whispered, your tone holding a mixture of gratitude and vulnerability.
It was barely audible, a faint whisper in the wind, yet Lo'ak caught it without any trouble, and he could undeniably sense the subtle movement of your body, inching even closer to his.
At first, Lo'ak couldn't tell whether you had done that deliberately, but then you shifted your weight further down onto his leg, nestling his left thigh snugly between your own two legs, ever so gently grazing yourself on his taut muscle.
Lo'ak had to consciously remind himself to breathe, to inhale and exhale, because there was no way that you could possibly be getting yourself off on his leg. Shamelessly. Completely unapologetic.
The physical contact must not have been enough to provide you any relief, as evidenced by the fragmented cry of aggravation that reverberated against his neck. "It's not…."
Lo'ak fully understood your sentiment, nodding his head empathetically at your frustration. "No, yeah. Here, let's just—"
He pulled away from you, or rather, he gently moved you away from himself, extracting a barely audible whimper from you. He held you delicately by the shoulders, keeping you at arm's length, and his heart plummeted at the sight of the tears that meandered down from your glassy eyes.
You were hurting and in distress, and witnessing it tore Lo'ak apart. In a flurry of motion, he reached out to cradle your face, tenderly wiping away each persistent tear with the pads of his thumbs.
You squeezed your eyes shut, cheeks burning with a mixture of embarrassment and frustration as you tried to keep your composure. His gentle touch drove you to the brink of madness. You loathed feeling so exposed and powerless, particularly in Lo'ak's presence. You took solace in the fact that, at the very least, he wasn't poking fun at you or rubbing salt in your emotional wounds. No, he was actually being kind.
In a soft voice, Lo'ak said, "C'mere," as he retreated towards an enormous tree trunk. Gently placing a hand on your wrist, he coaxed you to follow him. And in your current state of emotional upheaval, you found yourself unable to resist his pull.
Lo'ak found a comfortable spot on the forest floor, casually sitting against a tree trunk with his legs stretched out before him.
"You can sit if you want…it might be easier," he offered, attempting to hide the fact that his own face was now flushed with what could only be described as a matching shade of purple to yours. The tension of the situation was not lost on either of you.
He didn't need to tell you twice. In a move that bordered on comedic desperation, you practically threw yourself onto Lo'ak's lap, settling on his left thigh with a soft sigh. The newly adjusted position felt infinitely better than before. The direct contact sent shivers down your spine, and the pressure on your core momentarily eased as you clamped your thighs around his leg.
You were desperately chasing that tantalizing feeling, and you could hardly bring yourself to feel a hint of shame as your body instinctively pursued it.
With an almost artful finesse, you adjusted your hips to attain the perfect level of pressure on your front. You were acutely aware of the dampness that began to form on Lo'ak's thigh due to your wetness, and even though a flicker of internal mortification plagued you, you simply couldn't find it in yourself to halt your actions.
With each move, you felt Lo'ak's leg flex beneath you, inadvertently applying exquisite pressure against the sensitive nub at your front.
The sensation was nothing short of divine. It was so overwhelming that you couldn't help but let out a moan of pleasure—a sound foreign to your ears but not significant enough to make you care.
Lo'ak, on the flip side, was experiencing an entirely different world.
His senses were fully alert, allowing him to take in every sight, sound, and feeling that unfolded before him in real-time. The whole situation played out like the most incredible, wet, thrillingly vivid dream he had ever encountered.
Desperate to maintain his composure, Lo'ak clenched his hands tightly against his sides, so much so that his knuckles turned a few shades paler than their initial blue.
As he attempted to stay as collected as possible, he couldn't help but wish for some magic remedy to sort out his persistent erection. It pressed uncomfortably against his loincloth at an awkward angle as if it were mocking him.
You unexpectedly interrupted his chain of thought, your voice sounding broken and desperate.
"I'm sorry," you breathed out, your eyes clenched shut as your mouth fell open, unable to suppress another moan. "just feels so good."
Lo'ak observed you with the utmost attention, his heart clenching tightly within his chest. In a barely audible volume, he softly reassured you, "Don't apologize; it's okay. Do what you have to do."
He was confident that, despite his subdued tone, you could hear and understand him fully.
You inhaled deeply, your breath quavering as you attempted to calm yourself down. Your tongue swept across your parched lips, and you swallowed, trying to dislodge the lump in your throat. You found yourself unable to respond, yet continued experimenting with different rhythms and levels of pressure, determined to find the optimal approach to take yourself to the verge of ecstasy.
As your quest yielded fruitful results, you began better understanding your body.
With every sway of your hips, you experienced a surge of delight that coursed through your entire being. Each motion brushed your most sensitive areas against Lo'ak's narrow, muscular frame, sending chills up your spine.
You could feel your breaths growing shallower and more rapid, the warmth of your breath caressing Lo'ak's skin as your eyes remained tightly shut in indulgence. You allowed yourself to fully enjoy the moment, unabashedly taking advantage of his presence for the sake of your own pleasure.
As you continued, the tension within your abdomen stretched further and further, like a taut rubber band about to snap. Beads of sweat formed on your glistening skin, and your panting filled the air.
The overwhelming sense of pleasure threatened to pour forth, and your toes instinctively curled in response to the inevitable release building inside you. Unable to contain yourself any longer, you let out a delicate mewl while elevating the speed of your motions.
You uttered desperately, "I'm so close, Lo'…fuck. It's so much." Your voice, filled with raw emotion, dripped with anticipation.
As that blissful sensation intensified within your lower abdomen, teetering on the edge of release, Lo'ak took a deep swallow. His voice was low and throaty as he softly whispered to you, providing reassurance and encouragement, "You're okay, y/n. Just let yourself go."
His words were just what you needed, a string of curses falling from your lips as you felt your orgasm wash over and your walls clench around nothing. Your face softened with pleasure as you let out a shaky exhale, still sliding your now completely oversensitive clit across his thigh.
With a whispered sigh, Lo'ak reassured you, "Just like that, I've got you. It's okay." His hands tenderly left their perch at his sides, returning to the relative safety of your back. Gently, he stroked your soft skin, providing comfort as you descended from the peak of your intense high.
His soothing words and embrace gave you warmth from within, a sensation of security wrapping you up like a comforting blanket. You couldn't deny the feelings that Lo'ak's presence evoked in you.
At this point, one would presume you had suffered enough self-inflicted humiliation for a single day, but no.
As quickly as you bid farewell to your recent high, an insistent, throbbing ache woke anew within your deepest core. The previous experience proved a mere prequel, a teasing overture for the reverberating need you knew you just could not ignore. Your desires for touch and release cried out incessantly; Lo'ak was nestled beneath you all the while, painfully tempting—so close yet so frustratingly far.
With a gulp of determination and an unceremonious discard of any remaining semblance of pride, you peeled your eyes open, greeted by the half-lidded, entranced gaze of Lo'ak. His voice laced with curiosity; he inquired, "Is it better?"
You knitted your forehead together, desperately attempting to articulate the whirlwind of feelings that surged through you. It was a monumental challenge, one that left your mind racing with a relentless barrage of risqué thoughts involving what you desired Lo'ak to do to you.
Sighing, you muttered to yourself, "How is it still there?"
Lo'ak, on the other hand, was doing everything in his power to grasp the situation and figure out how he could alleviate your distress.
Puzzled, he inquired, "How is what still where…?"
In response, you actually hissed at Lo'ak, baring your fangs and all, unable to contain your frustration. He was so stupid. So warm and strong and pretty and stupid. You thought this as your eyes roamed over his strong, warm, and undeniably attractive figure.
"The urge, skxawng!" Your body involuntarily responded by undulating your hips against Lo'ak's leg. His eyes drifted downward for a moment to follow your movements before refocusing back on your face with concern.
You continued to explain, "The urge to be touched, I don't know why it's still there."
Suddenly, you glanced down at your own body, only then becoming aware of the rhythmic motion you had been unconsciously performing. In an effort to regain some semblance of control, you dug your fingernails into your thighs, willing your body to cease its movements.
Lo'ak grunted at the sight of you holding yourself back, the grip on your legs tight enough to cut off your circulation. Unable to stand it anymore, he pried your slender fingers from your thigh and gently took your hands in his own, much larger ones.
He tried to make eye contact with you but soon realized you were lost in your thoughts, staring intently at your lap. With a bit of patience, he finally managed to catch your dark irises when you fleetingly looked up at him.
"Okay," he began earnestly, "just tell me what I can do to make it better."
Though a bit hesitant, his voice was full of sincerity and determination.
Much to his surprise, your eyes widened even further. Shock, hope, and a dash of something else filled them all at once. He was really giving you complete freedom, entrusting himself to you to alleviate the pain of your heat.
With that, you decided to take the leap. "I want you to use your hands on me," you murmured, bringing yours and Lo'ak's intertwined hands toward your abdomen.
You watched Lo'ak's facial expressions with keen interest as you hesitantly guided his fingers to your most intimate spot. Despite the thin fabric separating his digits from your flesh, you couldn't suppress the breathy moan that escaped your lips.
"Right there," you continued, your voice trembling as you released your grasp on Lo'ak's hand. To your immense relief, his fingers didn't retreat. Instead, they maintained gentle pressure, sending pleasant tingles throughout your lower body.
Suddenly, it was as if Lo'ak had awakened from a daze. He looked up at you with curious desire evident in his eyes but still managed to convey his genuine concern.
"You're sure?" he inquired with the utmost caution, seeking all the verbal affirmation he could possibly get. No matter the circumstance, he would never let himself exploit you in such a vulnerable state.
You rolled your eyes in annoyance at Lo'ak's search for reassurance.
You couldn't help but think that Lo'ak asking for consent would be an irresistible turn-on under any other circumstance. However, given your state of urgent need, you craved immediate physical touch and control, no questions asked.
In a display of impatience, you threw your head back in exasperation, your own hand carelessly venturing beneath your loincloth to explore the fiery depths of your core.
"Please," you managed to utter, despite never being one to steep as low as begging. It was embarrassing, but that was genuinely the only word that managed to take shape in your mind amidst your overwhelming desires.
Lo'ak, finally sensing the critical nature of the situation, offered a hastened nod to the increasingly desperate girl before him. His heart pounded with exhilaration as his trembling fingers made short work of loosening your loincloth.
Captivated, his eyes were drawn to the now fully exposed treasure that lay between your legs.
Despite the circumstances, an undeniable blush spread across your cheeks, leaving you feeling more exposed than ever before.
With utmost care, Lo'ak gently guided your legs further apart. His fingers, like tendrils of affection, traced a delicate path around the contour of your knee and then traveled along the length of your inner thigh. Their journey didn't end until they arrived at your already glistening core. A single, adventurous fingertip glided gingerly along your lips before hesitantly prodding at your entrance. Your spine stiffened involuntarily, a sharp gasp emitting from your lips.
"Shit. Does it hurt?" Taken aback, Lo'ak's eyes widened as he witnessed your intense reaction—his reassuring self-assurance evaporated.
He immediately interpreted your pinched expression as a sign of hurt or discomfort. Alarmed, he became a living statue, daring not to move a muscle, his finger maintaining its intrusion of the slightest degree.
With an air of bewilderment, you stammered, "No, it's just so different," struggling to put your experience into words.
"Is that a bad thing?" His panicked gaze searched for your eyes.
Trying your best to control your emotions, you responded with a bit of a quiver in your voice, "No. No, it's really good. Keep going."
Lo'ak let out a shaky, relieved exhale, thankful that he wasn't causing you any discomfort. He proceeded with a short nod, allowing his finger to submerge into your eager embrace.
Your jaw went slack, eyes flickering in surprise, head tilting back as you reacted to the new, fuller sensation. The taut muscles in your abdomen quivered as you fought the urge to press yourself against him even further.
Lo'ak maintained a leisurely rhythm with his finger. A tender whimper escaped your lips as you adjusted to the near-overwhelming sensation, waves of undiscovered pleasure enveloping you, easing the fiery longing at your very core.
"Shh, you're okay, y/n," Lo'ak murmured softly, the hushed vibration of his words coursing through your entire body. A warmth flooded your face, and you quickly looked down, suddenly feeling feverish.
Seemingly unfazed, a second of Lo'ak's fingers joined the first, proceeding at their unhurried speed while your own hands struggled to find something to occupy, something to keep you grounded in reality.
You reached a hand out to grasp his shoulder–your grip probably bordering on painful–while your other hand covered your mouth in a hopeless bid to stifle the embarrassing sounds you kept unconsciously making.
"Oh, fuck." You mumbled, your hips twitching as his thumb grazed over your swollen clit.
An overwhelming wave of delight crashed over you, unlike anything you'd ever experienced. It built in the pit of your stomach, erupting into a continuous stream of moans that escaped from your lips while Lo'ak performed the entrancing move once again.
With one last deft stroke of Lo'ak's thumb, you reached the peak of your sensations. All you could do was mumble out an embarrassed string of apologies as you shattered around him, legs shaking, your entire body trembling from the sheer intensity of your second climax.
"No, you don't have to apologize. That's it, there you go." Lo'ak whispered above you, his hands securely gripping your hips. He watched you in a mixture of amazement and disbelief as you came undone on top of him.
In the aftermath of your unforeseen encounter, you and Lo'ak found yourselves sitting together in a tense, stunned silence.
Lo'ak's fingers remain deeply lodged inside your warmth, a vivid reminder of the unexpected turn your meeting had taken. While slowly regaining composure, Lo'ak's thoughts naturally drifted to his own throbbing predicament. He fervently attempted to push those intrusive musings aside, focusing all his mental strength (what little of it he had left) on anything else that might've provided a reprieve.
To distance his mind further from his own problem, Lo'ak mustered up the courage to break the otherwise heavy silence.
Clearing his throat awkwardly, he managed to ask, "How about now? Does, uh. Does it feel better?" His question, though well-intentioned, seemed to hang in the air, almost as if it were searching for a suitable landing spot.
Still catching your breath, you eventually acknowledged Lo'ak's efforts. With a meek nod and a quiet, "Yeah. Thank you," you did your part in attempting to lift the air of awkwardness that had befallen the two of you.
In response, Lo'ak merely mimicked your nod, his gaze drifting back to the delicate situation of his hand's continued connection with your lower half. A determined expression graced his face as he gently gripped your waist, carefully guiding his fingers free from your tight warmth.
The ridiculously obscene squelch of the movement caused you both to flush, despite everything you'd just done with each other.
As his fingers slid away, moistened with your slick, you were overtaken by a deep, almost primal desire to capture every last trace of yourself from his fingers. You felt absolutely unhinged.
Lo'ak, completely unaware of your internal struggle, stared at his own hand, held up between the two of you. His eyes widened in disbelief and amazement as he realized the impact his touch had on you.
Unsure of how to handle his newfound emotion, Lo'ak stealthily tried to wipe his hand on the lush grass beneath him, but your sudden vice-like grip stopped him.
Your eyes blazed with a mixture of desperation and wild abandon, yet you couldn't bring yourself to explain your overwhelming urge.
Instead, you gently guided Lo'ak's hand close to your face and took two of his soaked digits into your mouth. A soft moan escaped your lips as you savored the taste, feeling the fullness of his fingers as they filled your mouth.
You hastened your efforts in cleaning them, the graceful movement of your lips against his skin bringing you a sense of intense warmth and satisfaction as the previously overwhelming sensations within you began to subside. Finally, you released his hand, but not before planting a series of tender licks across his fingertips, ensuring that nothing remained.
As you finally met Lo'ak's eyes, you became painfully aware of the fact that you had just come on your best friend (twice).
Not only that, but you had to go and make matters even worse by practically worshiping his fingers with your mouth. The heat in your cheeks intensified as you gingerly placed Lo'ak's hand back in his lap.
With a desperate need to refocus your attention, you quickly averted your eyes from the boy to avoid being tempted by any further impulsive behavior. You busied your fingers with the painstaking task of reattaching your undone loincloth, double knotting the ties as if that would erase the memory of your exposed lower half from Lo'ak's mind.
Managing only to utter a brief "Sorry," you could sense the tension in the air. It was almost palpable.
Lo'ak, however, responded with a calming and reassuring deep voice, "You don't have to apologize."
You snorted inwardly at the thought that that was at least the third time he had said some variation of those very words to you in the last ten minutes alone.
You offered a subtle nod, unable to bring yourself to look at, speak to, or even touch your friend at that moment.
In a sudden, jerky movement, you disentangled yourself from his leg. You planted yourself on the forest floor, sitting against the same tree trunk that supported Lo'ak.
You couldn't help but glance back at his thigh, noticing the glistening evidence of your prior proximity. Your heart must have stopped beating for a good few seconds. You squeezed your eyes shut, mentally chanting a string of curses in a bid to cope with the irrepressible embarrassment that swept through your body.
The tense silence that ensued felt like an eternity, each moment stretching out painfully while the muted sounds of the Pandoran forest hummed in the background. Your mind raced, desperately trying to come up with an escape plan.
You really, really needed to leave. Like, yesterday. But you were still firmly rooted in your spot, too terrified to move even a muscle.
Then, without warning, the quiet was shattered by the violent rustling of leaves nearby. As if summoned by your wishful thinking, Neteyam appeared through the greenery. He wore an exasperated expression upon seeing you and his brother sitting together against the tree.
"Lo'ak! Dad sent you to fetch a single fish thirty minutes ago! What are you doing?!"
Neteyam's patience was wearing thin as he grabbed his brother by the arm, dragging him to his feet, his eyes probing for a reasonable explanation.
"Shit, bro. I'm sorry! I was fishing, I swear. But then I ran into y/n, and…" Lo'ak's voice trailed off, his eyes darting toward you as he recalled the events that transpired during your brief encounter. "…she just needed my help for a minute. It was really important."
Neteyam exhaled loudly in frustration, clearly annoyed at his brother's excuse. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, gathering his composure, and then fixed his glare upon Lo'ak, followed by you.
His eyes narrowed as he scrutinized you both, sporting matching blushes and attempting to maintain nonchalant expressions. Neteyam knew you two all too well; you were always getting into some kind of mischief together.
But today, he decided, he could spare you the grilling session. With an exaggerated shake of his head, he urged Lo'ak toward the direction of the creek, giving the back of his brother's head a not-so-gentle nudge as he passed by.
"A single fish," Neteyam mumbled, running a hand over his braids in disbelief as he glared at his brother.
You sensed that your chance for a getaway had finally arrived–it was now or never.
Your muscles tensed, eager to lengthen the gap between yourself and Lo'ak (or any other living being within your vicinity, for that matter). You sprung to your feet and hastily ran your fingers through your tousled hair, attempting to tame its disarray. You smoothed your top and made sure that your loincloth was properly adjusted.
"I should get going," you stammered, trying to swallow your nervousness. "I have some…um…chores I need to finish."
Both boys turned their attention toward you, with Neteyam giving you an amicable nod while donning a warm smile. Lo'ak, for his part, offered you a tender smile of his own, causing you to stifle the shy grin that threatened to conquer your entire countenance.
As you stood there, poised for your great escape, you were reminded of the delicacy and reassurance that radiated from Lo'ak just a few minutes prior.
Lo'ak, typically the embodiment of immaturity—a foolhardy best friend in the purest sense—managed to make your heart flutter with his tender warmth, nurturing you through your dire ordeal. He took care of you, offered praises and soothing words, and fuck. You wanted it again and again.
Abruptly, you snapped out of your daydream, realizing you were meandering down a dangerous tangent. You shook your head, as though physically trying to jolt your mind back into reality.
"Thanks, Lo'ak," you managed gratefully, making eye contact with him for just a bit longer than was probably necessary. "I mean it. For helping me."
Lo'ak, seemingly caught off-guard by your intense gaze, replied with a faint but earnest, "Course."
All the while, Neteyam couldn't help but furrow his brows at your peculiar exchange, very much aware of the odd dynamic between you two.
Sensing the need to move forward, Lo'ak immediately added, "Let me know if I can help you again."
Blushing at the implication, you nodded your head vigorously, fully aware that a similar scenario might very well arise in the future.
You offered a hasty wave to the two brothers before you spun around and embarked on your journey back to your home, navigating the wild landscape, distractedly ducking under low-hanging branches and batting away intrusive leaves.
There was no way you were making it through your first heat cycle alive.
Keep reading: Chapter II, Chapter III, Chapter IV
#teyamskxawng#teyamskxawng’s fics#lo'ak x reader#lo’ak x reader#lo’ak smut#lo'ak smut#avatar the way of water#avatar#atwow#lo'ak x y/n#lo’ak x y/n#lo'ak sully#avatar 2022#lo'ak fanfiction#james cameron avatar#avatar fanfiction#lo’ak
625 notes
·
View notes
Text
“Age doesn’t matter” 10
Dad!Bakugo x F!Babysitter!Teacher!Reader
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16
Days have passed and you're finally discharged from the hospital. You were happy of course, especially when you remembered what Katsuki offered you.
"What I'm trying to say. No one will take care of Kazui. I can't always rely on my parents. My friends are heroes as well. Since you mentioned you used to be a babysitter. I would like to hire you."
You looked at him surprised once again. Are you in heaven? Are sure you're still alive?
“M-me?” Y/n stutters placing a shaking hand on her chest.
“The fuck am I talking to.” Katsuki rolled his eyes. Are you really even a teacher? “I don't need to repeat myself. If you fucking reject it, it's fine.”
“N-no! I was just surprised!” Y/n immediately shut Katsuki. “I-i was just surprised, honestly.” Finally, Y/n smiled. “I didn't expect you to say that. It makes my heart melt. I’m happy.”
After that day, Katsuki dropped you off at your apartment. He’s been stopping by to visit you at the hospital after his shift which you don't mind. But you often think you were bothering him which he says you're not.
Now here you are getting ready to leave your apartment to babysit Kazui.
Y/n grabbed her keys from the counter and left, securing the door behind her. Better safe than sorry is what they say.
It's a good day for her. Of course, you were trying to ignore the new insecurities. You kept reminding yourself that the scars you got were a sign of your boldness.
Yes yes.
A soft smile appeared on your lips. Bravery isn't something you should be insecure about. You were even glad you protected Kazui. Not an ounce of regret you were feeling. So you took a step towards your destination only to realize Katsuki didn't give you their address.
Great.
Y/n mentally smack herself. How could she forget to ask for the address? So much for being confident.
Y/n grabs her phone from her bag deciding to call Katsuki. Boy, she was glad she had his number due to school purposes. While standing a few meters away from her apartment, she clicked the call button and placed her phone in her ear waiting.
..
It just so happens that it's Katsuki's day off.
Due to exhaustion, Katsuki overslept which we all know is pretty rare. So, when he realized this, he panicked and rapidly stumbled out of his bed reaching for his phone. But as soon as he saw what day it was. He relaxed while on the carpeted floor.
Katsuki still decided to get up though. Slowly, he got off the floor and stretched, snapping a few bones, and stepped out of his bedroom, not even bothering to pick up his thick shroud nor fix his bed.
“Kazui? Are you awake?” Katsuki shouted as he made his way to his son’s bedroom.
He quietly flares the door open only to see a sleeping Kazui, snuggling comfortably on his bed. The sight made Katsuki smile. He was glad Kazui was okay. His treasure. Even though sometimes Kazui can be a brat, he loves him more than he even loves himself. More than he loves his job. His barefoot quietly made contact with the floor as he walked closer to Kazui. Carefully, he bent down kissing Kazui's forehead making him squirm but went back to sleep.
After this, Katsuki left Kazui’s bedroom and made his way to his kitchen. Now that he’s fully awake, he needs breakfast. He was scratching his head as he strides down the stairs, yawning a bit. Once he reached the kitchen, he placed his phone on the countertop and reached for the refrigerator handle only to get interrupted by his phone ringing.
It’s too fucking early for a phone call, unless it’s his company finally realizing they needed his guidance on some work issue. Probably? Who would even call this early anyway. Groaning, he reached for his phone and took a closer look to check who was the caller. Almost instantly, he picked it up.
“Good morning, Bakugo-san.”
God. Hearing your voice early in the morning sends a shiver down his spines. Not that kind of shiver you perverts.
“The hell I said about formalities, hah?” Katsuki said ignoring that his voice is still raspy.
“O-oh! I’m sorry. I forgot, haha.”
Fuck, was he in heaven right now? Unconsciously, Katsuki lips turned into a small smile. “The hell do you want this early.”
“W-well.” Why the hell are you even stuttering? Hell you can even defeat Izuku stuttering, “I kinda forgot to ask for your address..”
Oh yeah, now that you mentioned it, you’ll babysit Kazui today. “I’ll message it to you.” Katsuki simply said.
“Thank you, Bakugo!”
He can hear the happiness in your voice. Weird.
“Can’t pick you up. No one will watch over Kazui.” Katsuki mumbled finally reaching for the refrigerator handle and pulling it open to check the contents inside.
“You don’t have to! I can get there on my own!”
“I’ll be waiting then.”
“See you!”
When the call ended, Katsuki was staring blanky in the fridge. Why the fuck he said he’ll be waiting? He groaned out loud this time. Why the hell is he sounding desperate? Is he desperate? Oh, hell nah.
..
Eijiro was glad he was off duty as well. That means he can visit Kazui and spend time with him. But his main priority right now is to find the location an intel told him.
Location where Katsuki’s ex-wife is.
Just thinking about this made his blood boil. Of course, he’ll never hurt a woman. It wouldn’t be very manly of him. But this one made him want to be unmanly.
Fists inside his pocket, he reached the said location. Eijiro was standing in front of a huge house, face staring blankly at it.
It’s now or never.
Eijiro gradually made his way to the front door. He took a deep breath and rang the doorbell. Few seconds only passed when the door opened. His eyes hardened when he laid his eyes on her.
“I’ll join you in a minute babe!” She was giggling. But stopped when she saw who it was.
“K-kirishima.”
Eijiro didn’t say anything. He was staring at her intently.
“H-how did you-
“I came here to give you this.” His voice was low, so very not like his usual tone handing her a bunch of documents.
“What’s this?” she asked curiously as she raised a shaking hand and reached for the documents from his grasp.
“Discover it yourself.” Eijiro glared.
Gulping. She shakingly flipped the folder open in her hands and read its content.
A divorce paper with Katsuki’s name in it but without his signature, whilst the next paper was a warrant of arrest for abandoning Katsuki and Kazui.
“Ms. *, you are under arrest for abandoning your child.”
A sudden sound of a police automobile was heard making her panic.
“N-no.” She plead. “No! Please!!”
“The court will deal with you.” Eijiro left the scene as soon as the police arrived and dealt with her.
It was wrong that Katsuki didn’t know about this, but he’ll do anything for his buddy and his nephew.
“You’re free, Katsuki.” Eijiro mumled as he disappeared from the scene.
..
Meanwhile, while cooking breakfast, Katsuki suddenly felt a huge weight disappear from his chest.
#bnha bakugo katsuki#mha bakugou#bakugou x reader#bnha bakugou#bakugou katsuki#katsuki bakugo mha#katsuki bakugo x reader#bakugo x you
671 notes
·
View notes
Text
Comet Donati [Chapter 6: No Control]
Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.
Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), drugs, alcohol, smoking, mental health struggles, all-you-can-eat sushi, bodily injury, violence, hungry deer, Selena Gomez, angst!!!
Selected Chapter Quote: “He can’t see on that side, you fucking snake!”
Word count: 9k.
Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.
Taglist: @doingfondue @catalina-howard @randomdragonfires @myspotofcraziness @arcielee @fan-goddess @talesofoldandnew @marvelescvpe @tinykryptonitewerewolf @mariahossain @chainsawsangel @darkenchantress @not-a-glad-gladiator @gemini-mama @trifoliumviridi @herfantasyworldd @babyblue711 @namelesslosers @thelittleswanao3 @daenysx @moonlightfoxx @libroparaiso @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @mizfortuna @florent1s @heimtathurs @bhanclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @heavenly1927 @mariahossain @echos-muses @padfooteyes @minttea07 @queenofshinigamis @juliavilu1 @amiraisgoingthruit @lauraneedstochill @wintrr13 @r0segard3n
Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! 💜
Your last day waking up in Singapore: lying in bed and watching the shadows of birds shoot across the ceiling like falling stars. Your wrist aches in its splint. The door to the balcony is wide open. The wind blows in hot and damp off the South China Sea. You hear him before you see him: the swipe of a keycard, the swinging of the door, the clop clop clop of undoubtedly neon Crocs against the hardwood floor.
You look over at him, not moving from the bed. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Then Aegon notices something in the tiny trashcan beside your nightstand that’s cluttered with souvenirs. Nestled between empty soda cans and Starburst wrappers is a mostly full pack of birth control pills. He stares at it for a while before he says, tentatively: “Trying for a little bundle of joy? With anyone I know?”
“Definitely not.” You sigh, turning back to the ceiling, morose. “Baela and I did 23AndMe like a month ago, and we just got our results back. She’s distantly related to royalty. I have a defective gene that makes me extra susceptible to blood clots. So if I take hormonal birth control I could have a stroke or something.”
“Damn, that sucks,” Aegon says.
“Yeah.”
“But it’s good you found out, you know? I wouldn’t want you dropping over dead.”
“Yeah,” you say again, flatly, ungenerously.
“Hey, no big deal, Stargirl. You know I’d use condoms anyway.”
“Well I might at some point in my life want to have sex with someone who’s not you, so.”
Aegon steps closer; he appears upside down as he studies you from above, sunburned forehead knit into thoughtful grooves, smelling like Tiger Beer and Axe body spray and…you think…chicken wings. His hair is in disarray, his aviator sunglasses tangled in blond knots. He’s wearing a lavender tank top, like dusk, like a bruise. “Ohhhh, I get it. This is an Aemond and Shelby thing.”
You hate that you’re so transparent, like a window wiped clean of fog and fingerprints. You hate that he’s right. “Why are they even together? What the hell do they have in common?”
“Now or before?”
“Both, I guess.”
“Well, before…” Aegon scratches at his cheek. There is a bug bite there, a tiny pink welt left by the venom of a mosquito or a spider. “It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. Aemond got the satisfaction of boning the kind of girl who would have screamed if he touched her back in high school. Shelby got a massive career boost. She had 900,000 Instagram followers when they met. Now she has over 20 million.”
That recurring, futile refrain: I hate her, I hate her, I hate her.
“And I won’t lie. They had some good times.” Aegon grins down at you. “Just like we did.”
“What about now?”
“Now…” Aegon ponders this. “Now I think they’re both lost. Neither of them knows what comes next. Aemond leaving Comet. Shelby hitting that age when people like her start checking off the husband and kids boxes. When you’re thrown off a ship, you cling to the life raft, even if it’s small or ripped up or half-deflated or whatever, right? You try to hold on to what you have left. You return to what’s familiar. And that doesn’t make it right, but it’s what people do.”
“It is,” you agree mournfully. “So Aemond was the one who broke it off.”
“Yeah.”
“And then he took her back.” She called and called and called, he finally answered.
“He had a moment of weakness. Now we all have to live with it.”
“I didn’t know that.” Then you sit up on the bed and look at Aegon. “When the label wanted to get rid of Aemond, why didn’t you fight for him?”
“That’s just the way of the world, Stargirl.” He shrugs, an inevitability, good weather, bad weather, sun and clouds and storms. “He couldn’t stay in the band the way he is now. And the problem isn’t what he looks like. The problem is in his soul. But I have no idea how to fix it.” Aegon smiles, warm like summer. “I thought maybe you would. That’s why I called you.”
“You didn’t even know me,” you tell him. “I was just some girl from a bar.”
“No,” Aegon says softly, and he does not elaborate. And then, bright and cheerful again: “You’re really going to earn your paycheck at our next stop.”
“Where are we going?” You recall the names you’ve heard bouncing around since Comet arrived in East Asia, the cities you’ve seen on banners and t-shirts and Instagram posts. “Bangkok? Kuala Lumpur? Manila? Jakarta? Seoul?”
“Tokyo.” Aegon is still smiling, though in an off-kilter way now, uneasily, his murky ocean-blue eyes somber. The scene of the crime. Where the accident happened. Where Aemond believes his life ended. “We’re performing at the Budokan.”
~~~~~~~~~~
White clouds turn to sapphire waves, then emerald green fields and forests, then buildings in a million different shades of grey that stretch on forever, steel and concrete and asphalt and glass. Tokyo is the largest city you’ve ever seen, the largest city imaginable. It is a labyrinth that makes you think of the hay mazes that farms back home set up each autumn; it beckons you in and then dares you to leave.
As the band hurries through Haneda Airport, you are pursued by paparazzi and hyperventilating fans. The usual suspects—Aegon, Daeron, and Jace—can be relied upon to high five, smile, flash peace signs and hand hearts, blow kisses, pass out crochet astronomical objects, and shout such endearments as (woefully mispronounced) “Konnichiwa!” and “We love you, Japan!” Shelby waves like she’s goddamn Princess Diana. Aemond bows his head, his eyes enigmatic behind his sunglasses, his steps swift. Luke holds Rhaena’s hand; Baela walks with them. You hide behind Cregan. He casts quite a large shadow.
“I look real rock and roll now,” you joke, gesturing with your splinted arm.
Cregan replies in his rumbly subterranean voice: “I think I have you beat.” He pulls up one of his sleeves—floral print, silk, Valentino—and shows you the underside of his right forearm. Bisecting the flesh from his wrist to the crook of his elbow is a long, faint, moon-white scar that you’ve never noticed before, never even heard anyone mention.
“Oh, ouch! You broke it?”
“Compound fracture.” He covers his forearm again with his sleeve.
“When? How?”
Cregan hesitates. Suddenly, he no longer wants to be having this conversation. “Years ago.”
Just outside the airport waits that trusty fleet of black, tinted-window Escalades; but Aemond has requested that his 1960 Gold Star be there too. He takes his keys, helmet, and jacket from one of Comet’s hulking security guards. Shelby’s detail is notably more subdued since that night in Singapore; the man who dislocated your wrist has been exiled from the tour. Aemond climbs onto his motorcycle and starts the engine. The sound takes you back to Rome: when your hopes and spirits were high, when you and Aemond were still living on the light side of the moon.
“You in the mood for a ride, Shelby?” Aegon asks, smirking unkindly, taunting, chomping loudly on cotton candy flavored Bubble Yum. “Don’t forget your helmet. We’d all be lost without you.”
Shelby combs out her beachy blond waves with her artful fingers, tan, reedy, nails turquoise and adorned with golden koi fish. “You’re psychotic if you think I’m getting on that bike.”
“Jesus,” Jace mutters. He is as shocked as anyone by his abrupt demotion to only the second most villainous person in Comet’s retinue.
Aemond doesn’t react, doesn’t say anything to Shelby, doesn’t even look at her. But he does glance over at you. And the words rise in your throat like a burning sun at dawn: I’ll go, I’d love to go, I trust you, I want you. But before you can say anything, Aemond has knocked the kickstand out of the way and is weaving through thick afternoon traffic towards the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. And as the Escalades roll and the band chats around you—indistinctly, abstractedly—you keep staring out the window and searching for glimpses of Aemond like the rare flash of a meteor in a city sky; but you can’t find him.
Criston knows he’s brought Comet to dangerous ground, peppered with quagmires and landmines. So he has planned a ruthlessly hectic itinerary. As soon as you’ve received your room key and unpacked, it’s time for dinner at an all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant down the street. Criston herds the band there like the rugged Australian cattle dogs that your parents have back in Kansas City nip at the heels of snorting, intractable Black Angus bulls. You sit between Baela and Aegon, who is wearing his neon green tank top, matching Crocs (per usual), and khaki cargo shorts. He’s also gulping sake bombs until they dribble down his sunburned face. Countless varieties of sushi and side dishes rotate by on a conveyer belt, colorful little plates waiting to be snatched up: salmon, tuna, eel, octopus, shrimp, miniature omelets, fried tofu, Wagyu beef, squid, yellowtail, veggie rolls, chicken and pork dumplings, seaweed salad.
“You okay over there?” Aegon asks, grinning as he watches you stab at your eel sushi, topped with some kind of mayo-like sauce and delicious but tragically challenging to eat.
“I didn’t know how to use chopsticks before my dominant hand was put out of commission.” You glare down the row at Shelby. She glowers back. Since that night in Singapore, you circle each other like snarling undomesticated animals, wolves or coyotes. Now you’re on her radar. Now she knows there is something—that mysterious, ever-shifting, worrying something—between you and Aemond. She just doesn’t know what it is. Neither do you, neither does he, neither does anyone.
“Want me to feed you?” Aegon slurs flirtatiously. He plucks up a piece of your eel sushi with his chopsticks and promptly drops it in your lap. “Oh. Fuck.”
Baela presses the button on the counter to summon the server. “I’ll get you a fork.”
“You are a saint,” you tell her. “Patron saint of initiative. Or drive, whichever you prefer the sound of.” Aegon is mayhem, Aemond is lost causes. What am I?
“And you are an uncultured hick from Kansas.”
You smile at her. “Missouri.”
Your fork soon arrives. A few seats down the row, you hear Shelby ask innocently, like it doesn’t mean anything: “How old is Louis Tomlinson’s son now?”
Aemond shrugs. He’s watching the conveyor belt for vegan options; he keeps missing them when they pass by. “I don’t know, five?”
“No, Freddie?!” Luke says. “He’s gotta be like seven now. We saw him last summer at Niall’s pool party.”
“He was so cute,” Shelby says. She’s sitting on Aemond’s good side, as always. She rubs his back and you fight the urge to break her fingers one by one, snapping them in half like dry autumn twigs, lifeless and hollow. “Wasn’t he cute, honeybunch?”
“Sure,” Aemond replies distractedly. And of course Shelby is the type of person who believes that becoming a father will heal a man, rather than just dooming his children to be collateral damage.
Aegon peeks over the conveyer belt at the chefs who are preparing plates in the middle. He lurches and wobbles. Criston covers his own face with his hands, mortified. “Hey, hey, can I get a Crab Rangoon please?”
A chef says something in Japanese, soft and polite but clearly imploring him to sit back down.
Aegon repeats slowly: “Crab! Rangooooooon!”
“Hey dumbass,” Jace says. “That’s Chinese. We’re in Japan.”
“Oh. Right.” Aegon sighs, retreats, and orders himself another sake bomb.
You grab a plate of veggie rolls and another of fried tofu sushi off the conveyer belt and pass them down the row to Aemond. Shelby sends you the most venomous of glares, but Aemond mouths when she’s not paying attention: Thank you.
~~~~~~~~~~
Two shows in Tokyo, two performances on the stage where Aemond was mutilated. Of course, you don’t see mutilation when you look at him. You never have. You see the way the light hits the angles of his jaw and nose and cheekbones and think of marble faces in museums, generals, kings, saints, angels. You see the crystalline blue of his right eye and think of rivers, cool and rushing and clean. You see the ethereal haze of his left eye and think of other planets. You don’t know why everyone else reads his scar and blindness as a tale of unspeakable ruin. You can’t imagine seeing Aemond that way. It would be easier, less painful, simpler for you if you could. Maybe you could stop wanting him. Maybe you could stop dreaming about him, wisps of longing and memory that escape you as soon as you wake.
Aemond does not attend Comet’s concerts at the Budokan. They’re the only ones you’ve ever known him to miss. He rides out on his Gold Star instead, and then reappears to join the band for their post-show ritual in Jace’s suite, grim and quiet and scribbling in his black-paged notebook, smoking his cigarettes, sipping his Brambles. You cannot blame Aemond. You weren’t here last December when a piece of rigging collapsed during soundcheck and nearly killed him, and yet you can’t stop thinking about it; you can’t stop yourself from glancing up at the rafters during shows, wondering exactly how it happened, picturing Aemond bloody and unconscious on the stage, half-blinded and robbed without knowing it yet.
Tomorrow night is Comet Donati’s final performance in Tokyo, but today Criston has a day trip planned. He has filled every spare second of this tour stop with distractions. The band travels by bullet train (or shinkansen) and then local railways to Nara, the city that served as Japan’s capital in the 700s. Criston hires a tour guide—an 80-year old man called Toru-san, who possesses an incalculable amount of knowledge and also a very, very thick accent—to lead you all around Nara Park to see Isuien Garden, the Kasuga Taisha Shrine, the Nara National Museum, and finally the Great Buddha. Nara Park is full of food and souvenir vendors, as well as 1,200 sika deer that you can pet and feed, albeit at risk of being trampled by overenthusiastic herbivores. There are signs posted with warnings to exercise caution, complete with cartoon illustrations of deer gone rogue.
It’s 95 degrees outside with 80% humidity. You are drenched with sweat and guzzling boba tea. The handle of your bag from a gift shop is slung over your splint. Toru-san, despite his long pants and cardigan sweater, is looking spry as ever and is deep in conversation with Luke and Rhaena; he is regaling them with a bottomless well of Nara trivia. Cregan and Daeron are still browsing through gift shops, mostly for the opportunity to escape the heat and hover, sighing with relief, in front of every electric fan they come across. Aegon, lobster-level red—you aren’t sure if he’s more sunburned or flushed—is snoring under a tree as deer nibble at his cyan tank top and white cargo shorts. Aemond purchased probably $200 worth of deer crackers and has attracted a sizeable crowd of furry new friends. He’s like he always is around animals: beaming, immersed, at peace. Shelby is capturing pictures and video clips of him from a distance.
Nearby where you stand under the shade of a black pine tree, Baela is dressed in a crop top and yoga pants and stretching in the middle of a patch of grass. She keeps having to stop to shove deer away from her as they tiptoe close, searching for snacks. Jace is using Google Translate to flirt with a crowd of Japanese fangirls who have recognized him. They are giggling so loudly you can hear them from across a field. Baela is trying to ignore this. She falls out of a pose and sighs irritably, then walks over to you. Together, you watch Jace for a while, you slurping on your boba tea, Baela frowning with her hands on her willowy waist.
At last, she says: “Sometimes we love people who we know don’t deserve it. But that doesn’t make us love them any less. We just hate ourselves for not being stronger.”
“I think you’re incredibly strong, Baela.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. Strong enough to leave him. Strong enough to begin living your own life again.”
Her expression is suddenly uncharacteristically vulnerable, fearful. “I don’t know if I can do it. I’ve never been an adult without him.”
“You’d figure it out. And you wouldn’t be alone. You’d have Rhaena, and Luke, and ballet, and all your friends and family—”
“And you too, right?” she asks. “You’ll still be my friend? Even after you go back home?”
You are stunned into a silence that Baela first mistakes for rejection. Her face falls. “No no no, I’m not hesitating, you just caught me by surprise. Of course I’ll still be your friend after the tour is over. I’ll be your friend forever.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“And you’ll visit me in prison if I snap one day and throw Jace into a meatgrinder?”
You laugh and hug her, your sweat dampening each other’s clothes: her orange crop top, your Backstreet Boys t-shirt. “Absolutely. For sure.”
“Okay. I gotta go practice some more.” She spends long hours down in the hotel gym while everyone else is sleeping or partying or preparing for shows, running and stretching and yoga and repeating the same dance routines over and over again. You applaud and whistle as she leaves. “Stop,” Baela complains, but she’s grinning.
You procure another boba tea. You find a nice shady spot on a bench. You check your phone; there’s maybe fifteen more minutes until the band is scheduled to leave for the train station to begin the journey back to Tokyo. Naturally, Criston has dinner already planned: kaiseki ryori, a traditional multi-course meal. You wonder if there will be vegan options for Aemond. Your eyes drift back to him. They always seem to. He’s dragging his palm down the face of a ten-point buck as he feeds him a crumbling brown cracker. There’s a fawn curled up in Aemond’s lap. His blond hair is slicked back off his forehead, his black shirt mostly unbuttoned. Sweat gleams on his chest. Your fingertips ache to draw sloping lines and lazy circles in it.
“I never worried about him,” Criston says. He’s appeared beside you, arms crossed guardedly. You move over so there’s room for Criston on the bench. He sits, distant and troubled. “I always worried about the others. Aegon and Jace especially. But not Aemond.”
“Because he never needed you,” you say quietly.
“He didn’t,” Criston agrees. “And so I wasn’t there to protect him that day.”
The day of the accident. “From what I understand, it wasn’t something you could have prevented.”
“No, I couldn’t have stopped that piece of rigging from falling. But I could have made it so he wasn’t standing under it.”
You wait for Criston to explain. That’s an element that people often underestimate: the power of waiting for someone to be ready.
“It was soundcheck,” Criston says. His voice is strained, hushed. He repeatedly touches the stubble of his beard, a nervous habit. “Aemond was on time, as always. Aemond was exactly where he was supposed to be. But no one else was. Aegon and Jace had gone off to a strip club or a burlesque show or something, I don’t remember. They came back to the hotel and were absolutely hammered, they were crawling around on the hallway floor and puking in corners, laughing hysterically, completely out of their minds. Cregan and Luke were there trying to get them cleaned up. I was on the phone with Cregan, he was pissed, probably the most angry I’ve ever heard him, he kept pausing to yell at Aegon. He’d dragged him into a cold shower, but Aegon was fighting, trying to bite and kick him and whatever the hell else. So eventually I decided to go to the hotel and deal with it. Aemond offered to go with me. I told him no, you stay here, I’ll bring the other four even if I have to get the security guys to toss Aegon and Jace over their shoulders and carry them. Then I left.”
“And that’s when it happened,” you realize. “While you were gone.”
“Yes,” Criston says. And he gazes across Nara Park, here in body but his mind trapped in the maze of the past.
“You had no way of knowing what would happen, Criston. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I should have told him to come with me back to the hotel. Or I should have stopped Aegon and Jace from getting wasted. If they’d been on time, if soundcheck had happened as scheduled, no one would have been standing where that piece of rigging fell. Aemond would still be the leader of Comet. He would still have his face, his sight, his life.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you say again.
“Alicent blames me,” he confesses. And you only know who she is because you’ve asked Aegon: the wife of Viserys Targaryen, the mother of his three sons. “She’ll never forgive me.”
Is that really why she avoids you, Criston? Or is there another reason? “If that’s true, it’s only because she’s feeling a lot of horrible things—grief, pain, regret, guilt—and she’s directing them at you. You haven’t earned them. You’re just the person standing in the line of fire. They’re a reflection of Alicent’s inner turmoil, not of your own worth. I think you’ve done a phenomenal job trying to keep this band safe and happy. And I know it’s not easy. I know it’s damn near impossible.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, looking at you with large, dark, truthful eyes like a dog’s.
And you imagine a world in which you’d never seen Aegon after that night in Kansas City, never met Aemond, Baela, Rhaena, Luke, Cregan, Daeron, Criston. “I’m glad I’m here too.”
Criston reaches over and—for a moment, so briefly you could have imagined it—rests his hand on your shoulder like he sometimes does to Aemond and Luke. Then he leaves to collect Cregan and Daeron from a shaved ice vendor. Shelby has strolled over to consult with Toru-san, presumably so she can add his trivia to her Instagram posts and TikTok videos. You go to Aemond.
“I have a confession to make,” he says solemnly as you approach.
The oxygen vanishes from your lungs; you try to hide this. “What is it?”
Aemond smiles up at you. “When the tour guide was leading us here, I thought he kept saying that the park was full of bears. And I didn’t want to kill the mood or anything, but I was definitely concerned about going on a field trip to feed over 1,000 uncaged bears. I am very, very relieved that he was in fact saying deer.”
You chuckle and sit next to Aemond on the grass, petting the fawn in his lap. It blinks sleepily at you, its fur soft and spotted, its ears pricked up and curious.
“What’s your souvenir for this stop of the tour?” Aemond asks.
You pull it out of your bag to show him: a small stuffed sika deer complete with floppy felt antlers. “Isn’t it adorable?”
“It is,” he says. “Are you going to have room for all these keepsakes in your apartment back home?”
“Already fantasizing about me leaving, huh?”
“No,” Aemond says, seriously now. Deadly serious. “No, I’m not.” And then Criston is shouting through cupped hands for everybody to huddle up so you can all head to the train station.
It’s not until the band is trekking out of Nara Park towards the blissful promise of air conditioning that you realize someone is missing. When you look around, you see Criston, Aemond, Shelby, Aegon (rubbing his eyes and yawning), Baela, Jace, Rhaena, Luke, Cregan, and a smattering of security guards dressed in black.
“Wait,” you say. “Where’s Daeron?”
A chorus of confusion: “What?” Huh?” “He’s not here?” At last, Criston spies him sitting alone on a wooden park bench, glumly eating through his mountain of shaved ice.
“What the hell is he doing?!” Jace says impatiently, swiping perspiration from his forehead.
Aegon massages your shoulders. “I think this might call for your particular area of expertise, Stargirl.” And when Aemond’s eye flicks to Aegon fleetingly, resentfully, you think for the first time: And where were you, Aegon, when Aemond was waiting all those months ago? Whoring, drinking, self-destructing in ways that take other people down with you? Then you leave him.
Through the heat that lays thick over the city like a tangle of vines, you trudge to the bench where the youngest Targaryen brother is lingering. “Daeron? What’s wrong?”
He stares gloomily down into his shaved ice: blood-colored, strawberry, ichigo. “Everyone thinks I’m always joking and optimistic, but I’m not.”
You ask gently: “What are you really, Daeron?”
“I don’t know what to be. That’s the problem. I worry about it all the time. I can’t win. If I’m sad, then I’m ungrateful for this tremendous opportunity. But if I’m happy, it’s like I’m dancing on Aemond’s grave.”
“He’s not dead, Daeron,” you say.
“Well, yeah, obviously.”
“But a lot of the time people talk about him like he is. You speak around him, over him, through him. Do you think he doesn’t notice?” Do you think he can’t feel the weight of that dark gravity that roots him to the earth? Do you think he can disentangle who he is from the wreckage that has buried its shrapnel in his bones?
Daeron isn’t insulted by what you’ve said. Instead, he seems fascinated. He seems grateful, like you’ve sat down to help him with an especially baffling puzzle. “What would he want from us, do you think?”
“I think he wants to know that his time in Comet wasn’t wasted. That even if he leaves, he will still be a part of this family. I think he wants to be acknowledged. He doesn’t want pity or awkward silences, he doesn’t want to pretend that the accident never happened. He wants to know that his life will go on in spite of it.”
Daeron ruminates on this, taking a bite of his towering mound of shaved ice. “If I said something about him at the last Tokyo show tomorrow, do you think he’d mind? I’ve had this idea for a while, but I didn’t know how he’d take it.”
“That depends on what you say.”
Daeron asks, peering up at you with large pale eyes: more translucent than Aegon’s, more harmless than Aemond’s. He has been shown more kindness than either of them; he is perhaps less deep, less singularly brilliant, but also less burdened. It is a trade many would happily agree to. It is a trade they would pay for in blood. “What should I say?”
You smile at Daeron. “The truth.”
~~~~~~~~~~
“I’d like to take a moment to share something with all of you,” Daeron says into his microphone as soon as Comet finishes The Worst Way To Be. The audience lowers their cheers to a reverent, intensely attentive murmur.
“Wait, what?” Baela whispers to you and Rhaena as you stand in the front row. Shelby, who had been looking rather bored, whips out her phone and begins a live stream. Aegon, Jace, Luke, and Cregan are upbeat and beaming—as is expected of them, as is required—but they pass each other nervous glances like folded paper notes in a high school classroom. This is not in the script.
“I just want to say thank you,” Daeron continues. His voice reverberates off the walls of the Budokan. “Thank you to all of you guys, of course. Our amazing, incredible fans. Thank you for letting us live this dream of a life.” There are claps and whistles, shrieked declarations of undying adoration. Daeron takes a deep breath. His hands are shaking; you can see the microphone tremble. “And thank you to my big brother Aemond.” Instantaneously, the crowd goes as close to silent as it is possible for a stadium at max capacity to be. The others are gawking at him openly now, unable to paper over it with masklike smiles. “I had been following Comet around for years before I got the offer to officially join. So I know how much work and talent Aemond poured into this band. I’m beyond honored to be up on this stage tonight performing for all of you, but I wish it could have happened a different way. I wish Aemond could be here too. And no matter where he goes in the world or what he does next, he will always be the person who made Comet Donati possible. And he will always be my greatest inspiration. I love you, man. We all love you.”
And the audience erupts into deafening cheers and applause, all for a soul who could not bring himself to attend the show. There are chants of We love you, Aemond! that go on for more than five minutes. Aegon is shouting as loudly as anyone; Jace, Luke, and Cregan are running around the stage and encouraging the crowd. They are a little shellshocked, but they are genuine.
Even Jace, you think, you marvel. Even Jace is honoring him. He doesn’t hate Aemond after all. He provokes and he taunts, sure, and he crosses lines on occasion, but Jace doesn’t hate Aemond. He might even miss him.
For their last night in Tokyo, Criston has grander aspirations for the band than the usual wind down in Jace’s suite. He gets everyone—Aemond included, fetched from the bar of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, already several Brambles deep—into the Escalades to drive to Club Camelot, where Criston has reserved one of the three floors for Comet. It swiftly fills like a flute of champagne: women in sparkling gowns, men with baiting smiles, security guards and label executives and friends and acquaintances and models. The tiles on the floor are black and white, but bathed in sapphire luminescence that covers everyone like rain. Empty hands are filled with frosty bottles and glasses clinking with ice. The song that thunders out of the speakers is a throwback: Butterfly by Crazy Town.
Cregan has acquired a harem of sorts; you look once and he’s flocked by three gazelle-like companions, you look again and there are five of them. Jace is mingling freely. Aemond is talking to Daeron—thanking him, it appears, offering heartfelt gratitude—while Shelby greets a pack of influencer-types as they arrive. They squeal and jump up and down with her in their clicking stilettos, then take turns snapping each other’s pictures. Criston actually appears to be somewhat relaxed. He sips on a Sapporo Premium and chats with one of the guys from the label, gesturing casually with his expressive hands. Aegon is curled up in a booth with Selena Gomez. Yes, Selena freaking Gomez. He keeps playing with her glossy dark tresses and making her giggle, propping his sunburned face up on his knuckles, glowing in that way that he does. It’s not just for you. It’s never been just for you. And sometimes he’s close to you and sometimes he’s not, and right now he’s on the other side of the solar system, he’s out in the Oort cloud, he’ll be back to visit earth in a few hundred years. Aegon disappears into the bathroom every few minutes. You see smudges of white powder on his hands, under his nose. If he tried to talk to you right now, you wouldn’t know what to say to him. He would feel like a stranger.
You’re watching Aemond. You wish you weren’t, but you are. He’s in all black, the top three buttons of his shirt undone. You nurse a Bramble and follow Baela, Rhaena, and Luke around the dancefloor, barely able to hear them over the music. Luke is lightheartedly making fun of Baela for something. Her earrings? Her shoes?
“I’ll have you know that I’m very important around here!” Baela cries over the music. “I’m the patron saint of drive!”
“Patron saint of driving herself to the Gucci store, maybe,” Luke says.
They’re all laughing. You feel like you’re observing them through a transparent wall, like you’re at the aquarium and they’re a dazzling rare species and you’re some grubby kid with your palms pressed to the glass. What am I still doing here? Why did I ever think I belonged here?
You break away from Baela, Rhaena, and Luke and drift by Shelby and her fellow influencers, not intending to eavesdrop but catching a few fragments of their conversation like Jupiter and Saturn capture moons. As Aemond talks to Daeron across the room, Shelby is lamenting her love life. She thinks she’s being discrete, but she’s had more than a few gin and tonics.
“No, he still…he probably doesn’t want me looking at him…he’ll let me blow him, but he won’t actually…you know…?”
And you remember what you told him on that balcony in Reykjavik: I think you haven’t fucked anyone since the accident, and you’re terrified to.
You were right. You’re still right. And here you are, like mirrors: Aemond not fucking Shelby, you not fucking Aegon, and there’s no especially good reason for either except that it just doesn’t feel right. After a while, Shelby and her entourage leave to check out another nightclub down the block. More photo opportunities, you suspect. A change of scenery.
“How’s your wrist?” Jace inquires. He’s found you loitering on the outskirts of the dancefloor. He’s wearing a black sequined blazer with nothing underneath except skin and ink. He’s unsteady on his feet, a Vesper sloshing in his glass. Now the song that’s playing is Ed Sheeran’s I Don’t Care, featuring Justin Bieber. In the booth she’s sharing with Aegon, Selena Gomez audibly groans.
“Great. It actually feels better when no one talks to me.”
Jace cackles, far too loudly. “You are hilarious. Hey, hey, listen.” His free hand skates around your waist. Instinctively, you jolt away from him.
“Nope.”
“Listen.” He grips you more adamantly. “Let’s do this.”
“No, no, that’s a very kind offer but I’d rather chew off my own limbs, thank you.”
“Look, I don’t care if you’ve hooked up with Aegon,” Jace purrs into your ear, sweating out vodka and gin, his curls brushing against your cheek. “Hell, I don’t care if you’re still hooking up with Aegon. I’m better than him. I have to be, right? That fat drunk. I’ll show you.”
You try to pull away from him again. You’re wearing the short sparkly dress you bought in Reykjavik, black velvet and silver stars. “Jace, don’t touch me.”
“Come on, Stargirl, give me a shot—”
“Jace,” you say harshly, your eyes blazing. “Do not touch me.”
“Okay,” he sighs; and, to his credit, he releases you. He holds up his palm in surrender. “Okay, fine, but when you change your mind—”
Aemond soars in out of nowhere, a comet, a meteor, the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs. His fist connects with Jace’s jaw. Jace’s Vesper goes flying; blood spurts from his mouth, split lips and lost teeth. “Don’t you fucking touch her!” Aemond is roaring. He has Jace pinned to the floor, black and white and sapphire and red. “When she says not to touch her, you don’t, you hear me?!”
People are screaming and descending upon them, trying to pull them apart. Your Bramble shatters against the tile floor. Criston is here, and security guards, and Baela and Rhaena and Luke and Aegon. Everyone is talking at the same time, so it’s almost like no one is. Jace is striking at Aemond from the ground. Aemond hits him again, and again, knuckles into defenseless flesh and bone, blood vessels bursting, nerves on fire. The music stops, the lights come on.
“Aemond, stop!” you shout. “Aemond, Aemond, you’re going to kill him!”
“Let him go, Aemond, please!” Baela is yelling, and there’s raw terror in her voice.
Then Jace lands a solid punch at last, a hook that comes in from Aemond’s left. Blood pours from Aemond’s nose, it’s on his face and his throat, it’s running down his chest. Cregan arrives, locks his arms around Aemond’s waist, and heaves him away. Before Jace has a second to recover, Aegon wrenches him up by the collar of his blazer and slaps him open-handed across the face.
“He can’t see on that side, you fucking snake!”
Criston bellows: “Aegon, back up, back up, back the fuck up!” He finally gets a good look at Jace: bleeding, bruised, teeth missing, blinking dazedly at the spectators, too stunned to feel the pain yet. “Oh my God!” Criston whirls to Aemond, who is struggling against Cregan’s grasp. “How’s he going to perform in five days, huh?! Jesus Christ, he looks like he’s been butchered! How am I going to cover that up?! How is he going to sing?!” Criston pulls Jace to his feet; he practically has to carry him. Baela follows after them, more distressed than you’ve ever seen her, flowing tears and strangled sobs. Rhaena and Luke go too.
You, Aegon, and Daeron rush to Aemond. He’s bent over and spitting blood onto the floor so he doesn’t choke on it. “Not broken,” Cregan pronounces after examining his nose. “Just gonna bleed real bad. Needs pressure on it.”
“Are you okay?” Aegon asks you, a hand careful and tender on your face. He’s back again, for a minute, an hour, a day.
Your voice quakes. “Yeah.”
“What did Jace do…?”
“Nothing, nothing that bad, I mean he grabbed my waist but—”
“Aegon?” Selena Gomez says tentatively, waiting nearby and hugging her arms around herself.
“Yeah, one second, love. Give me a second.” He appraises Aemond and whistles. “Man, you are wrecked.” And not just physically. He’s incensed, he’s in shock. You reach for Aemond’s hand and he lets you take it.
“You got him?” Cregan asks you.
“I’ll clean him up. I’ll take care of him.” And as blood continues to run down his face, you draw Aemond towards the bathrooms. You lead him inside the women’s room and lock the door, blue walls and white florescent light. Somewhat ungainly—relying mostly upon your non-dominant hand—you press a pile of paper towels against his nose and tell him to hold it there. Then you wet more paper towels and wipe down his knuckles, his face, his throat. The blood on his chest has run beneath his glossy black shirt. We match, you think randomly. “Can I…?”
He yanks the shirt over his head, then returns the mass of crimson-stained paper towels to his nose. Fortunately, the bleeding appears to be slowing. You erase the smudged trail of scarlet that runs all the way to the waistline of his dark jeans. When you reach the end of it, Aemond flinches away from you; not a pained flinch, but a fearful one. He turns his back on you and walks to the other end of the small and shadowless room. He braces one palm against the wall and sighs deeply. He throws the wad of paper towels in the trashcan and then covers his face with his hand, shaking his head.
“Aemond,” you say. And you wait for him to look you in the eye. It takes a long time. “What do you want?” Why were you watching me and Jace? Why did you lose control?
“Nothing,” he replies immediately.
“That’s a lie.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” you insist, your voice fracturing. “It does matter. Just tell me what you want.”
“Why, so you can let me down easy? Or worse, pretend to be into it to make me feel better, to help piece me and my fragile little ego back together? I don’t beg for anything. You really think I’m going to beg you to want me?”
“No, you’re too fucking proud, you’d never even ask for it. You’ll beat people half to death for things you’re too much of a coward to say out loud, and I’m supposed to feel sorry for you?!”
“Then why are you even in here with me?! Just go back to Aegon, I know that’s what you want. I guess you’ll have to wait in line behind Selena Gomez, but he’ll work his way back around to you eventually.”
“Jace stole something from you, right?” you say. “You feel like he stole the band from you after you were kicked out, and then tonight you felt like he was stealing something else, and that’s why you freaked out and almost murdered him—”
“No. No, because you’re not mine.”
“What do you want, Aemond?” you ask him again, tears of exhaustion and desperation in your eyes.
“I don’t want anything from you,” he says, coming in closer. “So you’re absolved, you’re free to go, I don’t need your goddamn charity—”
Your good hand juts out, and what you plan to do is plant it against his bare chest and push him away. What you do instead—as if by muscle memory, a reflex, an instinct—is reach up to plunge your fingers into his hair. And then his palm is cradling the small of your back and his lips are on yours, moving seamlessly like how currents thread through the ocean. He helps lift you up onto the counter; there is just enough room between two of the sinks. Your legs link around Aemond as he presses himself to you, lips still tinged with coppery blood, bare chest, his waist, his hips. Your back hits the mirror—cool and unyielding, the ink of his lyrics flat against the glass—with enough force to make a thump.
“Are you okay—?”
“I’m more okay than I’ve been in years.”
He tilts up your chin and kisses you deeply, dizzyingly, his tongue darting between your lips. He tastes like his Brambles, sweetness cut with the bite of gin, and smoke, and something else too, something that’s just purely him, something you could drown in like the river of his clear right eye. Gently, you bring your fingertips to his face, to his scar. “Don’t,” he pleads softly, pained.
“There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Don’t—”
“Aemond, look at me.” And you hold his face still so you know he hears you. “There’s nothing wrong with you. There has never been anything wrong with you.”
You watch it hit him like a stone into water, ripples that wash away everything he’s felt before. He knows you mean it, he can feel it, the same way you can feel the care with which he caresses you, not just lust but engulfing warmth, wordless veneration. He whispers between kisses: “Tell me what to do. Tell me what you want.”
Your lock your gaze with his, then reach down to unbutton his jeans. It’s difficult with the splint, but you manage. You think he might stop you, you prepare yourself for it, but he doesn’t. Instead, Aemond’s hands vanish beneath your dress and slip off your panties, black lace you hadn’t planned on anyone seeing tonight. As you kiss his face—jagged scar, flushed cheek, the slope of his jaw—his fingers slide into a pool of staggering heat and wetness.
He moans. “Oh fuck, that’s for me?”
“I’ve wanted this from the start.”
“Show me…show me how you like it…”
You guide his hand to exactly the right spot and give him a rhythm, a pressure, a pace that rolls a euphoric shudder down your spine. He’s barely touched you, and already you’re shaking all over; you’re throbbing, you’re dazed with that delicious needful aching, you’re gasping into the sweltering, salt-strewn dampness of his neck. His fingertips stroke you in commanding circles—only a few times—until you’re on the precipice, until you stop him. You’re ready, even though he’s huge: long and thick, revealed as he tugs down his jeans and boxers. He pins your uninjured hand against the mirror and kisses and bites at your throat as he eases himself inside you: a stretching that is intense but not unpleasant, hunger being satisfied. And when he thrusts—carefully at first, waiting for you to tell him he can be rougher—there are so many layers of pleasure that it stuns you, it leaves you speechless. Has it ever been like this before? Never, never, never, not once, not for a moment, not with anybody. His future was stolen from him, but he’s taken your past from you; he’s carved it out like a gemstone from the earth and locked it away in a vault no one remembers the passcode to.
“I’m so close,” you whisper, you beg. “Aemond, please, please, I want to come for you…” And you gasp as his fingers skim down your belly again, stroking you forcefully as his thrusts become deeper, quicker, impossibly powerful.
His voice is low and murmuring. His scent is everywhere; it’s all you know how to breathe. “You okay, baby? You alright?”
“Yes, yes, oh God, Aemond, don’t stop, please don’t stop…”
“I won’t stop, baby. You’re doing so well, you’re almost there.”
“Aemond…yes…I love this…”
“I love you.”
He what…? He WHAT…??
And it doesn’t just drag you over the edge; it pushes you, it propels you, you go plummeting off the cliffside and freefall for miles. There’s no disguising it. You have to bury your face in his chest to keep from crying out, clinging to him, your fingernails leaving indents like crescent moons. Aemond, fighting his own climax viciously, lasts just long enough to fuck you through the aftershocks and then empties himself not just physically but also of the shame and aimlessness of the past seven months, of his fears, of his suspicions.
“Wait,” you say as he pulls away from you. You yank a paper towel out of the dispenser and wet it with cold water. First you cool his forehead and the back of his neck with it, then you wipe his fingers and his cock. Still perched on the counter, you wet another paper towel for yourself.
“No,” Aemond tells you. “Let me.” He takes it from you, opens your thighs, and kisses your mouth—teasingly, biting and sucking your lower lip—as he spreads your folds and cleans them of his seed, abundant hot white fluid that you can feel dripping out of you. As he passes over where you are most sensitive—where you can already feel longing for him rebuilding brick by brick—you jump a little, and you both laugh. I could go again, you think. I could do this with him forever. And then, as Aemond descends from the chemical high like a plane gliding down towards a tarmac, you watch as those old familiar poisons—shame, aimlessness, fear, suspicion—begin to fill up in him again, slowly but unmistakably.
He throws out the paper towels and takes several steps back. He starts putting on his clothes, staring at the wall, then at the mirror, not at you but past you, at himself, his clear river-blue eye wide and vacant. He looks horrified by what he’s done; or perhaps, rather, by what he’s said.
You grab your panties off the counter and step into them, readjusting your dress. “Look, uh…if you didn’t mean what you said…that’s totally cool. I get it, sometimes people say things in the moment that aren’t real, there’s the oxytocin and the dopamine, and I don’t want you to feel…uh…you know…like you have to keep up a false pretense or anything…”
Aemond turns around and walks out of the bathroom, the door slamming behind him.
“Okay,” you say to yourself. “Okay. I can fix this.” You use the toilet quickly—UTIs are not welcome here—and then head out onto the dancefloor.
The lights are dim again, and thank God for that; your makeup is smudged, your hair unruly, your eyes glazed, your dress rumpled and stained. Cregan is the only person still waiting. “Hey,” he says flatly, then squints at you. You avoid his astute greyish eyes.
“Hey. Where is everyone?”
“Criston took Jace to the hospital. Baela is there too. Rhaena and Luke are back at the hotel. Aegon is presumably balls deep in Selena Gomez. Aemond just sprinted out of this club and I’d guess he’s headed back to the hotel too. Daeron went after him. I think that’s everybody.”
You shift your weight from foot to foot uneasily. “Shelby?”
“Oh, right. Haven’t seen her. Still out with her friends.” His eyes sweep over you. “On a scale of one to ten, how homicidal would she be if she found out about whatever happened in that bathroom?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Uh huh.” Cregan strides towards the stairwell that leads down to the front door. “Let’s go.”
Back at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, you swipe your keycard and flick the lights on in your suite. You stand there alone, feeling the evidence of what you’ve done: sore muscles and bruised skin and pooling wetness, both yours and his. You are absorbed with thoughts of what you’re going to say to Aemond when you confront him, how much of your truth you are willing to bare. And then your eyes catch on the small trashcan beside your bed, which reminds you of the one back in Singapore, which reminds you of your pack of birth control pills discarded on a pile of crumpled soda cans and snack wrappers.
I haven’t taken a pill in days. How many days? A week?
“Oh my God,” you breathe. And then, more frantically: “Oh no, oh no, no no no…”
What do I do? What the hell do I do?
You race out into the hallway and knock on Baela’s door. Nobody answers. You try Rhaena’s next. She appears in her pajamas, pink and dotted with tiny green Tyrannosaurus rexes. “Hi,” she says agreeably enough, but she’s rubbing her eyes drowsily.
“Hi. I’m really, really sorry to bother you, but it’s an emergency.”
She perks up considerably. “Okay, how can I help?”
“Where’s Luke?”
“In the shower.”
“So he can’t hear us right now?”
“No, he can’t.”
“Good. Do you know when Baela will be back from the hospital?”
“Not anytime soon,” Rhaena says. “She messaged me that Jace needs stitches and has a concussion. They’ll be there all night, at least.”
You exhale, a defeated little squeak. “Is Aegon around? With or without Selena Gomez?”
“No, they haven’t come back yet. I have no idea where they are.”
“Okay.” You swallow noisily.
“What’s going on with you?” Rhaena asks, concerned.
“This really is not a Rhaena situation. This is a Baela or Aegon situation.”
“Alright, but neither of them are here. So I’m who you’ve got.”
You stare at her. “I need Plan B. Do you happen to have any Plan B?”
“Plan B…? Like, you just had unprotected sex with someone Plan B?”
“Yes, exactly, that one.”
Rhaena gapes, scandalized. “With who?!”
“Confidential,” you say briskly. “Do you have any or not?”
“No, I definitely don’t have any Plan B lying around.”
“No,” you groan. Tears are welling up in your eyes. “What am I going to do? How do I get Plan B in Japan?!”
“We’ll figure this out,” Rhaena says. She dashes to her nightstand to grab her iPhone. “Don’t panic. It’ll be okay. Let’s Google 24-hour pharmacies in Tokyo…”
You don’t have Criston here to summon an Escalade—nor would you willingly risk him finding out about this—but Rhaena uses Google Translate to ask the hotel’s front desk to call a taxi. She shows the taxi driver an address, figures out how many yen you owe him, and then asks him very politely (if haltingly) in Japanese to wait ten minutes while you’re inside the pharmacy so you can take a return trip as well. He seems to agree.
Rhaena accompanies you into the pharmacy and repeats these steps: Google Translate, an exchange of yen, the receipt of a service. She tells you that based on her quick research, Plan B is usually by prescription only in Japan, but pharmacists will sometimes be willing to prescribe it on the spot to a patient in need. Rhaena spends a long time typing out a message for the middle-aged, bespectacled pharmacist, then points to you. This is my friend, the maybe-pregnant slut from Missouri, you imagine her saying. She needs emergency contraception. It’s really in all of humanity’s best interests for her not to continue her bloodline.
“You have to show him your ID,” Rhaena tells you.
You give your passport to the pharmacist, and then he hands you a small package. You and Rhaena purchase a bottle of Coke Zero as well. You gulp down the single tablet as the pharmacist watches with bushy raised eyebrows, amused. You are pleased to discover that the taxi driver has waited, and within fifteen minutes you and Rhaena are back at the hotel.
“You’ve talked to a lot of people tonight,” you tell Rhaena matter-of-factly as you ride the elevator back up to the band’s floor.
“Oh, yeah. I guess I did. I mean, I’ve been practicing. And you needed me.”
“I’m proud of you,” you say.
Rhaena smiles sheepishly. “Thanks.”
“And I’ll be even more proud of you when I get my period.”
She giggles, she trots off to her suite, you retreat into yours. You collapse onto the floor and gaze up at the ceiling, studying the specks and grooves in the tiles like constellations.
“It was only one time,” you say to the ceiling. “I was on the pill for years. That takes a while to leave my system, right? I mean, what are the odds? It’s fine. It’s totally fine. Nothing’s going to happen, right?”
Right?
#aemond targaryen#aemond one eye#aemond x you#aemond targaryen x reader#aemond x y/n#aemond x reader#Aegon Targaryen#aegon targaryen ii#Aegon II Targaryen#Aegon Targaryen II x reader#aegon ii#aegon targaryen x reader
295 notes
·
View notes
Text
I really want to see fanart, fanfic, post, I'll take anything, about the fall out between spider gang and miles. I'm talking the universe said "fuck you" to both sides and made shit go sideways and fast.
Miguel said Miles dad had to die? Universe took both of his parents.
Miles still has Ganke? Universe takes him too
Miles has already seen two people die in front of him? Universe add four more and make it back to back, that little girl his dad died for, yeah she gotta go too.
Peter said Miles is a tough kid? Universe said to break him when they barely win and have him go right into shock.
Miguel said cannon events (his predictions) will stabilize the multiverse? The spot almost wipes 1610 out and nearly takes miles with it.
Peter and Gwen were only trying to do the right thing? Miles has lost everyone close to him and can never get them back.
Gwen wants to go back to the way things were? Too bad Miles can never give her that kind of trust again. He definitely can't love her in that potential romantic way again because she hurt him.
Peter wants to help the kid through this tough time? To come to an understanding? Miles understands, and he gets why Mayday comes first. But Peter hurt him too, so there are going to be a long heart to heart and a lot of tears. Their relationship has to start from scratch and slowly heal from there.
Miguel didn't think things would turn out like this? He thought Miles was the cause that he couldn't even clock the spot? He had to carry back a catatonic Miles back to hq to rush him to medical because the shock very nearly finished what the spot started.
Miguel wants to apologize? Wants Miles to get better? Miles is terrified of him, not because of his looks, but because of his actions. But they are both each other's triggers, so the first two month (out of the hospital) or so, they send each other into outburst and panic attacks. Miles is triggered by the chase. Miguel is triggered by feeling reminded of Gabriel by Miles eyes, smile, and some similarities in personality. They get there eventually, and I feel like they'll get there before peter and Miles get there. Mostly because Miguel and Miles didn't know each other like that.
Friends want to visit Miles while he's recovering? Nope, they set him off into a panic or aggressive outburst. The only person that can go in or near miles is Hobbie. At some point Pav and Mayday worm their way in. Nearing the end of his hospital stay Porker, peni, and noir also work their way in. But Hobbie becomes important to Miles very quickly as a point of trust. His main support system are Hobbie and Pav.
My point is that I want to see "your actions have consequences" and not only with Miguel. Yeah , he played a big part, but let's be honest, it all felt like a huge mental breakdown. But Peter? He was Miles's mentor, and he looked up to him. And Gwen knew Miles longer than peter did and Miles was obviously crushing on her. So, she had to hurt the most out of the two.
I just want some juice angst for everyone.
#miles morales angst#across the spiderverse#spiderdads#peter x miguel#mayday parker#peter b parker x miguel o'hara#gwen stacy#spider angst#margo kess#pavitr prabhakar#hobie brown#peter b parker#miguelohara
271 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
musical-treasures
wrongs will be righted, if we're united!
fromhells
𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤.
perolino-blog
Untitled
vladr2566
Vladdy Daddy
kambuchi
Kambuchi Apo