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dngrs-untld-hrshps-unnmbrd · 9 months

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Mating Season

How Halsin’s romance might have played out if we could have had his kisses, adoration, and been totally railed senseless by Oak Daddy from the end of Act I. An ode to Halsin’s hairy chest, big arms, and the vein that I know stands out so thickly on his *muffled horny noises*

After a long and tiring day of fighting off goblins as you search for the Githyanki Crèche, you groan in relief as you sink into the cool waters of the river. Everyone else is back at camp and you’re able to enjoy the currents swirling around your naked body.

You float in the water, thinking about how much your party has grown in the past few weeks. First Shadowheart, Gale, and Astarion, then Lae’zel, Wyll, and Karlach, and finally Halsin, the wildshape druid you rescued from the goblins. He’s a focused member of the group, a valuable healer, and an unstoppable force in battle. You occasionally feel things turning against you in a fight, and then Halsin is there, supporting the group and laying down swathes of flame, lightning and ice. His bear shape never fails to strike fear into the hearts of your enemies.

Around the fire at night, he talks openly about his quest to free the Shadow-Cursed lands, his admiration for the party, and his praise for your leadership. His gentle words about you have your body prickling with awareness of his.

That warm smile of his. His large and clever hands. His deep, gentle voice. Everything about this man makes you tingle all the way down to your toes. Whenever you think his gaze is lingering on your mouth, he murmurs goodnight to you and leaves your side. You watch him go, wishing that instead he would reach out and touch you.

An angry, snarling sound fills the air and you sit up in the water. Not far from you, an enormous bear, grunting and breathing hard, walks heavily down the riverbank. It’s huge, and its muscular body blocking out the setting sun, and from the noises it's making and its attitude, it’s a hair's-breadth from lashing out at anything that moves.

You freeze, not daring even to breathe, hoping with everything you have that the animal will turn around and head back the other way. Instead, it launches itself into the water with an almighty splash.

As it disappears beneath the surface, you notice a faint scar over the bear’s right eye, as if it’s been clawed. You recognize that scar.

Wait, is this--

Golden light flashes. The water seethes. A man stands up where there was a bear just moments ago, water cascading from his body. Halsin, and he must have stripped before he changed into wildshape for now he’s completely naked, standing hip-deep in the water.

He’s partly turned away from you but you can tell his manner is no less worked up than it was in bear form. He swipes his hands angrily through his dripping hair and breathes hard, the muscles of his shoulders and arms clenched in frustration.

Halsin is one of the gentlest-natured men you’ve ever met, most of the time. Like nature, he too can be wild, his eyes flashing and his voice breaking like thunder over you when he’s frustrated or disappointed, such as when he was remonstrating Kagha for the Rite of Thorns. How magnificent he was that day.

But what is he restless for now? He stands in the water, looking around at the forest, gripped with frustration, and when he turns a little more your way you can see that the root of his cock is thickened in a tell-tale manner.

Ah.

That kind of frustration.

You quietly make your way to the edge of the river where a willow tree is trailing in the water, moving as carefully and as quietly as you can. This feels like a private moment you’re intruding on. Even though you don’t mean to spy, it feels like you are. The fronds of the willow provide a little cover for you, and hopefully Halsin will cool off and leave the way he came.

The dice do not roll your way this evening as he approaches you, seeking deeper water. A moment later, your gazes lock, and his eyes widen in surprise.

‘What are you doing there?’

‘I wasn’t spying on you,’ you tell him quickly. ‘I thought you needed some peace, so I was waiting here quietly.’

His eyes run over you, your back pressed against the river bank and cowering amid the willow leaves.

Halsin heaves a regretful sigh. ‘I frightened you, didn’t I? I am sorry. It’s all right, I am myself again.’

He smiles and holds out his hand. It’s a tight smile, like he’s forcing it for you, but you’re no longer worried a bear is about to disembowel you.

You place your cool fingers into his large, hot ones and let him draw you slowly out of your hiding place. The water is deep enough here that your nakedness is covered, and so is his.

You relax as you gaze up at him, enjoying the sensation of Halsin holding your hand. Quietly enjoying the sight of his bare chest and handsome face. You hope he might walk you into the shallows so you can be naked together, but he remains in deep water, sunk in thought.

‘The river is yours. I’ll leave you to enjoy it,’ you murmur, and glance to where you left your clothes.

Halsin’s fingers are still tightly twined through yours beneath the water. He seems to be in a world of his own as he gazes at your mouth, your throat, the droplets of water sliding through your wet hair and down your shoulders. A world that includes you. A world where you’re touching one another.

‘Halsin?’ you ask tentatively. Hopefully. If he wants to move closer and kiss you, that’s more than okay with you. After a long and dusty day, there’s nothing you’d like more than exploring his body in the cool water. That hairy chest of his. His hard muscles. You long to run your tongue over him. Flex your fingers on his biceps. Trace the red tattoo on his cheek.

Halsin comes back into himself with a deep inhale, and he lets go of your hand. ‘Then I’ll see you back at camp.’ He moves away from you through the currents.

As you push the water from your body and dress in your clothes, you search for Halsin in the river, but he’s disappeared around a bend.

***

Later around the campfire, you’re hyper aware of Halsin as you talk with Gale about his home in Baldur’s Gate. Halsin is silent, the campfire flickering over his handsome face. You try not to pay him any more attention than you do the others, but your interest in him has spilled over into blazing attraction.

Your gazes lock and Halsin’s brows are drawn tightly together.

Is he glaring at you?

A moment later he gets to his feet and, unnoticed by the others, slips away into the darkness. Something’s eating at that man and you wish you knew what.

A short time later, you take a bottle down to the river to refill it with water before turning and heading for your bed. As you round the corner of the ruin where you’ve made your camp, you run straight into Halsin.

His eyes widen and they flare with heat and surprise, and then he quickly looks away and moves past you.

‘Have I done something to make you angry with me?’ you call after him.

Halsin stops dead. He stares straight ahead for a moment, and then slowly turns to you, shaking his head. ‘Far from it. I am worked up and frustrated, but not with anger.’

Maybe his frustrations are because of you, and that’s a thought you don’t know what to do with when he keeps avoiding you.

Not knowing what else to say, you tell him, ‘We will free the Shadow-Cursed lands soon. I know we will.’

He breathes out heavily, his expression troubled. ‘I’m not thinking of the Shadow-Curse right now, even though I should be. It is more important than anything I...’ He trails off, but his gaze lingers on your mouth. ‘...want.’

Halsin steps closer, and you feel the heat blazing off his chest. His warmth and bulk are so welcoming and you crave to reach out and touch him. The backs of his fingers caress your hair. The lightest of touches. Then he takes a handful of your hair and dips his head, bringing the strands to his nose.

‘You smell wonderful.’ He heaves a deep sigh, and whispers, ‘Can I hold you for a moment?’

That sounds lovely to you, and you nod.

Halsin wraps an arm around your waist, scoops you against him, and buries his face in your neck. ‘By Silvanus, your scent is sweet,’ he groans. ‘I caught it when we first met, in that foul goblin nest. How it pleased me. Getting to know you these past few weeks has been even sweeter.’

Your hands are plastered against his chest and so is your body. He’s saying everything you hoped to hear. More than you hoped to hear. He has such a beautiful way with words. You turn your head so he can kiss you, but he still refrains.

Taking a ragged breath, he releases you and steps back. ‘I’m sorry. It’s always difficult this time of year.’

You miss his warmth so much that you shiver. ‘What time of year?’

He gazes at you for a long time. ‘You may laugh, but I’ll tell you. It’s bear mating season.’

You don’t laugh, but your eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

‘I know--I’m no bear,’ Halsin says with a laugh of his own, ‘but I spend so much time in wildshape that bear instincts tug on my heart and...other parts of me. I return to my own form and unfortunately the needs do not dissipate. In fact, they worsen, because it is not a bear I want. When she comes close to me smelling like spring and honey and warm sunshine I can’t help but crave her.’ A smile glimmers on his lips.

Enough being vague. You want to hear him say it. You step closer and put a hand against his chest. ‘A general someone, or anyone in particular?’

He groans softly and captures your face in his hands. He drinks you in and swipes his thumb across your lips. The gesture is soft, and full of the promise of his kiss.

‘You are someone I admire and I think I could grow to care deeply about,’ he murmurs. ‘I care about you so much already. Any little scratch you receive I want to push Shadowheart out of the way and tend to you myself.’

Your heart soars.

‘But this isn’t how or when I wanted to begin anything with you. I have to walk away.’

Disappointment plummets through you.

He’s still holding your face and his expression is conflicted. It seems he wants to put an end to this for now but can’t bring himself to do it.

‘I can walk away, if that helps?’

His eyes fill with gratitude and longing. ‘Please. That would be a mercy. Know that when the time comes, I will come to you with more than lust in my heart.’

You nod, trailing your fingers down his chest as you step back, but you fail to see what’s wrong with him desiring you. ‘Whatever you need. Of course.’

‘I hope I haven’t offended you.’

You smile gently at him. ‘Your desire is so far from offensive. Please know that I don’t demand more of your attention than you’re willing to give. The Shadow Cursed lands are your priority and I’m...’ How to put this delicately? I’m here for you and you can rail me senseless in between your duties whenever you want to let off steam. That’s what you want to say, but you’re too shy to say it. ‘...Here. Your friend. Always.’

Halsin seems to catch your meaning anyway as his jaw flexes and he nods slowly.

You promised him you would walk away, and you do, and though you give him ample time to allow him to pull you back, the next sound you hear is a clash and a growl, and a flare of golden light. When you glance over your shoulder, a bear is thundering into the woods on all fours.

***

A few days later, you’re returning to camp feeling like you’ve been put through a meat grinder, and your companions haven’t fared much better. Gale is unusually silent and covered in blood. Shadowheart is exhausted and dragging her feet. You’re trying not to limp because she and Halsin have already cast so much healing magic. Something’s wrong with your leg, but you’ll see to it yourself when you’re alone.

The others bid you tired farewells as they head for their tents, but someone catches your arm and holds you back.

‘Oak Father, you’re bleeding. Why didn’t you say anything?’

Halsin is staring at your legs, and you stare with him. Blood is pooling around your foot. Oh, that’s not good.

‘I can tend to it myself after I’ve had some rest--’

Your words are cut off as the massive druid picks you up in his arms and carries you into a crumbling barn. Automatically, you wrap your arms around his neck and lean against the solid bulk of his chest. Halsin lays you down on a pallet and helps you remove your armour, revealing a ragged gash on the top of your thigh. Your clothes have to be cut away until your legs are bare.

Halsin looks exhausted and has dark circles under his eyes. It seems he’s been taking little rest as he roams the forests nightly as a bear. When he reaches for you to lay healing hands on your wound, you place a hand on his wrist.

‘You don’t have to do this right now. I’ll bandage myself up and someone can heal me after they’ve rested.’

Halsin raises challenging eyebrows at you. ‘You believe I don’t have the strength to heal you myself? That I’ll walk away from the most important person in my life and leave her bleeding?’

You moisten your lips, trying not to show how much his words have affected you. The most important person in his life? Suddenly you don’t feel injured at all, and he hasn’t even healed you yet.

‘I have more than enough magic left for this. Now, lay back and let me do my work, and then you can get back to yours.’

You settle back on the pallet and gaze at the cobwebby rafters. Halsin’s hands hover over your thigh, and a warm, delicious feeling spreads through your leg, and then up between your thighs. Your head falls back in relief and pleasure.

Even Halsin makes a surprised noise. ‘That felt...’ He rubs your now-healed high, massaging the last of the tension and pain from your muscles. ‘That felt different. How’s your thigh now?’

You can’t help but moan and arch your back a little at his touch. ‘Good.’ Your voice comes out in a breathy whisper.

‘Just good?’ He strokes his palm over where there was a cut just moments ago.

‘Halsin, please, you make me feel heavenly,’ you whimper. The words pass your lips without thinking. You reach up to take hold of his shoulders so you can pull him down to kiss you, but pull back before you can touch him.

This isn’t what he wants. Your hands clench on the pallet, feeling your core ache with need. As soon as he leaves, you can get yourself off thinking about him.

‘Would you like me to go?’ he asks softly.

‘I never want you to go.’

His hand rests lightly on your leg.

You open your eyes and gaze up at him, and he’s sitting so close to you. ‘But if you stay, you’re going to see me touching myself.’ Then you smile at him, remembering your last conversation. ‘I would love for you to see that. As a friend.’

You want him to see you. You want him to participate.

He smiles and leans down to you, and runs the blade of his nose up your cheek. ‘I can’t think of anything more wonderful after a long, hard day, my dear friend.’

Halsin lays down beside you and props his head against his fist. With gentle fingers, he helps you to drag your underwear down your legs and cast them aside. As your teeth sink into your lower lip, you gently touch yourself, your eyes on his handsome face. Halsin strokes your thighs, your stomach, finds the fastenings on your clothes and loosens them. As he pulls back your bodice, revealing your breasts, he lowers his head to take one of your nipples in his mouth.

You cry out and flex up into him. Heat is gathering within you. You suck on your lower lip and release it. ‘Please--your fingers--I need--’ you manage between pants. You can barely get the words out, but he understands. Halsin drags two fingers through your sex, making them slippery, and then sinks them inside you.

Another loud cry from you. Gods, he feels perfect.

Halsin groans and kisses your throat, murmuring, ‘You’re so tight around me. Have you been as frustrated as I am?’ He pumps his thick fingers in and out of you, slowly at first, and then faster.

Yes you have, the godsdamned stubborn bear of man. He should have pulled you into his arms that day in the river and let you suck all the frustration from his body out through his cock.

‘So frustrated,’ you whimper. ‘Please, that feels so good. Don’t stop, please don’t stop.’

He brushes his lips over yours. ‘I won’t stop. You’re always so beautiful, but like this, all of nature pales in comparison.’

You reach down and lay your hand over his wrist, adoring the tension and flex of his muscles in his arm as he moves inside you. Your fingers keep moving on your clit as you moan and cry out his name, and when you come you dig your nails into his flesh, and press your feet into the ground so he can fuck you even harder with his fingers.

When you fall back exhausted, Halsin sits up and spreads your thighs open, trailing his fingers over your sex and drinking in the sight of you as you catch your breath. ‘Your body is wondrous.’ He leans over and kisses you, his tongue caressing yours. ‘Will you rest well tonight?’

You nod, feeling drunk from his kiss and your climax.

He smiles. ‘Then I’ll rest well too, knowing that you’re sleeping soundly. Thank you for sharing this beautiful moment with me.’

As he sits up, you notice that he’s hard inside his tight pants. Excessively hard. Huge in fact. He shouldn’t be leaving, he should be pulling off his clothes and pounding the living daylights out of you until he also gets the release he needs.

But he’s gone before you can call him back to you. That’s not why he just blew your mind, was it? He healed you, and now he wants you to get some rest. Druid’s orders, apparently.

You smile and roll over, and fall into a doze.

***

The next morning, before anyone has arisen, Halsin finds you coming back from the river. You smile at him, thinking he looks so handsome in the morning light, and you expect him to keep moving past you. Instead, he stops and smiles at you, as if basking in the sight of you is all he wants right now.

‘May I have a kiss?’ you ask hopefully. Perhaps he’s decided not to want anything for himself right now, but he still wants to make you happy.

Without needing to be asked twice, Halsin grasps you around the waist with his large hands and walks you back against the wall, kissing you enthusiastically. ‘I can still smell you on my fingers this morning. I could smell you all night. You are a delight.’

Your lips part for his so he can kiss you even deeper. With your arms around his neck, you revel in the sensation of his mouth on yours.

‘I find you irresistible.’ Another kiss. ‘But we have much to do today.’ Another kiss.

‘We do,’ you say, smiling as he kisses you again.

He gazes down at you for a moment, a slight frown between his brows. ‘If you need more, know that I won’t be offended if you take another lover. Nature intends for us to roam and be free.’

You have considered that, if not someone at camp, then a handsome stranger at a tavern, but you’d only be thinking about Halsin the whole time. ‘And if I don’t want to?’

‘You must do as pleases you,’ he replies, and kisses you again.

You guess that he didn’t tell you this for idle reasons, but to let you know about his own preferences. You reach up and stroke your fingers through his russet hair. ‘I have always wanted my own person, but to roam with them. Share everything with them. I would miss you too much if I was to roam without you.’

He smiles down at you. ‘Us, with others? I would like that, in time. You’re more than enough for me, but I wouldn’t wish for you to be denied anything. Seeing you with another lover, and participating as well...it sounds wonderful.’ Then he steps away from you. ‘But we are getting ahead of ourselves. My thoughts turn to other things for now. But they will turn back to you.’

With a final warm squeeze of your hand, he leaves you, but your heart is lighter than it’s been in a long time.

***

Two nights later, you’re awoken by snarling and roaring in the distance, and you sit bolt upright. It sounds like two large animals are fighting in the woods.

Only Astarion is awake. ‘What a ridiculous racket,’ he mutters with a scowl, before licking his thumb and turning the page of the book he’s reading.

You look over at Halsin’s pallet, knowing it’s going to be empty before you lay eyes on it, but your stomach drops just the same when you see that it is. You scramble to your feet and set off at a run into the darkness.

You follow the roaring and snarling and it doesn’t take long to find two bears fighting with teeth bared and swipes of their claws. You recognise Halsin from the scars over his eye.

What can you do to help him? A spell? A cantrip?

Before you can decide, Halsin swipes the other bear so hard across the snout that it reels back, and then turns and runs away into the woods.

Halsin paces up and down for a moment, and then golden light ripples, nearly blinding you, and when you open your eyes again, he’s striding toward you. His chest is heaving and blood is pouring from scratches and bites across his shoulders and throat. Nothing life threatening, but he’d be in pain if he wasn’t so angry.

‘That bear was looking for a mate, and I wasn’t having it prowling around her when I haven’t even tasted her myself.’

Halsin when he’s feeling himself wouldn’t say something so uncharacteristically possessive. It must be the mating season instincts overriding his natural feelings. ‘That bear wouldn’t have been interested in me.’ Also, you could have tasted me by now if you’d wanted to.

He doesn’t seem to have heard you as he glares into the darkness. Suddenly, he rounds on you. ‘It’s dangerous out here. You shouldn’t have come. Go back to bed.’

You fold your arms and stay where you are. The big alpha bear can throw his weight around, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to jump to obey his commands. ‘Shouldn’t have come? Would you have ignored me if I was being attacked in the woods?’

Halsin takes a deep breath and some of the anger melts from his face. He pushes his hands through his hair and shakes his head. ‘Of course not, I would never abandon you like that. Thank you for coming out here to help me. I promise I’m not ungrateful. I’m all out of sorts because...’ He gestures vaguely at himself and the woods around you both.

You smile at him. ‘I know. It’s mating season.’

You help him pick dirt and gravel out of his cuts before he casts healing magic on himself, but you’re not ready to leave him and go to bed. The river is close by and you take his hand and lead him to the water.

‘Let’s wash the blood and dirt off you.’

At the riverbank, hesitantly you reach for his clothes. He says nothing but he’s watching you with such intensity, and so you find the fastenings and help him out of them. With gentle fingers, he does the same for you. The night air is warm and still. Crickets are chirping and the river makes gentle rushing noises. The two of you are standing so close that you’re breathing each other’s breaths. His massive chest lifts and falls. Your nipples tighten with awareness of him. You don’t want to stare but you can’t help but look at this beautiful man as you undress him.

Halsin helps you out of your underwear, and his cock bumps against your thigh. He’s so hard that he’s standing to attention, his foreskin drawn back, a drop of pre-cum at the tip. Your mouth waters, and you want to run your tongue along the thick vein that stands out on his shaft.

‘Sorry. Ignore me,’ he mutters.

You don’t want to ignore the most beautiful cock you’ve ever seen, but you keep your hands to yourself and look up at him. ‘I want to feel flattered. Should I feel flattered?’

‘You know I think you’re wonderful,’ he breathes, caressing your face.

Oh, by all the gods, then fuck me, please.

‘Would you want me even if it wasn’t mating season?’

‘Of course I would, though I’d probably be better at keeping that to myself. You wouldn’t awaken to hear me fighting other bears in the woods, or see me staring at you with longing across the campfire. I’d still feel the same way, but I wouldn’t be so obvious about it. Probably.’

‘Do you mind that mating season makes you feel and act this way?’

He smiles and shakes his head. ‘It is who I am, and another connection I have to nature.’

‘Halsin. For a wildshape druid who believes in going with what’s natural, you’re very stubborn about resisting what your body is telling you it wants.’

A smile curves his lips. ‘You may be right. I’ve told myself that focusing on the Shadow Curse is the right and only thing to do, but...’

Halsin ducks his head and slants his mouth over yours. The kiss is so fierce and sudden, and pleasure takes a swan dive through your body. He wraps his arms around you and gathers you to him.

‘This isn’t how I imagined things between us,’ he murmurs. ‘I intended to come to you after the curse is lifted and declare my feelings for you, and tell you that my unburdened heart is yours.’

‘Please still do that,’ you breathe, planting soft kisses again and again on his mouth. ‘I would love that. But don’t walk away from me now.’

‘You want me, even though my mind is often on things other than you?’

What a romantic Halsin is, wanting to give you his whole heart at once, or nothing at all. ‘Of course I do,’ you tell him, your fingers stroking his bare back. You don’t need that declaration yet. You just need him.

Halsin lifts you in his arms and carries you into the water, gazing into your eyes. The water flows around your bodies as he kisses you and places you on your feet.

He nods at something over your shoulder. ‘I have to taste you. Turn around and put your hands on that rock.’

You do as he asks, standing thighs-deep in the water and bent over with your hands braced against the river bank. Halsin kneels down in the water and cups your ass.

‘So beautiful...’ You feel his tongue run up your sex, and you moan and close your eyes. He’s slow and languorous about it. Not trying to make you come, just tasting you thoroughly and enjoying the sensation of you against his tongue.

Halsin stands up and when you glance over your shoulder you see him gazing at your sex as he strokes you with his fingers and fists his cock slowly up and down.

‘Can I have you, sweet one?’ he asks huskily.

‘Please, gods, yes .’ You’ll go crazy if he holds back a moment longer.

You feel him step closer, and the blunt head of his cock slides against your slippery entrance. He feels alarmingly thick and you take a deep breath and try to relax.

With a muttered oath, he sinks into you. As much of him as he can, anyway. Gods, he’s a lot . You walk your feet apart, trying to accommodate more of him.

‘Too much?’ he asks, hesitating.

You shake your head desperately. ‘Not too much. More, please.’

He fucks you slowly, working himself deeper by delicious increments, while your cries fill the night air along with his ragged breathing. His blunt nails scratch your flesh. He roughly squeezes handfuls of your ass.

You reach down between your legs and touch yourself, and you grow wetter and wetter, allowing him to fuck you in long, smooth strokes. Every single one makes your insides light up. Your orgasm is barrelling down on you surprisingly fast.

‘Please, fuck me hard, I’m going to come,’ you beg him.

Halsin groans and takes your hips in a secure grip and slams into you, over and over, hard, brutal and heavenly thrusts. You push against the rock to hold you steady as a wild, untamable sensation crashes over you, and you cry out loud enough for the whole forest to hear you.

Your head is hanging low and you’re panting as you feel Halsin draw out of you.

‘But you haven’t come,’ you protest, straightening up and turning around. It’s what you want, to see and feel this beautiful man let go.

He takes your hand and helps you out of the river. ‘I’m not done with you yet.’

He lays back on the grass and pulls you astride him so your thighs are straddling him. ‘I want to see you like this as well.’

Hungry for more, you grasp his cock and sink down his length. Halsin groans and his head tips back, and he squeezes both your breasts in his large hands. His throat is so beautiful, and so is his chest. You draw patterns in his chest hair as you move up and down his length.

Weeks of frustration and wanting him haven’t been fulfilled by one climax, and soon you feel another one gathering within you. He watches you with a smile as you desperately moan and pant his name. As your cries reach a crescendo, Halsin plants his feet securely against the ground and pushes sharply up into you, over and over, making you shatter around him even harder than before.

You collapse forward on his chest, weakened and helpless, his cock still lodged deep inside you.

‘That was wonderful,’ you moan, your cheek plastered against his chest. ‘Give me a moment and we can change positions. I’m not stopping until you come.’

He rubs circles on your back. ‘I think I might shift into wildshape if we keep going. I can feel the need getting stronger and stronger.’

‘I don’t mind. Your bear form is pretty sexy.’

He laughs softly, a surprised sound. ‘Really? I’m pleased you think so.’

Even sexier is the way he looks while he’s changing, his body even bulkier and hair sprouting everywhere. ‘Can you change part ways?’

His hand stops moving on your back as he considers this. ‘I can. I think it might be easier for me to maintain that, rather than one or the other.’

Halsin rolls you both over until you’re on your back in the grass and pinned beneath him. With a heavy hand on your inner thigh, he pushes your knees up to your chest and thrusts deeper, and then again.

‘By Silvanus, you feel wonderful,’ he pants.

A ripple goes through his body. His eyes turn fiercely golden. The hair thickens across his chest and spreads over his shoulders and down his arms. His top lip pulls back from his teeth, revealing thick incisors. His cock swells to what feels like twice its size inside you. You gaze at him in wonder. He looks incredible like this.

As he continues to pump his cock into you, you press your hands against his muscular, hairy stomach, struggling to accommodate all of him.

‘I’m hurting you,’ he realises, his voice more growl than words. ‘I can change back.’

‘No, don’t stop. Just slow down for a moment. It’s a good problem to have.’ You reach down to the place where you’re joined and wrap your fingers around his slippery thickness. Gods, that’s wonderful. So is his bulk looming over you and the rich, animal scent of his body. He thrusts carefully, watching you closely, his golden gaze roaming over you.

‘So beautiful, sweet one,’ he rumbles. ‘Are you sure you like me like this?’

‘Yes, oh gods, yes.’

With every thrust, it’s getting easier for him to slide his whole length deep inside you, and pleasure stabs through you every time he bottoms out.

You reach up and cup his furred cheek. ‘I didn’t think it was possible, but you’re even sexier like this. How does it feel for you?’

He groans and seems to take courage from your words. ‘Like I’m finally free. No longer fighting what I crave.’ The speed of his thrusts pick up, and he devours you hungrily. ‘You’re so good to me.’

His breathing becomes a throaty snarl. His claws dig lovingly into your thigh. His hips move in a relentless rhythm, long thrusts, and then shorter, urgent ones, and you can tell he’s nearing his peak. You hold onto his shoulders for dear life as his body stiffens and his climax breaks through him, and he throws his head back.

With a groan, he sinks down onto his elbow and buries his face in your throat. As you hold him tight, you feel him shift back to his human form, his skin smooth and damp with perspiration.

Halsin lifts his head and kisses you. ‘I’ve never done anything like that before. Was it all right? I didn’t hurt you, did I?’

You hasten to assure him that he didn’t and it was everything you wanted.

He smiles. ‘How wonderful you are.’

You stroke his sweaty hair back. Neither have I. You’re so beautiful always, and especially seeing you like that, through wildshape eyes.’

He rolls onto his side in the grass and wraps both his arms around you, keeping you tight against his chest. ‘I shouldn’t have been so stubborn. The world feels so much better now I have you in my arms.’

‘How long does mating season last?’ you ask. You hope it’s a long time, and he needs you often.

He laughs, a deep sound reverberating through his chest. ‘It’s every moment I lay eyes on you, sweet one.’

‘I hope that I haven’t distracted you from your duties.’

He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. ‘I’m more motivated than ever.’

You lay like that together in the grass until Halsin feels your cooling body shiver.

He helps you to your feet and draws you into his arms for one last, tender kiss. Cradling your face in his hands, he murmurs, ‘You are the person I admire most in the world. I feel honoured by every moment I spend by your side.’ He kisses you again. ‘Know that I can’t wait until I’m able to tell you that my whole heart is yours.’

Thank you so much for reading. Please leave me a comment and let me know what you think! Or tell me how the Halsin brainrot is affecting you while playing BG3. I have just about no braincells left by now. Only Daddy Bear remains.

#baldur's gate 3 #halsin #halsin x reader #halsin x tav #baldur’s gate 3 spoilers #fanfiction #female reader

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phpmag · 1 year

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PHP Coding Puzzle 9: Word Ladder

Welcome to the 9th PHP Coding Puzzle ! Word Ladder Game Game Description Word Ladder is a word game in which two players try to transform one word into another by changing one letter at a time, with each intermediate step being a valid word. For example, to transform the word “CAT” into the word “DOG”, one possible word ladder is: CAT -> COT -> DOT -> DOG Players take turns making a move. On…

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#adjacency list #algorithm #breadth-first search #graph theory #PHP #word ladder

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thatbadadvice · 3 months

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Help! I'm a Perfect Genius, but This Potential Employer Asked Me a Boring Interview Question!

Ask A Manager, 13 Feb 2024:

I was rejected from a role for not answering an interview question. I had all the skills they asked for, and the recruiter and hiring manager loved me. I had a final round of interviews — a peer on the hiring team, a peer from another team that I would work closely with, the director of both teams (so my would-be grandboss, which I thought was weird), and then finally a technical test with the hiring manager I had already spoken to. (I don’t know if it matters but I’m male and everyone I interviewed with was female.) The interviews went great, except the grandboss. I asked why she was interviewing me since it was a technical position and she was clearly some kind of middle manager. She told me she had a technical background (although she had been in management 10 years so it’s not like her experience was even relevant), but that she was interviewing for things like communication, ability to prioritize, and soft skills. I still thought it was weird to interview with my boss’s boss. She asked pretty standard (and boring) questions, which I aced. But then she asked me to tell her about the biggest mistake I’ve made in my career and how I handled it. I told her I’m a professional and I don’t make mistakes, and she argued with me! She said everyone makes mistakes, but what matters is how you handle them and prevent the same mistake from happening in the future. I told her maybe she made mistakes as a developer but since I actually went to school for it, I didn’t have that problem. She seemed fine with it and we moved on with the interview. A couple days later, the recruiter emailed me to say they had decided to go with someone else. I asked for feedback on why I wasn’t chosen and she said there were other candidates who were stronger. I wrote back and asked if the grandboss had been the reason I didn’t get the job, and she just told me again that the hiring panel made the decision to hire someone else. I looked the grandboss up on LinkedIn after the rejection and she was a developer at two industry leaders and then an executive at a third. She was also connected to a number of well-known C-level people in our city and industry. I’m thinking of mailing her on LinkedIn to explain why her question was wrong and asking if she’ll consider me for future positions at her company but my wife says it’s a bad idea. What do you think about me mailing her to try to explain?

Sir,

You have been wronged in the most grievous of ways by a coven of retaliatory, self-aggrandizing women who have failed in the extreme to recognize your brilliance, your talent, and above all, your general superiority.

Of course you should mail this mediocre "grandboss" on LinkedIn to inform her of the deep offense she caused you by interviewing you in the first place, let alone doing so using a boring question — indeed, you have a moral and professional obligation to do so in order to preserve your honor and the honor of scores of men like you who have never done a single solitary thing wrong in their lives, ever.

But I beg you to consider doing more. A single, private message to one incompetent bitch may not convey to the necessary parties the depth and breadth of the situation. Many, many people have important lessons to learn from your experience, and I encourage you to share it widely. Consider making a public LinkedIn post, and ensure that it is shareable across platforms. Depending on your financial resources, a billboard with your name, professional headshot, and contact information could go a long way toward ensuring that everyone in your industry who needs to know just how you handled the way these women treated you, does know about it. I hope that in your continuing job search, you are able to connect with potential employers who have a much better grasp of all you bring to the table.

#advice #bad advice #ask a manager #workplace #workplace advice #linkedin #bosses #working #developers #coding #fedoras #men #misogyny #workplace misogyny #hiring #job searching #employment

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shanastoryteller · 3 months

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happy valentine Shana!!! I can't believe i made it finally jgfcjjcgjgx i would love to see some fma (Sacrifice is free/ed&ling betrothed/What They Expect) or more of Lord Arthur De Bois, or time travel Jiang Cheng/drarry, or Avengers' Three Faced Goddess! (can anyone tell I Cannot choose favourites? They're all so gooood) and if none of those sound appealing, dealer's choice! thank you!!

continuation of 1 2 3 4 5

It's sort of awkward, because Eden insists on thick tights and long sleeves and keeps her gloves on, but Catherine takes it in stride and doesn't react with anything more than a single raised eyebrow. Maybe she thinks she has some sort of terrible skin condition on her limbs, or something, because she's perfectly fine with plunging necklines and the lacy bras Catherine shoves at her.

She hasn't worn anything besides a sports bra since she's had breasts. They're not exactly comfortable, but compared to the constant, background ache of the automail it doesn't even make a blip on her radar.

Besides. They make her look like a girl, shoving her breasts up front and center, and their size had been an annoyance when passing for a boy and a comfort when she looked at herself naked in the mirror, searching for the girl she was rather than the boy everyone saw, but this is different.

"Wow," Catherine blinks, tilting her head to the side.

Eden flushes and wishes that at any point she'd learned how to talk to pretty girls outside of life or death situations. "I hadn't realized they - I'm not used to wearing, um, girly stuff."

"You look good in it," she says, touching Ed's back and shifting her to face the mirror.

She's in black tights and boots with a chunky heel, taller than the ones she normally wears and sleeker, stopping just below her knees. She's wearing a dark green dress with a deep neckline. She's used to be hard lines and sharp edges, but she looks soft here, her hips and breasts curving out from her waist and the dress somehow minimizing the breadth of her shoulders, or maybe it's just that with all the skin on display in the center, her shoulders just don't get as much attention. She'd had to build them up, to make the automail balanced, to make sure her body could support it, and she'd always hated how masculine it made her look. But looking at herself now, she wonders if that just wasn't in her head.

Green's never been a color she gravitated towards, but the dark color makes the gold of her hair shine, brings out the warmth of her eyes and the pink of her lips.

"You're really good at this," she tells Catherine, throat tight.

Catherine grins. "You are a beautiful canvas, Eden. It was not difficult." Ed's face burns. "Do you have plans for dinner? We could have it at my home. I am, honestly, dying to curl your hair."

Ed hesitates, because her shade of blonde is rather distinctive, then takes a second look at herself in the mirror. No one is going to think she's the Fullmetal Alchemist looking like this. "Okay, yeah. Sure. That'd be great."

Catherine knows that Eden is military at first glance, seeing her elder sister in the way Eden stands and moves. She looks young, but she can't be that young, not when she has the stance of someone who's been enlisted for years.

She figures that Eden is looking for clothes to wear outside of her uniform for the first time and something in her softens at how insistent Eden is on keeping certain parts of her body covered. Her siblings have scars too.

When they get to their home, Eden seems slightly surprised at the grandness of her home, but gets over it quickly, which Catherine almost expected. She hadn't looked at a single price tag as they'd been shopping and had paid for her bags of purchases with a nonchalance that spoke of a familiarity with money, although that leaves Catherine to wonder how she ended up in the military in the first place. She hadn't gotten a last name out of her, but Catherine is familiar with most military families, and she would have heard if any of their daughters had enlisted.

"Your bedroom is so pretty," Eden says, looking around at her pink, frilly room filled with flowers and clothes and gilded in gold with a soft wistfulness.

Catherine loves her. "Thank you. Here, sit at my vanity, let's play."

Eden laughs and pulls her hair out of the hasty ponytail she'd pulled it into, letting Catherine run her hands through it and carefully brush out every knot. It's gorgeous, thick and silky and the most wonderful shade that Catherine's never seen on anyone else.

People always act so oddly with her because of her family, even those similarly situated looking down at her for her choices, to be neither an officer nor married to one, but that's just not what she wants right now. It's nice to hang out with another girl that just treats her like a friend.

"MY BELOVED SISTER HAS RETURNED!" booms from what sounds like the first floor.

She sighs.

Eden goes rigid in her chair, eyes wide. "What - why-"

"It's just my brother," she says soothingly, concerned with how pale Eden has gotten. "He's harmless, really."

"Brother," Eden repeats. "Fuck. Fuck! I'm so stupid-"

"It's okay," she says in alarm, "Eden, what-"

She gets to her feet, grabbing her hands and looking at her a desperation that Catherine doesn't understand. "He can't know I'm here. Who I am. Do you understand? It's important."

She doesn't understand. "Eden-"

There's the sound of heavy footsteps heading their way and Eden wrenches herself away, bolting for the other side of the room. She claps her hands together, then presses them against the wall, and in flash of light she's disappeared.

Catherine stares. mouth agape.

She's familiar with alchemy. The skill has been passed down her family for generations.

Eden didn't use a circle.

"I HEAR YOU HAVE MADE A FRIEND, DEAR SISTER!" Alex shouts, flinging open her door and flexing in the doorway. "I WISH TO MEET YOUR NEW COMPANION!"

She picks up a pillow from her bed and lobs it at him, hitting him right in his stupid curl. "We're having girl time, go away!"

"Ah, girl time!" he says. "A storied tradition that has been passed down the Armstrong family for many generations!" He looks around, seeing her empty room, and his eyebrows dip together.

She grabs a makeup brush, holding it up threateningly. "You know what else has been passed down our family for generations? The art of knocking! Go bother Momma!"

"Where's," he starts.

Catherine throws the brush, pointy end towards his eyes.

He ducks, retreating to the safety of the hallway and closing the door just in time for the brush to hit it.

She takes a deep breath, calming her racing heart and smoothing her hands down her skirt. She crosses the room, knocking against the wall and whispering, "Eden? He's gone."

There's nothing for a moment and then there's light and heat and she's looking at the the inside of her house, pipes and insulation, and Eden standing there in the center of it, eyes blown wide and lips trembling.

Eden, who won't let her look at her limbs and doesn't know how to wear girly things and uses alchemy without circles and recognizes her brother from his voice alone.

"I'm sorry," Eden whispers, arms wrapped around herself, trying to make herself small. "I just wanted-"

Catherine interrupts her, reaching out to place her hand over the arm Eden had been careful not to let her touch and is unsurprised to feel hard, unyielding metal. "The art of secret keeping had been passed down the Armstrong family for generations."

Eden's eyes snap to hers and Catherine smiles, squeezing her arm and hopes that she can feel it. Slowly, wondrously, Eden returns it.

#girlhood is making promises you don't fully understand in the walls of your childhood home #prompt answers #prompts are closed #itisi-asimplegay #asks #fma

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ichorai · 1 year

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water dragon ; aemond targaryen. (m)

the sequel to little dragon!

pairing ; aemond targaryen x tully!f!reader

synopsis ; aemond loved his wife and his children more than anything. to lose one of them... that would bring nothing but war to the seven kingdoms.

words ; 10.3k

themes ; fluff, smut (minors dni!), heavy angst, established relationship (married), parents au

warnings / includes ; major character death (please proceed with caution), blood & cheese, descriptions of violence/blood, unprotexted sex scenes, sex in the rain, jealous!aemond, foul language, you and aemond have three children (syraena, kyrion, myra), cameos of the rest of the hotd characters, syraena experiencing gender dysphoria :( aemond being a good father/husband (most of the time), kyrion is a dragon dreamer, aegon being gross and touching you inappropriately, so sorry if the valyrian isn't completely correct </3 the timeline for this fic is a bit shifted so that king viserys dies a couple years later than he does in the show (so the children have more time to grow) lots & lots of foreshadowing !! there will be a part three.

main masterlist.

A dull, heavy thud resounded across the training yard when Criston swung his morningstar at Aemond yet again, its thick spikes missing his cheek by a hair’s breadth as he gracefully spun away, the ball landing onto the ground. Before his mentor could strike him again, Aemond darted around him in the blink of an eye, slanting the longsword’s blade against Criston’s throat.

“If we were enemies on a battlefield, you would be dead,” the Prince murmured.

The Dornish knight raised his hands in surrender. “Then I am grateful we are neither enemies nor at battle.”

With a hum, Aemond let the sword retreat back to his side, turning to place it back on the weapons rack. Only, he found his gaze falling on a small girl amongst the onlookers, her e/c eyes wide, curious, and eagerly dark.

“Syraena? What are you doing here?” he asked his eldest daughter, striding up to her and staring her down with the most stern expression he could muster. It was an hour past noon, and that meant she was supposed to be at her embroidery lessons with the Septa. Or perhaps it was dancing lessons? Aemond couldn’t quite recall. Either way, she wasn’t supposed to be here.

Upon further inspection, he noted that her wispy hair was far shorter and more scraggly than usual, small bits of silver strands littered over her scrawny shoulders.

“What did you—did you cut your hair?” Aemond accused, his single eye narrowing as he knelt down in front of her. “Gods, your mother is going to have my head.”

“Do you like it, Kepa?” Syraena replied, wildly ruffling the short silver tendrils with a wide smile. “I found a sharp shard of glass by that broken window beside the mess hall… and I cut my hair with it!”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Aemond blew out a long, exasperated sigh. Though this wasn’t the first time Syraena had startled her parents, prone to impulsive recklessness, it didn’t make her proclivities any less hard on Aemond’s heart. “Darling, that is wildly careless. Don’t ever do that again, you understand me? Come on—you shouldn’t be here, your mother must be worried to death searching for you.”

Swiftly, he wound his arms around the six year-old, lifting her up so she would sit over his waist. Of course, Syraena being Syraena, pulled a sour face and began reaching out for Criston, who was observing on with an amused expression.

“But I want to watch you spar!” she complained, twisting in his grasp and kicking at his stomach. Aemond had to bite down on his tongue to swallow his groan of pain, but he held onto her tight nonetheless. “Kepa, let me down! Let me go!”

“You should be in your lessons,” Aemond chastised, striding up the winding stairs back into the Keep.

Pouting, Syraena let herself flop limply against Aemond’s shoulder. “I hate lessons. I hate the Septa. I hate being a girl.”

Raising a brow, Aemond glanced down at her before softly patting the back of her head. Though he hadn’t a clue what it was like to be a woman in Westeros, he could understand her feeling of not belonging amongst others who seemed to belong so easily. Syraena never got along with other girls her age, who were often afraid of her callousness and her tempestuous nature. In that respect, Aemond supposed his daughter was just like him.

“I’m sorry, my sea dragon. Perhaps I’ll let the Septa know that you no longer wish to dance.”

“And embroider!”

“Hm. That, as well.”

Syraena grinned widely—her curved lips reminiscent of yours.

“Kepa?”

“Mmh?”

“Don’t tell mother I cut my hair,” she whispered, eyes shining with worry.

It was hard for Aemond to suppress his smile. “I’m sure she’ll notice regardless of whether I tell her or not, darling,” he gently told her.

Her expression dropped. “I didn’t mean to cut it this short. I just don’t like my long hair.”

“You’re very beautiful either way, Syraena,” he easily replied, before stopping in front of his chambers, where he knew you were watching over their baby daughter. “Alright. You go on inside—I’ll go speak to your Septa.”

He set his daughter down on her feet. She loitered by the door, dragging her feet glumly.

With a bark of a laugh, Aemond nudged her forward. “Go on. Your mother won’t be angry. Not that much, at least.”

Aemond’s only son, Kyrion, was a quiet boy. Only five years of age, born less than eleven moons after Syraena, he was already of greater intelligence than most far older than him, growing a knack for reading and drawing. The maesters would often express that his mind was developing much quicker than what was deemed normal.

Not only that, but he was quite handsome, as well, with strikingly sharp features akin to his father, and a head of snow-white curls. His eyes were a pale shade of purple, always distant and clouded over with thought. From as soon as he began to talk, Kyrion often spoke in strange, twisted riddles, mystifying both you and Aemond to no end.

King Viserys, as sickly as he was, had claimed him to be a dragon dreamer. Alicent had hushed him then, thinking he was on another one of his senseless rambles, and gently asked the two of you to step out so he could get some rest.

Now, as Aemond sat with his son in the library, he pondered the possibility of it all. Perhaps Kyrion had a divine gift—the ability to see glimpses of the future. He would have to speak with you about it, see what you thought first.

Even if it were true, Aemond didn’t want to put any kind of unnecessary pressure on his son. Kyrion was only five, after all, no matter how startlingly intelligent he was.

“And what does this say?” He tested the boy, tapping his finger against the dusty Valyrian book.

Immediately, Kyrion replied in his soft, far-away voice, “Zaldrīzoti mērī ipradagon parklon. Dragons only eat meat.”

“Hm. Good.”

“It should be more specific,” said Kyrion, hands fidgeting beneath the table. “Dragons only eat cooked meat.”

A ghost of a proud smile hovered over Aemond’s lips. “That is correct—this book is old, from a time before maesters were able to record accurate, detailed information about dragons.”

Kyrion didn’t reply, flipping the worn, yellowed page.

“What does this mean?” he eventually asked, pointing at an unfamiliar word.

Aemond glanced over at the book, before blanching, and cleared his throat hastily. The paragraph was depicting a few different maesters’ debates on the mating practices of dragons—a topic of which Aemond was not too keen on broaching with his five year-old son.

“Mmh… nothing of importance. Keep on reading, my water dragon. You’re doing very well.”

Blinking up at him with his large, pale violet eyes. He seemed to sense his father’s discomfort, so he let the matter drop, returning his attention to the book. Aemond blew out a relieved breath—he’d surely have to tell you about this later tonight.

Myra Targaryen, the youngest of Aemond’s children at three years of age, was a sweet little girl with a soft heart, always wearing a gentle smile. She loved all things in nature, and had a near unbearingly kind soul. She loved singing and dancing, a stark contrast to Syraena, who turned her nose away at such activities. At times Aemond wondered how Myra could possibly be his kin, for she was far too pure and he was… certainly not.

Unlike her sharp-faced siblings, Myra’s features were much softer and healthily plump. Her hair was a shade darker than them as well, the curls a silver-gold hue of blonde. Though Aemond was hoping for another daughter that bore your beautiful eye color, Myra was born with his dark purple irises, nearly blue in certain lighting.

As you had left to soak in a bath, Aemond had taken it upon himself to put his river dragon to sleep, tucking her beneath a fleece blanket and brushing her flaxen away from her drooping eyelids, heavy with exhaust from the day.

“Ēdrū sȳrī, Myra,” he whispered, brushing a kiss upon her forehead. Sleep well.

“Night-night, Kepa,” she responded, grinning sleepily, dimples indenting her chubby cheeks. “Today I saw a butterfly in the gardens!”

“Mmh, was it a large butterfly?”

“No. It was very small—smaller than my hand! I named it Hūra, because it was white, like the moon.”

Finding her grin contagious, Aemond felt a smile flicker over his usually stoic demeanor. “A lovely name. Your Aunt Helaena loves butterflies, as well. Perhaps you can tell her all about Hūra tomorrow.”

Myra enthusiastically nodded, before sitting up against her feather-pillows, reaching up to her father to press a sweet kiss against his scar, just below his eyepatch.

By the Gods, he could nearly feel tears prick the corner of his vision, but he managed to subdue them for a minute, not wanting to weep in front of his young daughter, lest she grew worried for him.

“I like Kepa’s scar,” she mumbled as she settled back down to go to sleep. “How did you get it?”

Aemond was silent for a long while, unsure of what to tell her. “An accident,” he simply replied.

“Does it hurt?”

It did, at times. Not as often as it used to, but there were instances he could still feel phantom pains throbbing behind the leather patch. “Not anymore,” he lied, voice quiet.

If Myra had any other questions, she didn’t get the chance to ask them, already drifting off into slumber.

Aemond hummed, before rising onto his feet, making his way out of her chambers. To his surprise, you were hovering by the doorway, arms crossed and affection written plainly over your expression.

“I just put Kyrion to bed,” you whispered, leaning into his touch when he cradled your face with his palms with a quiet greeting. “He was speaking in riddles again—something about a deal with a stag?”

The two of you began making your way down the hall, to your shared chambers. “Stag?” he asked. “Baratheons?”

“I don’t know.” You shook your head, sighing. “I worry for him.”

Aemond slipped into the room after you, shutting the door behind him. He gathered you in his arms, capturing your lips with his in a chaste kiss. When he pulled away, he studied your concerned features—just as beautiful as the day he’d met you.

“We’ll be fine, dōna embar,” he reassured you, leading you to bed with a protective hand resting over your lower back. You loosely smiled at the nickname—sweet sea. “The dragon-trouts are strong. No house, stag or otherwise, could ever lay a hand on them.”

Instead of responding, you kissed him again, your nose bumping against his in your haste. The both of you laid down on the tall mattress, the promise of sleep whispering sand into your ears.

Before you could fall into a dreamless rest, however, Aemond quietly murmured, “I’m assuming Syraena didn’t tell you she cut her hair with a shard of glass she found by a broken window. Kyrion also asked about mating practices whilst we were in the library. And Myra wanted to know how I got my scar.”

Startled at the sudden barrage of information, you abruptly sat up, eyes wide, sleep suddenly the very last thing on your mind. “What?”

The next morning was dreary.

It was a rare thing for rain to grace the capital, as it was usually arid and warm. But the skies were grey and thunderous, miniscule pinpricks of water beginning to fall from the dark clouds. You stood on your chamber’s balcony, enjoying the cooler temperatures and the light drizzles dampening your skin, your hair, your sleeping shift. It’d been several moons since it last rained—compared to your original home, the Riverlands, King’s Landing simply paled in comparison. How you missed the feeling.

Aemond, on the other hand, seemed indifferent to the change in weather. He stepped out to join you, one of his spindly hands reaching out to grasp the damp fabric around your waist, the other moving upward to tilt your chin so you’d look at him.

“How beautiful you are, ābrazȳrys,” he whispered, trailing kisses down from the corner of your lips to your jaw. The Valyrian word for wife was uttered with an extra husky tone. “The hour is quite early—the children are still fast asleep.” There was a rough, needy scratch to his voice, indiscreetly conveying his lustful intentions.

With a wanton grin, you replied breathily, “Fuck me in the rain, Aemond. Fuck me until I can’t wa—”

Before you could finish your sentence, Aemond was already shoving you up against the stone railing, his hot mouth slanted desperately over yours. You kissed him back with just as much vigor, curling one of your legs around his waist. Already, you could feel his length hardening, pressing against your lower stomach.

You moaned lewdly into his mouth when the hand that had been under your chin snaked further downwards to grasp at your breasts through the drenched shift, his nimble fingers pinching at your sensitive peaks. His other hand relinquished his grasp on your waist, slipping beneath the fabric between your thighs and running a finger through your folds. The action made you cry out, grasping his forearms for dear life.

“You’re already drenched for me,” Aemond susurrated, pulling away from your lips, which you had chased after with a sigh, littering kisses against your bobbing throat. “Ñuha jorrāelagon.” My love.

“Please, Aemond,” you croaked, needing more. “Please, I need you inside me.”

With a hum, Aemond swiftly shoved your damp shift up to bunch around your waist, leaving your lower half completely bare for him.

“Who am I to deny you, embar?” he whispered, biting the outside of your ear, before slowly sliding his leaking, throbbing length into your cunt. “Fuck! Mmh—you take me so well, sweet wife.”

Slowly, he began rocking into you, prideful at the way you rolled your eyes into the back of your head. Your shift, clinging against you like a second skin thanks to the rain, made the motions of your heaving, bouncing breasts all the more enticing. He ducked his head to freckle kisses over your chest as he thrust into you, murmuring praises into the wet fabric.

A clap of thunder drowned out the obscene noises the both of you were making.

Wildly, Aemond tore himself out of you, extinguishing the fiery complaints on the tip of your tongue by turning you over and pushing your stomach into the railing, so you could face the city. You were far too high up for anyone to clearly see, but the thrill of it was there, nonetheless.

Your husband slid back into you with a deep groan and a string of curses, sloppily pounding you from behind as he neared his peak. He wound an arm around you to languidly stroke at your pulsing clit, which had you bucking back into him with a surprised choke of his name.

It wasn’t long until you collapsed against him, your cunt clenching around his cock like a vice, white stars bursting out in front of your vision. Not too soon after, Aemond spilled himself within you, his hot cum dripping out of your core and down your thighs, panting against your shoulder.

“Mmh,” you moaned once he slowly pulled out, so as to not overwhelm you with overstimulation. “I do hope it rains in King’s Landing more often.”

“If it leads to more of this, then so do I,” Aemond replied, turning you around with gentle touches to kiss you soundly. “For now, how does a hot bath sound?”

Myra’s shrieks of laughter echoed across the large chambers as she clumsily ran away from Syraena, who was enacting a large, hungry dragon searching for her prey.

“Kepa, help me!” she screamed, scrambling to hide behind her father’s legs. Amused, Aemond picked up his youngest girl, setting her on his hip. His eldest clung to his shin, forcing Aemond to drag the both of them across the room as they squealed in delight.

“Faster!” Syraena ordered. Aemond made a mental note to tell Criston he was most likely going to be late for training today, knowing his girls probably wouldn’t let go of him for the next few hours.

On the other side of the chambers, you sat by your son next to the fireplace, sipping on a chalice of spiced apple cider. Kyrion was sprawled out on the expensive chaise, the corner of his tongue poking out of his mouth as he concentrated on drawing on a piece of parchment with a coal-tipped pencil.

“Mother, look,” he said, pulling your attention away from your husband and the excited girls. The paper was pushed onto your lap, covered with black smudges and hastily drawn lines. “This is what I see in my dreams.”

You blinked, studying the drawings closer. “What is it, honey? Are those trees?”

His white hair flew every which way as he vehemently shook his head. His small hand pointed at the six figures, hovering a few inches above the uneven ground. “Those are people. They didn’t bend the knee.”

Horror’s dark fingers wrapped around your heart, and you reared back to stare at your son. “Kyrion, what is this? You… have you seen this?”

His pale violet eyes met your terrified ones. “In my dreams,” he repeated, voice soft and tame, as if he hadn’t just drawn a picture of six lords hanging from the gallows. “You don’t have dreams like those?”

Still in shock, you shook your head, mute.

Kyrion studied you for a moment longer, before grabbing another sheet of paper to start drawing again. “You’re lucky, mother. Sometimes I feel it.”

“Why is that, Kyrion? What else do you feel?”

The little boy shrugged. “The milk curdles, the blood spills.” He fell quiet after that, clearly done with the conversation.

Struggling for words, you blew out a long breath, before looking back at the parchment. You leaned forward to press a kiss to his head, patting down his short white curls, before standing up and making your way to Aemond, his drawing in hand. Myra had somehow ended up on his shoulders, yelling for help as Syraena jumped around, trying to catch her little sister’s flailing feet.

“Mama,” the young river dragon cried, reaching out to you with tearful purple-blue eyes. “Syraena bit me!”

True to her word, there were shallow teeth marks imprinted in her chubby shin. Syraena grinned at her handiwork, looking none too apologetic.

“Aemond!” you sharply reprimanded, which made your husband flinch at the sudden attention, puzzled as to why the blame was placed on him instead of Syraena. “Gods, did you just stand by and watch as your daughters mauled each other?”

“I was outnumbered, darling. They are vicious little things, our girls,” Aemond lightly replied, letting go of the golden-haired girl so she could cling onto you, sobbing into your neck. At your stern expression, Aemond added on, “Syraena, say sorry to your sister.”

With a quick tongue, she quickly said with years of rehearsed practice, “Sorry, Myra. Can I come watch you train now, Kepa?”

Before he could reply, you stepped in. “Ah-ah, Syraena. You need to go to the Septa and apologize for running away from your lessons yesterday. You may be excused from embroidery and dancing, but that doesn’t give you the right to be rude.”

Glum, Syraena glanced at her father, who only beckoned her along. “Listen to your mother.”

With a heavy exhale, the silver-haired girl stomped out of the room to do as she was bid.

You traced your hand along the bite mark on Myra’s leg. “It’s not too bad, sweetheart. Go on—go ask your brother if you can draw with him.”

Sniffling, Myra slid down from your arms and waddled off to sit by Kyrion, who wordlessly scooched over to make space for his little sister.

“What’s wrong?” Aemond asked, noting the worry in your expression. The once light-hearted atmosphere seemed to dissolve away in an instant.

Pursing your lips, you handed over the drawing.

“Kyrion said he saw this in his dreams. People hanging… he said they didn’t bend the knee,” you whispered.

Aemond studied the coal-streaked parchment, eye narrowed. “Perhaps that’s all it was… just a dream.”

“Or it could be a vision. Your father said it himself—our son is a dragon dreamer,” you responded, gripping his forearm. “Aemond, I’m worried that war is upon us. Sooner than we think it is.”

There was little Aemond could truthfully say to comfort you, and so he simply drew you close, breathing in your homely scent—pleasantly noting that he could still smell the rain on you.

“It’ll be alright,” he murmured sincerely. “I won’t let anything happen to you, or our family. I’ll keep you safe.”

Blinking away the tears stinging the corner of your eyes, you pressed your nose against his throat. “I’m not sure you’d be able to, husband. Not in a war for the iron throne. Nobody is safe from that.”

Your law-sister, Helaena, had always harbored a gentle, sweet soul—a direct opposite to her brother and husband, Aegon. The very thought of being trapped in a loveless marriage, made to squeeze out heirs for a monster of a man was already nightmarish enough… you couldn’t fathom what it was like for Helaena to endure such a life. Nonetheless, she was often as happy as one could be, dreamily smiling and murmuring unintelligible words to herself.

That evening you found yourself having tea with her, listening to her speak about the strange weather and the bugs she had found washed up in the gardens due to the rain.

“Many worms, yes,” she mumbled, fiddling with a wooden carving of a cockroach. “Worms and drowned ants. Ants and drowned worms. Beetles, as well, yes.”

You smiled, glancing at her children, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, playing with yours—though Kyrion wasn’t really playing with his cousins, more just standing in the shadows and silently watching his sisters play with them. He truly was a copy of his father, after all.

“The poor creatures,” you surmised. “Rid of their homes and families just because of a bit of rain.” A bit of guilt twinged within your chest—just earlier today, you had told Aemond you wished for it to rain more.

“Oh, it’s not all that bad,” Helaena hummed, looking up at you with a mild grin. “Death gives way to more life. There will soon be new worms, new ants, new beetles. It’s simply the way of nature.”

You nodded, setting down your teacup. “I suppose you’re right. It’s just a shame that it has to happen in the first place.”

To your surprise and none of Aemond’s, all the childrens’ dragon eggs hatched within their cradles. They were growing larger and larger every day, being looked after by the dragon keepers before the children could ride them.

Today, Aemond took them down to the Dragon Pit, where his children were going to bond with their respective beasts. You were invited to come, as you always were when Aemond went off on his excursions with the kids, but you had wrinkled your nose and turned back to your book.

“I have no taste for stinking of dragon today, thank you,” you curtly replied, grinning down at your book. “Don’t you think Myra is a bit too young to bond with her dragon? She’s only three.”

“It doesn’t hurt to get acquainted,” he swiftly replied, before bending at the waist to slant a sweet kiss to your hairline, before taking his leave to head out of his chambers and wrangle his kids down to the Pit.

They were excited to go, Syraena most especially, practically sprinting down the corridors. He called out after her to slow down, but she paid him no mind.

The Dragon Pit smelled of smoke and charred meat and something distinctly dragon.

Keepers brought out the three dragonlings, playfully nipping at each other’s wings and yipping as if they were young pups.

The largest of the trio was named Aerion—Syraena’s dragon. He was a slender beauty, with shining black scales and sharp, crimson wing membranes. With the Keeper’s nod, Syraena confidently marched forward, stroking her dragon’s head, a toothy grin plastered across her lips. Aerion seemed to purr beneath her touch, plumes of grey smoke falling from his nostrils.

Next to come forward was Kyrion’s dragon, his rippling scales a dark shade of green and sharp eyes a molten amber. “Tyvaros,” Aemond heard his son mumble his dragon’s name. “Tyvaros.” A bit more timid, Kyrion hesitantly stepped forward and, with the Keeper’s approval, he reached out for the small green dragon. He was the calmest of the three, leaning forward to gently nudge his head against Kyrion’s shoulder.

The smallest of the hatchlings was Goldentooth, a pale, cream-hued dragon with aureate spikes running down her back and along her tail. She was Myra’s to claim, having been the very last to hatch.

“Go on, Qelbar.” He gently nudged his flaxen-haired daughter forward. River, he affectionately called her. “Don’t you want to bond with her?”

Myra nodded, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. “What if she doesn’t like me?”

“I can’t see a reason why she wouldn’t like you,” he calmly responded, patting her back. “Your brother and sister are getting along with their dragons just fine. It took me a long time to bond with a dragon, as well. You’ll get there, eventually.”

His words seemed to instill some courage into her, and so she shuffled along to the last Keeper, murmuring hello to her dragon. It wasn’t long until the fear subsided, and the small dragon was already climbing all over her arms and shoulders.

After an hour of bonding, the Keepers were hoarding the dragons further down into the Pit for feeding, and in turn, Aemond took the children back up into the Keep. They all stank of dragon, something you definitely weren’t going to be happy with, but had wide smiles on their faces nonetheless.

There was a hearing carried out on the subject of the heir to Driftmark (which was settled in an unsettlingly gorey manner, courtesy of Daemon Targaryen), which meant Princess Rhaenyra and her sons were back in King’s Landing for quite a while, to Aemond’s displeasure. You, on the other hand, bore no ill-will to the Princess, and were rather excited for the royal dinner to be held the next day.

The night after Vaemond’s beheading, Kyrion had tugged on your skirts and asked if you could accompany him to the library so he could return his book.

“Alright,” you told him with a small smile. “But we must be quick about it—the hour grows late, and I can see how sleepy you are.”

The purple-eyed boy nodded, taking your hand as the two of you made your way down the dark corridors, to the library. When the both of you turned the corner, you nearly ran straight into Lucerys, jumping back in surprise.

“Oh, Gods! My apologies, my Princes,” you exclaimed, flustered at the sudden appearance of Rhaenyra’s sons. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

Lucerys tilted his head. “No need to apologize, Lady Tully.”

“Targaryen. Tully is my maiden name—I’m married to Prince Aemond now,” you gently corrected.

“Evidently so,” said Jace, glancing at your son with a polite smile. “This must be my little cousin. Kyrion, isn’t it?”

The white-haired boy stared up at him with his pale eyes. “Ice and fire. Arrows and seas. Pacts and death. I saw you in my dreams.”

“Kyrion,” you hastily reprimanded, mortified that your son was speaking of death in front of Princess Rhaenyra’s eldest son, gathering the small boy up in your arms. “Sorry, he must be tired. It’s his bedtime—”

“He doesn’t look much like you, does he?” Lucerys observed, finding it eerily strange to be staring at a little boy that was a near carbon copy of the bane of his childhood.

Brows furrowing, you hesitantly replied, knowing the stale animosity between him and your husband, “I… I suppose not, my Prince. He takes after his father. My daughters, too.”

“Ah, then we must arrange to meet them. I’m sure your children would enjoy playing with my little brothers, Aegon and Viserys. They must be around the same age,” said Jace in an amicable manner.

Before you had a chance to respond, a familiar voice spat, “And why, pray tell, do you think I would ever allow my children near you and your filthy kin?”

Aemond appeared from out of the shadows, features set in one of cold fury. Both Jacaerys and Lucerys took a step back, shoulders stiffening. They had seen him training earlier today—it didn’t go past their notice that he had become incredibly skilled in combat over the years. In no way would either of them be a match for him.

Wary not to allow a fight to break out, you reached out to place a calming hand on his arm. “Aemond—” you gritted out.

“Leave us,” he growled.

Teeth gnashing together, you shook your head and whispered, “Aemond, I don’t want there to be any bad blood between us.”

“Take our son and go,” he said, more gently this time. To you, Jace and Luke were just boys—sweet boys with kind hearts. To Aemond, however, they were the monsters who took out his eye. They were a threat to him and his family’s safety.

Exchanging a worried glance between him and Jacaerys, who nodded at you to take your leave, you blew out a frustrated breath, before hastening away with Kyrion in your arms. It seemed the two of you would have to take a trip to the library another day.

Lowering his voice, Aemond calmly told the two brothers, “Speak to my wife or my children again, and I’ll have the both of you fed to my dragon.”

Luke swallowed nervously, but Jace stood his ground.

“Is that all, Uncle?” he challenged, eyebrows cocked.

Aemond fixed a sharp glare on them, nose upturned. With an irritated grunt, he turned and strode off after you, leaving the two bastard boys stunned and mildly confused in his wake.

Once he had made sure his girls were safely tucked in their beds, Aemond paid his son a visit, sitting by his side.

“I apologize for interrupting your trip to the library, water dragon,” he murmured, patting down the boy’s messy white curls.

Kyrion chewed on his bottom lip in thought. “Why don’t you like them, Kepa?”

Aemond’s single eye searched his son’s gaze, completely sincere in his curiosity. “A story for another time, when you’re older,” he replied. “Your mother said you’ve been drawing what you see in your dreams. Can you tell me about them?”

“Which ones?” he asked.

The one-eyed man felt sick at the thought of his little boy having to watch a thousand lives pass by in his visions, most having to inevitably end in death. It was a curse to be a dragon dreamer, he thought with a grimace. A burden.

“Whichever you want to tell me about, tresy.” Son.

Kyrion’s pale eyes seemed to mist over, and he fixed his gaze on a random candle across the room. “I see you wearing a crown. You sit on the Iron Throne.”

A beat of silence. “What?”

It seemed his son had mistaken Aemond’s befuddled expression for anger, as he shrank away from his father with a frown. “I’m sorry, Kepa. Don’t be angry with me.”

Aemond softened. “I’m not angry, Kyrion. I was just… shocked.”

Not all of Kyrion’s visions came true, did they? Aemond tried his best to wrack his mind for the dozens of times his mystic ramblings lead to nowhere.

“I also see mother sailing away on a ship with Syraena and Myra. She looks sad,” he quietly spoke. “I don’t like that dream very much. Can I go to sleep now, Kepa?”

Blowing out a small breath, Aemond mustered a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach his worried eye. “Yes, of course. Sleep well, little dragon.”

Hastily, he stood back up on his feet, blowing out the candles around Kyrion’s chamber, before striding out the door. His head was spinning with a million thoughts at once, his son’s wispy voice echoing within his mind.

A crown on his head. His wife and his girls on a ship. Seven hells… what was to become of his family?

Myra was humming a sweet song of summer, chubby cheeks rosy with the warm breeze that blew through the Godswood. She was seated in front of you over a yellow blanket situated on the ground. In your hands, you were weaving the little girl’s golden hair into an intricate braid, small wildflowers slotted in between the crevices.

A little ways away from the both of you, Syraena was running circles around the Weirwood tree, fighting off invisible enemies with a long, wooden stick she claimed to be her sword.

“There you go, darling,” you said, patting Myra’s shoulders once you were done. “Syraena, come here! I want to fix your hair!”

Your eldest girl huffed and puffed as she stomped over, her short silver strands sticking up every which way. “What’s there to fix?” she grumbled, plopping down in front of you.

“Perhaps if you hadn’t foolishly sliced it all off with a shard of glass, it wouldn’t resemble an uneven rat’s nest sitting upon your head,” you reprimanded.

Giggling, Myra clapped her hands. “Rat’s nest!” she parroted.

Syraena scowled. “It’s not fair. You let Kyrion have short hair. I want to be a boy, like him.”

“If you wanted short hair, you could’ve just asked. Lailena would have gladly cut it for you,” you said, brandishing a wooden comb to gently run it through Syraena’s thin silvery strands. “Do you want to know what your father said when I was first pregnant with you?”

Syraena shifted with a grimace as you yanked at a knot in her hair. “What?”

“He said he didn’t care whether you were a boy or a girl. That you were his blood, regardless. His tempestuous sea dragon,” you said with a small smile, mimicking a sour face at her nickname. “And Kyrion came next, our tranquil water dragon. Then lastly, Myra, our sweet river dragon.”

When you were done, you had Syraena turn around so you could inspect her hairline, brushing back any stray bits of hair that escaped your comb. “All finished. Beautiful, handsome… I’ll call you whatever you want me to call you, sweetling.”

She chewed at the inside of her cheek, nodding. “Can I go play knights with Jaehaerys now?”

“Go on,” you lightly nudged her away, an exasperated smile tugging at your lips, knowing full and well her hair was going to be all mussed in no less than half an hour of playing.

Before Syraena could get up and scramble away, however, a figure approached the three of you. She was clad in a black cloak, detailed with fine red thread in embroideries of flames and dragons. Golden jewelry decorated her pale skin, her long hair like sheets of pure snow.

The Princess Rhaenyra.

“Princess,” you breathily greeted, mind flashing back to last night, when you had bumped into her sons.

You were about to get up to bow, but Rhaenyra quickly said, “No need, Lady Y/N. My apologies, I wasn’t aware the Godswood was occupied. If you’d like to be alone—”

“Oh, no, it’s quite alright, Princess. It’s a space to be shared, after all,” you said with a courteous smile.

Rhaenyra studied you carefully, her purple eyes taking in your form. It was a strange thing, she thought. You were married to her half-brother, and mothered her childhood friend’s grandchildren. A childhood friend that was her friend no longer.

With you, however, perhaps the story could be different.

A genuine smile graced the Princess’ lips. “These are your girls?” she asked.

The taller and older of the two most certainly took after her father, with her sharp features and silver hair, though she bore your eyes and your smile. The younger was plump with a softer face, and had more blonde than white hair, her large eyes a deep shade of violet.

“Yes, this is Syraena, my oldest. And this is Myra,” you told her. “My son Kyrion is in the library at the moment, with his father.”

“His father,” Rhaenyra echoed quietly, voice distant. The memory of little Aemond in front of her, eye slashed out, and Luke cowering behind her with a bleeding, broken nose flashed into her mind. Clearing her throat, she reeled herself back into the present by saying, “Your children are very beautiful. Have you considered any potential suitors for them yet?”

Your eyes widened simultaneously as Syraena’s head whipped up to stare at you.

“No,” you replied, a tad too quickly. “I don’t think I’d want to subject them to that until they come of age. Or until they want to.”

The Princess tilted her head to the side with a mild laugh. “If your daughters were anything like me when I was a teenager, then you’d find the latter quite a challenge.”

“Yes, Queen Alicent has told me of your youth… how you rejected nearly all the contenders for your hand,” you replied. “I can’t say I could relate. Aemond was my first and only suitor.”

She hummed in thought. “I only asked because I just had my sons betrothed to their cousins.”

Right. Jacaerys and Lucerys were to wed Baela and Rhaena.

So that was why she asked. She wanted to know if Alicent was scheming, just as she had been. Betrothals and weddings were equivalent to political currency in times of war.

“I don’t plan on wedding my children off any time soon,” you reassured her. From the corner of your eye, you could see Syraena’s shoulders loosen up. The prospect of marriage was not one she was particularly interested in.

“I see,” Rhaenyra said, though her face was much more relaxed now than before. “I shall go wash myself before supper tonight. I look forward to seeing you there.”

With that, she turned to take her leave. Myra looked up at you with a toothy grin. “Can I come with you to supper?”

“It’ll be past your bedtime,” you said, rising to your feet and picking her up to place on your hip. “But I promise we can spend the entire day together before that. Come on, Syraena, I’ll drop you off at Jaehaerys’ room.”

That evening’s royal supper was a disaster.

It started off well enough, with several toasts from the adults, and an additional one from Jacaerys dedicated to his uncles and his cousins’ good fortune. The King gave one long, hunkering speech on unity and the togetherness of the dragon’s house, wheezing through his words all the way.

Only then did the feast begin, consisting of a large assortment of roasted meats and soups and plates of steaming bread. There were also cold platters of appetizers passed around, full of cheeses, figs, and grapes. Viserys had barely eaten a bite before he had to be escorted back to his chambers, past his point of exhaustion.

Aegon had spent most of the dinner tormenting Jace and Baela on their future marriage. When he grew bored of his nephew’s stoic demeanor, he turned to you, his good-sister. It was evident the Prince was quite drunk as he blathered on and on about the most trivial topics as you gingerly drank your hearty soup, though you didn’t have much of a stomach for it anymore.

The last of the toasts came from Helaena as she congratulated Baela and Rhaena on their betrothals, subtly dunking on her husband before she drank with a dreamy grin.

Not too long after, music started playing, a symphony of strings and bells, and Jace had offered his hand to Helaena, much to Aegon’s dismay.

In an effort to retaliate, Aegon leaned close to your ear, placing a hand on your thigh beneath the table. You had jerked away from his touch, glancing at Aemond, who sat on your other side.

“Care for a dance with me, good-sister?” He smelled of wine and a general foul dampness.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “That’s quite alright, my Prince. I don’t think you’re in a state to dance with me.”

“Nonsense, Lady Y/N, I am as sound as the day I was born!” he drunkenly hiccuped, words slurring together. His hand found its way back to your thigh, fingers gripping tighter this time. You tried to yank your leg away, nearly standing up with the effort.

Sensing your discomfort, Aemond growled out, “Leave my wife alone, brother.”

The song drew to a close, and Helaena returned to her seat, beaming brightly.

“Or what?” Aegon cackled, clearly enjoying seeing his brother get riled up. Thankfully, his hand slipped away from your leg to grip another chalice of wine. “What will you possibly—”

Before he could finish, Jacaerys stood between you and Aegon, offering his hand.

“If I could have this dance, Lady Targaryen?” he asked, emphasizing the family name in memory of your correction last night. His expression bore one of concern, obviously coming here to offer you an escape from Aegon.

Sparing a glance to your husband, who had taken to silently bristling, you nodded once.

“Of course, my Prince,” you said, taking his hand. Much to your satisfaction, Aegon had looked like he was struck across the face.

Off the two of you danced—spinning and twirling and laughing the entire time. Aemond was never too fond of dancing during the celebrations, always cautious of the stares, much preferring to dance with you in the privacy of your own chambers. Watching you openly have such fun with Jacaerys, however, made jealousy coil tight within his abdomen. You were smiling so widely—a smile that he had the joy of seeing every morning. To see it elicited because of his bastard nephew kindled an envious, green flame inside him.

Then came the pig.

And Lucerys’ none-too-discreet giggling.

Something in Aemond snapped.

The music halted as he slammed his fists onto the table, and his wife hastily stopped dancing with Jacaerys to see what the commotion was.

Of course, Aemond simply couldn’t help himself. In front of the entire family, he called his nephews Strong boys.

Pandemonium broke out. Jacaerys had let go of you to storm forward and land a punch on your husband, which seemed not to affect him in the least, shoving the brown-haired boy to the ground.

Aegon, eager to join the chaos, had grabbed Lucerys by the scruff of his shirt, shoving him into a searing platter of fish. “A gift for the new Lord of Driftmark!” he announced with a wild, manic grin.

In the end, Daemon had been the one to put a stop to the scuffle, staring down Aemond with raised brows. With a frustrated hum beneath his breath, your husband stormed out of the mess hall, making his way upstairs to your shared chambers.

You scrambled out after him, lifting your skirts to give you space to run. It was improper to leave without bidding the rest of the family goodbye, but then again… nothing about the dinner had been proper at all.

Once you had rushed into the room, Aemond roughly slammed the door shut, pushing you up against it. His fingers were already undoing the laces on your back, his lips sealing shut over yours.

“Aemond,” you murmured against him, lightly pushing at his chest. “Stop, for just a minute.”

Your husband pulled back at your request, single violet eye ablaze.

“What… Gods, why would you do such a thing? Why would you go out of your way to torment them?”

“You know very well why,” he quietly gruffed, reaching behind to pull off his eyepatch, tossing it onto a small table by the door, the sapphire in place of his lost eye gleaming dully beneath the moonlight. Your lips parted to ask him something else, but he cut you off by gripping your chin, whispering in a possessive fashion, “Hush, ñuha dōna embar. Seven hells, you’re more beautiful than ever. And you’re all mine.” My sweet sea.

“Don’t hush me!” you hissed, brows knitting together. “Aemond, Jacaerys will one day be the crown prince when Rhaenyra ascends the throne. It is not wise to provoke them in such a manner.”

Blowing out a heavy sigh, Aemond stroked your cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “They’re bastards, my love. The throne is not theirs to take. And my sister… the realm will not accept her as their ruler. You know this, jorrāelagon.”

“They swore an oath! Our families swore oaths to her. I don’t know about you, but I’m not too keen on becoming an oathbreaker,” you reminded, softening beneath his touch. “Aemond, I don’t want to fight with you. I just don’t want you to do that again. If not for me, then for our children. Don’t go picking fights where it’s not needed.”

Aemond shut his weary eye. If Myra had seen him tonight, she would surely be afraid of him.

“I’m sorry, my love. I’m sorry. I got caught up in my anger.”

You leaned forward to kiss him, soft and gentle, and Aemond wasted no time in reciprocating, pressing you back against the door. Off came your dress and down came your styled hair with Aemond’s skilled fingers. In no time, Aemond had your legs wound around his waist, his coat unbuttoned and shirked off somewhere behind him. Your drenched core was pressed right against his throbbing length, rock hard and leaking with pearly beads of precum.

“I love you, more than anything, more than life itself,” he murmured against your throat, gently nipping at the skin there. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, Aemond,” you moaned wantonly when one of his hands snaked down to thumb at your clit. “Please, I’m yours, please fuck me.”

With a satisfied hum, Aemond planted a deep kiss onto your parted lips, a groan rumbling from his chest when you bit into his bottom lip, eyes hooded. He lined his cock up, before sinking into you with one smooth motion, his forehead falling into the crook of your neck.

You held onto him for dear life when he began to rock into you, scratching faint crimson lines down his toned back. The pain seemed to only spur him on, and he shifted his angle to pound into you deeper, your eyes rolling into the back of your head at the pleasure.

“Fuck!” he bit out. “So good, ābrazȳrys. Feels so good around me.”

He moaned when you clenched around him, his breath hitching when you slid your hands up into his hair and yanked with no abandon. In no time, he could feel you coming undone around him with a litany of colorful curses, shaking almost violently in his hold. In turn, Aemond came inside you with a shout of your name, rocking into you once, twice, thrice more.

Slow, he pulled out of you, watching the cum drip out of your spent cunt with great satisfaction. He kissed you sweetly, nose nudging against your cheek.

“I’ll get you cleaned up,” he softly said, carrying you across the room to set you down on the bed. “Go to sleep, love.”

“Mm, I love you,” you murmured. A ghost of a warm smile etched into the corner of his lips. He repeated the sentiment to you, but you had already drifted off to sleep before you could hear it.

King Viserys was dead. Rhaenyra and her children were gone, having flown back to Dragonstone earlier in the day.

And already, Aegon was to be crowned King.

You were none too happy about the turn of events, but you were to turn the cheek and play the part of the faithful wife, for the sake of your family and their safety. The lords who had refused to bend the knee to Aegon were either thrown in the dungeons or hanged, labeled as treasonous traitors to the realm. It was just like Kyrion had drawn, as he claimed to have seen in his dreams.

“A beast beneath the boards,” Helaena had constantly murmured, which frightened you to no end.

It was only worsened when Kyrion would reply with, “Bursting red, red in the sky, the sun in her mouth.”

Syraena was rupturing at the seams with a constant stream of questions—questions you had no such answers to. And your youngest daughter was crying the entire day, sensing the tense, fragile atmosphere. Your husband had gone to find Aegon in the slums of King’s Landing, who had unsurprisingly disappeared in thin air.

Not before long, he was dragged back into the Keep, and the coronation commenced above the Dragon Pit. The beast beneath the boards broke out only minutes after the crown was placed on his head. Hundreds of commoners and smallfolk were killed in the commotion. Princess Rhaenys rode her scarlet dragon, the Queen That Never Was mounted on the Red Queen of Dragons.

Aemond had shoved you back, protectively standing in front of you, though there was very little he could do. The both of you were immensely grateful the children were left in the castle with Lailena, safe from the chaos and the havoc. If you were to die today, you’d be dying in Aemond’s arms, knowing your children were safe for the time being—what better way was there to die?

But neither of you died that day, for Meleys had only screeched out a shrill warning, before clambering out of the Pit, and absconding to the clouds. Red in the sky.

Aemond had ushered you to the Keep, before hugging you tight in the secluded privacy of your chambers, genuinely terrified that he could’ve lost you.

The next day, he was already leaving again. He was to go to Storm’s End to broker a deal with Borros Baratheon: a marriage proposal between his brother Daeron and one of the Lord’s daughters. It seemed that betrothals truly were the realm’s political currency now.

“I want to come with you, Kepa,” Syraena said, staring up at her father with narrowed e/c eyes. “Let me come with you!”

Expression softening, Aemond ruffled her already-mussed hair. “It’ll be a quick trip. You can come to the next one, Syraena.”

The next goodbye was for his son, who hugged his father loosely. “An eye for a pearl,” he mumbled, too quiet for Aemond to hear.

Clutched to his leg, sobbing hysterically, was Myra, her cheeks damp and her dark, plum-hued eyes red-rimmed. “Oh, river, don’t cry for me. I’ll be back tomorrow, I promise.”

Finally, he turned to you, his hand on the back of your head as he kissed you, chaste yet passionate, and rested his forehead on yours. “Stay safe in here, my dear sea.”

“Storm’s End is wet and cold and… obviously stormy. Keep yourself warm. Don’t get struck by lightning, is all I ask, husband.”

“As you wish, love,” he whispered, before ducking his head to kiss your cheek. With a laugh, he pried his sweet girl away from his leg, lifting her up to chastely peck her forehead, and then handed her bawling form over to you. She was always this way when Aemond had to leave for longer than a day.

The four of you watched Aemond head out of the Keep. Unease roiled within your stomach with his absence.

“Three days for the pearl to wash ashore,” said Kyrion. There was a pallid tone to his skin, and he glanced at you with his large, pale eyes. “Mother, I’m scared.”

“Come,” you quickly said, ushering the children to their chambers. “Let’s go play with Auntie Helaena and Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, yes?”

It was late the next night when Aemond returned. The moon glowed in a sliver of its regular size, the crescent unnaturally bright in the dark sky, void of any stars. You were standing out on the balcony, sleeping shift rustling with the warm wind when the doors behind you creaked open.

Rainwater dripped from his cloak as he stepped in.

Drip, drip, drip.

His single eye was wide and haunted, expression so far that it seemed like Aemond wasn’t even in the same room as you.

“Aemond?” you called out, stepping back into the chambers and crossing the room in quick strides to greet him. “Gods, you're sopping wet. Are you alright?”

It was as if he didn’t hear you, staring at the ground with parted lips. There was an unfamiliar, raw sort of terror blanketed over his features, you could see it clear as ever. Your brows indented together, and you reached out to softly graze your fingers along his damp face.

At the gentle touch, Aemond snapped his gaze to you. His hands were shaking.

Finding yourself at a loss for words, you roped him into an embrace, clutching his drenched form tightly against yours, uncaring that you were getting soaked in the process. This seemed to break him out of his reverie, as he began to tremble violently, and his chest thundered with silent sobs. His nose went directly to your neck and you hushed him with your free hand stroking the back of his head.

“Aemond, my love, what happened?” you asked again.

This time, he tried his best to answer you. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean it.”

“Didn’t mean what, darling?”

“Vhagar didn’t listen to me. I tried to stop her,” he croaked, pulling his ashen face away from the junction of your neck, searching your comforting face frantically. “I… I killed him. I killed Lucerys.”

Your lips parted in shock. There was little you could find to say—for what could you tell your husband, now a kinslayer? No amount of comforting words could fix a situation such as this.

When Rhaenyra would inevitably find out about her son, war would rain down upon you and your family.

With a thick throat, you tightly hugged Aemond again, tears gracing the corners of your own eyes.

The days passed in a blur. Aemond was quieter than ever before, regret painted over his sharp features each and every time you glanced at him. Once he told his mother, she had nearly gone down the same manic spiral, but steeled herself to deal with the Green council.

When Aegon heard of his nephew’s death, he threw a large, grand feast, inviting all the Lords and Ladies at court.

Neither you nor Aemond attended.

The fourth night after Aemond had returned from Storm’s End, you were in Kyrion’s chambers, brushing away his ivory curls with tender hands as he settled beneath his fleece blanket to go to sleep. Aemond was putting the girls to bed by reading them a story, as the both of them were more restless than usual as of late.

“Kyr, baby, I have a question for you,” you said, voice soft and hesitant. Should you really be asking your son this? When Kyrion tilted his head in a silent motion for you to continue, you cleared your throat. “In your dreams… Did you see what happened to your cousin, Lucerys?”

Your son nodded once, biting at the inside of his cheek, a habit that he seemed to share with you.

Before you could ask him what he saw, there was a sudden, dull thud heard outside, followed by the familiar screech of steel. Fear wound its cold, dark hands around your pulsating heart.

The door flung open so quickly that the hinges whined in protest. Your eyes fell upon the two guards in front of Kyrion’s chambers, sprawled over the cobblestone floor, dark ichor leaking out of slit throats. Two looming figures stood in the doorway. One large and burly, the other short and thin as a twig.

You had no time to react, for a second later, the small one had darted forward, seizing you with surprising strength, brandishing coarse rope from thin air and binding your limbs together with tight knots, doing so with just one hand as his other was tightly sealing your mouth so you wouldn’t be able to scream for your husband, for more guards, for anyone. The other large man slammed the doors shut and barred them with one of his many swords he was carrying. The one holding you roughly gagged you with a cloth as soon as he pried his hand off, tying the ends around the back of your head. You gagged when your tongue registered the taste of coppery, day-old blood and sweat.

Despite the hindrance, you screamed your throat raw through the cloth anyway, kicking furiously and struggling in desperation against the small man, who was adamant on keeping you rooted to one spot. Your yells came out muffled and guttural, but not nearly loud enough to alert anybody outside, seeing as the closest people to the chambers were now dead.

Your son whimpered out for you, but he remained quiet after that, his pale mauve eyes wide as he fixed his gaze upon the large, brutish man who slowly approached him.

“Don’t be scared, little fish,” the mousy man sneered gripping your cheeks so you’d be forced to watch your little boy cower further beneath his covers. “We’re simply debt collectors, you see. An eye for an eye, a son for a son. We just want ‘im. Won’t hurt one hair on your pretty lil’ head, ey?”

“NO!” you sobbed, struggling thrice-fold against him, to no avail. “Take me! Please, not my son!” you screamed, though it sounded like nothing but incoherent wailing through the dirty cloth.

You could do nothing but watch in horror as the large man tightened his grip on his longsword. The other hand reached out for your son, dragging him out of bed by the scruff of his sleep shirt so he dangled nearly a meter away from the ground.

“Don’t look, mother. I don’t want you to see it,” he whispered, just loud enough for you to hear through the thundering of your pulse in your ears, making your knees buckle. “I saw it in my dreams.”

With one strike, the man lopped Kyrion’s head clean off.

Your heart seemed to stop for a moment. You screamed through the cloth, sobbing as you painfully crumpled to the ground, the gangly man finally releasing you. The blood… your son’s blood… his bed was covered with it. The walls behind him, the floor, the books on his desk…

Red, everywhere…

The two monsters had taken Kyrion’s head, the large man’s crimson-flecked fist gripping your son’s pearly-white curls, both fleeing the chambers in a blink of an eye.

You sobbed against the ground, inching your way to your son with your bonds digging into you. You didn’t care. It was nothing compared to the pain within your chest.

“Kyrion,” you wailed through the cloth, using your shoulder to roughly shove it down your lips, letting it fall around your neck, tearing the corner of your mouth in the process.

The entire Red Keep seemed to awaken with your grief-stricken scream. You kneeled your head against your little boy’s decapitated body, sobs wracking through your entire form.

That was what Aemond had rushed into, hearing the echoes of your cries from far away. He’d locked the girls’ rooms before coming, fearing the worst.

Upon seeing you on the ground, hovering over his murdered son, Aemond collapsed to his knees beside you, gathering his broken, shaking wife in his arms as he tugged you away. With trembling fingers, he undid the ropes around you, allowing you to throw your arms around him freely.

“Look away, jorrāelagon,” he said, voice uneven as he began to cry with you. “Look away.”

His words made you sob even harder… your son had told you to do just the same.

When Criston Cole came rushing in with Alicent Hightower, Aemond had immediately got to his feet, murderous revenge painted across his features. He helped you up, still crying hysterically.

“Mother, escort Y/N to our daughters’ chambers. Get a dozen guards to man the door. I’ll find our son’s murderer, and I’ll kill him myself.” He began striding away, Criston hot on his heels.

You called out for him, voice hoarse with overuse.

Pausing in his steps, Aemond turned his head ever so slightly, but didn’t meet your gaze. He blamed himself, of course he did. He was ashamed, because it was his fault his son was dead. It was his fault he couldn’t protect him—that he couldn’t protect you.

It seemed that Aemond was far too blinded by his rage to learn from his mistakes.

“I need you here, please! Please, Aemond, please don’t go,” you sobbed, leaning your weight against Alicent, who had taken to cradling you against her chest.

A muscle in your husband’s jaw jumped. A tear slipped down from his only eye, and he continued to walk away, determined to bring justice to his son. It felt as if a searing hot knife had pierced through his chest and twisted when he heard your despaired cries ricocheting off the stone halls of the Keep.

Revenge, was all he could think of, cold anger dancing along the dark shadows of his face. If it is a war they want, it is a war they shall have.

a/n ; hey !! thank you for reading this fic until the end <3 means so much to me! i made some picrews of what i visualize the kids to look like so here you go !! they're all aged up, ofc.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen fluff #aemond fluff #aemond smut #aemond targaryen imagines #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x reader #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd smut #hotd fanfiction #hotd fluff #aemond targaryen fic #aegon targaryen x reader

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obaex · 9 months

Text

pinch me - jj maybank

summary: when you turn 17, your body begins to mirror anything that happens to your soulmate, but with so many marks and bruises, why is yours so hard to find?

word count: 2.9k

a/n: happy obx writing week! this is for day 1: au with jj! thank you to the lovely @surftrips for planning this event. this fic's a little different, but i am simply a sucker for a soulmate au. italics are jj's perspective. ♡

The flowers bloomed on your skin like a tattoo, delicate but dark. Large roses, orchids, lilies and daffodils tangled with leaves to form a winding pattern that started on your hand before appearing on your arm. You lifted your shirt to see them swirl on your ribs, near your stomach. It was mesmerizing to watch, beautiful, hypnotizing even, the sensation felt like a pleasant tingle beneath your skin that now danced on your cheek, around your eye. You lay down on your bed, closed your eyes, and willed the patterns to disappear by morning.

You knew when you turned 17 that this could happen, that your body would begin to mirror any impact on your soulmate’s skin, so you weren’t necessarily surprised. What did surprise you was the frequency with which the marks appeared, their breadth, their size. Your chest ached with the knowledge that whoever your heart was tethered to underwent physical pain on a regular basis.

You searched for your other half eagerly, knowing they wouldn’t be hard to find: a split lip, a black eye, bruised knuckles, but of course there was no one that looked like that on Figure 8. Your friends sought out their matches based on the occasional skinned knee, maybe a broken finger playing lacrosse; when they asked you about it, you lied and said you hadn’t felt anything yet, too heartbroken to share the truth and the fact that your person was nowhere to be found.

When your best friend Sarah Cameron found her match, you couldn’t help but be happy for her, even though she had found him on the wrong side of the island. She and John B began spending every day together; you were lucky if you could steal her away for an afternoon at the beach, and even then, she spent every moment gushing about him. Before long she was begging you to come hang out with him and his friends. You were undeniably skeptical, but by now your own flowered marks had stopped appearing and even though you knew that was a good thing for your other half, in a way you missed them, missed the connection, the reminder that someone out there was meant for you. You needed something to distract you, and John B and his friends proved to be the perfect distraction, especially JJ Maybank.

You and JJ fell into an immediate friendship that was unlike any you’d had before. Frankly, it shocked the other pogues – what could a marina rat and a kook princess possibly have in common? On the surface, the answer was nothing, but it’s like you just clicked right from the first day you met. You were always laughing at each other’s jokes, tears brimming your eyes, unable to catch your breath no matter how stupid they seemed to everyone else. You would finish each other’s sentences, you could read into each other’s emotions, able to understand one another when words fell short, ready with a hug or a smile when they needed it most. You had a casual intimacy, your head resting on his shoulder when you watched a movie, him always needing to have the seat next to you whether in the twinkie or in the back yard at the chateau, you permanently wearing at least one article of his clothing at any given time. You were having fun, your time with JJ distracting you from the loneliness you had felt before.

Everyone had become so obsessed with this soulmate thing - JJ didn’t think it was even real. He had never felt a thing, grateful at least that that meant his soulmate had a life very different from his own. But, why did people care so much? He had seen and heard John B go on and on about it, but all he wanted to do was ignore it, convinced that that kind of thing just wasn’t meant for someone like him.

He never knew if his parents had had it, and even if they did, what good had it done them? His mom left and his dad was gone now too, having finally taken off for the Yucatan months ago. Good riddance.

No, JJ preferred to focus on what he could control, to believe what was right in from of him, and for now that was Y/N. He wasn’t sure what a girl like that was doing hanging around with a pogue like him, but he wasn’t going to question it, grateful for every day he got to spend with her. He loved the way she made him feel, like he was always the center of her attention no matter what was going on around them - he’d never had that before, had never been someone’s first priority. He loved the way she would laugh uncontrollably with him, how big her smile got, how her nose would crinkle. He loved the way she curled into his arms when she had a bad day, seeking him out for comfort and reassurance; he loved knowing he could be that for somebody. He loved when she leaned on him when they watched movies, how sometimes her eyelids fluttered closed and she’d breath heavily against him, wrapping her arms around him in her sleepy state – that was his favorite.

The funny thing was, she didn’t seem to believe in this soulmate thing either, never chiming in when the inevitable conversation came up. And that made him feel like maybe he had a chance. He tried every day to muster the courage, to find the right words to say to ask her out, which is where his mind wandered while he spent the afternoon at work at the marina, pissed that he was missing a day on the boat with her.

The HMS Pogue bobbed gently to the rhythm of the waves as John B and Pope cast their rods into the water. You, Sarah and Kie were lying on the bow, soaking in the scorching rays of the sun as sweat dripped down your body.

“OK, I’m getting in the water, it’s too damn hot” Kie said resolutely, standing up.

“Yes please” you said, jumping up, pulling off your sunglasses and diving in, beating her to the punch.

The salt water cooled your skin immediately, bringing instant relief. You let out a sigh as your head breached the surface and you began to float on your back. It was only a moment before you felt something slimy and looked around you to see you had jumped right into a school of jellyfish. You tried to swim away, shrieking, before they began to sting you, their barbed tentacles attaching to your side as you tried to knock them away and scrambled back to the boat. You pulled yourself shakily out of the water, tenderly feeling the burns on your skin as tears overflowed in your eyes.

JJ was spraying down the latest kook yacht to pull into the marina, washing and rinsing mindlessly, his thoughts drifting to you and back again when he felt an itch on his side. He scratched it absentmindedly, attempting to ignore it when it persisted in a tingling feeling. He rubbed it harder before finally lifting his shirt to see a tattooed pattern of vines winding up his side. He shoved his shirt down and looked around, hoping nobody had seen. He dropped the hose in his hand and stumbled inside before he pulled his shirt off to inspect his skin more closely. He was mesmerized by the sensation and the pattern on his skin, his heart racing with excitement until he realized what this meant, his joy waning as his sympathy grew for this person he didn’t even know. He pressed his hand against the vines, like he could make them stop, but they persisted. He could hear his boss yelling for him, so he quickly pulled his shirt back on, his head spinning as he went back to work.

The rest of the afternoon and evening you walked around gingerly, icing your side, putting ointment on it, but nothing seemed to quell the burning sensation of the barbs in your skin. You pulled on one of JJ’s soft, oversized sweatshirts and a pair of shorts and joined your friends in John B’s backyard, trying to focus on anything else to forget the pain you were in.

Thankfully, JJ showed up right after his shift. You had missed him all day, wishing he had been out on the boat with you; he would have known just what to say, how to make you laugh, exactly how to make you feel better, and that’s all you wanted right now.

He settled into his chair beside you, but didn’t meet your gaze, didn’t acknowledge you at all; he looked a thousand miles away.

“Hey, you okay?” you asked, picking up on his demeanor immediately.

“Hmm?” he said, glancing at you quickly before looking away. In truth, he couldn’t stop thinking about the tingling on his side, which had started to fade, but that he could still feel. He looked back at you, examining you. You were perfectly fine. No one had hurt you, you weren’t in pain, and he was overwhelmingly grateful for that, but at the same time, selfishly, he knew that that meant that you weren’t his, weren’t the one for him and it crushed him.

He looked at you with sad eyes, his ocean blues scanning yours, opened his mouth like he wanted to say something before shutting it, shaking his head and ignoring you, choosing to focus on the beer in his hand instead.

You scrunched your face in response, hurt by his dismissal, especially after the day you'd had. You had been so sure he would make you feel better, that he would pull you into his arms and tell you everything was going to be okay, and now he wouldn’t even talk to you.

“Okay then” you said, standing up quickly, wanting to put some distance between you before your emotions got the best of you. “Anyone need another drink?” you asked as you made your way inside. John B shook his near-empty can in the air and you nodded, turning quickly so no one would see the tears in your eyes as you slammed the door behind you.

“What was that about?” John B said as he looked over at JJ.

JJ just shook his head and shrugged, trying to shake off your reaction, his feelings, and failing miserably.

“She seemed upset” Kie pushed, not used to seeing the two of you at odds with each other, ever. “You could at least try to be nice to her, Jayj, she had a shitty day.”

“Pfft understatement of the year” Pope agreed as he took a swig of his beer, “she put up a tough front but I’ve never seen stings that bad before, had to be the man-o-wars, she jumped right into them.”

JJ’s ears perked up. “What?” he asked, trying to catch up.

“She got stung, asshole, like fifteen times” Kie replied, gesturing to her side.

The same side where JJ’s skin still tingled.

JJ’s mouth ran dry and he could feel his heart start to hammer in his chest. It couldn’t be… could it?

He stood up, dropped his beer at his feet and ran after you.

“Y/N!!” he called as soon as he was inside, nearly tripping over the furniture on his way to reach you in the kitchen.

You were leaning with your back against the counter, your eyes meeting his as you wiped at your tears, not wanting him to know how upset he’d made you.

“You’re – Pope said – you – today –“ he stumbled over his words as he gestured outside and then to you.

You looked at him, utterly confused.

He shook his head, trying to clear it as he ran his hands through his hair, willing his heart to slow down just enough for him to get his words out.

“Today. You got stung. A-Are you okay?” he said through labored breath.

You shrugged, still angry with him. “I’m fine” you said.

“Nah, don’t do that, don’t play it off, Pope said it was bad, worst that he’s seen in a long time. C-Can I see?” he asked.

You didn’t know what good it would do at this point but you set your drink down and tenderly reached for the bottom of your sweatshirt, lifting it up to expose the angry red skin on your side, wincing slightly as your fingers grazed it.

JJ stepped closer to you, one hand on your stomach, the other on your hip, careful to avoid touching your wounds as he looked closely at it, then at you. He felt his breath hitch as his emotions overwhelmed him at the thought of this happening to you. You immediately registered the sympathy in his eyes and the fact that he seemed completely distraught, his own eyes nearly brimming with tears.

“Hey, I’m alright, it’s alright, J” you said, not fully grasping the look in his eyes.

He took his hands away, but didn’t step back from you as he lifted his own shirt. You could make out the faint remains of a twisted pattern of vines that ran up his side. Your hands flew to your mouth in shock.

“JJ…” you cautioned. Despite how much you desperately wanted this to be true, you both knew that this could be a coincidence, that that happened all the time. Your eyes met his and you could see the longing shining in them as they met yours, unwavering.

“Pinch me” he said, holding out his arm.

“What?” you asked.

“Pinch me, hard, do it,” he said again, pushing his arm closer to you.

Part of you wanted to know the truth, needed to know the truth, but a larger part of you was scared, horrified for this be a coincidence, and what that would mean for both of you. The idea that JJ might not be yours had your chin wobbling as you looked at him.

“Please, gorgeous, I need to know” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

You reached out tentatively and pinched the skin on his forearm hard enough to leave a pink mark where your fingers had squeezed. Within seconds you could feel the tingle on your own skin, your emotions bubbling up as you laughed and then cried, JJ grabbing you by the shoulders, desperately trying to read your emotions as you pulled up your sleeve to reveal the rose that had bloomed on your own arm, matching his own. He looked down as tears welled in his own eyes.

“D-Do it again” he said, now that he could see it, holding out his arm.

“JJ” you said through your tears, urging him to accept what was in front of him.

“Do it again” he said, and as you pinched him a daisy bloomed next to the rose, leaves tangling together. He watched the pattern, willing himself to accept that this was much more than a coincidence, to accept that he could have this, have you, that you were made for him.

He pulled you into his arms, burying his head in your shoulder as you shook, your arms circling him and hands grasping the back of his shirt like a lifeline, unwilling to let him go.

“My God, oh my God” he muttered next to you as he rocked you back and forth.

“W-wait” you said, pulling back reluctantly to look at him. His eyes were blown wide, totally focused on you.

“What is it, beautiful?” he asked and your heart skipped a beat at the nickname.

Your hand came up to cup his face. “Last year” you whispered, tracing your finger under his eye, across his cheek, running it over his lips, tracing all the places you seen flowers on your own skin. He hung his head, pressing his forehead to yours.

“My dad” he said simply in reply as he realized, reluctantly, that you now knew better than anyone what he had been through.

“I’m so sorry” you whispered.

“It’s okay. I’m okay now” he reassured you as his hands reached up to cup your face. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

You nodded as your eyes met his, your mind still reeling, trying to piece together what was in front of you: this boy, with his long hair, his tender eyes, his perfect smile, his infectious laugh, his warm hugs was it, was yours, forever. You smiled at him and he smiled at you as his mind pieced together the same thing.

“How did I get so lucky?” he asked and you laughed in response. “I wanted it to be you. From the moment I met you, I wanted this” he said. You nodded vigorously in agreement, your instant connection so many months ago making so much sense now.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked quietly.

You nodded more vigorously as he brought your lips to his.

He wanted nothing more than to lose himself in you, but was reassured by the fact that he’d have eternity to do so as he pressed his lips softly to yours, savoring the feeling, and the way you pressed into him, opening up to him almost immediately, grasping his shirt and pulling him against you, against the counter as you hummed in response, your pain long forgotten as the pleasure of his body, his heart beating against your own took over. He ran his fingers into your hair as his tongue tangled with yours and he swore nothing in the world would ever compare to this.

taglist: @ietss, @gillybear17, @palmwinemami, @sweetestdesire, @softcoremaybank, @one-sweet-gubler, @m-indkiller

#jj maybank #jj maybank fanfiction #obx jj #obx jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #obxweek23 #jj maybank fluff #jj maybank x you #jj maybank imagine #jj obx #outerbanks jj #jj outer banks #jj x reader #obx fanfiction

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sprout-fics · 1 year

Note

NO GIRL CAUSE IVE BEEN BRAINROTTING ABOUT IT TOO

like my size kink is out of control with these two.

I have a feeling könig would try to be really slow and gentle if they actually tried to do that and it would definitely include him petting maus’ hair and just shushing her

This man would absolutely 100% be gentle but god the patience and restraint it takes to make sure you're ready for him is the stuff of legends.

Size kink, multiple orgasms, praise, PiV sex, fingering, massive dick but gentle König

“Easy, Maus.” He tells you, and his fingers are sneaking up your nape to cradle your head, pillowing it from the mattress under you. The blunt breadth of him pulls at you, forcing you open, wider despite the time he’s taken to prep you. It feels like Konig has spent hours at you already, pulling orgasm after orgasm from you until you’ve lost count. His fingers are huge, curling, pressing, gently at first until he was sure you could take it. The only thing you remembered before he pulled your world to pieces was his name for you, breathed with absolute adoration, wonder.

“Maus.”

And then there was just him, his fingers inside you pulsing and thrusting and searching even as you moaned and whimpered and tried to tell him it was too much. He didn’t seem to hear you, not with the way his eyes never blinked, locked onto your face, the rise and fall of your breasts, the way your lips fell open and skin shivered. With every orgasm you had softened, fallen open a little wider, growing loose and pliant under him with every thrust of his impossibly broad fingers inside you, every shuddering sigh that escaped as a keening moan from your chest. When he found the soft, spongy bundle of nerves at the apex of you, you had whined, reaching for him, clinging, arching off the bed and squirming so hard a single, massive hand had splayed across your stomach to hold you still.

Yet that was nothing. Not compared to this.

There’s slick everywhere. Coating the hand that grips your thigh as he wrenches you open for him. He’s shuddering with the restraint it takes him to not hilt himself in you, and that effort is tamped down only by his soft, pleading encouragements to you.

“I know.” he breathes. “I know Maus. You can do it. We’re almost there.”

The hand in your hair vanishes, only to reappear at your clit, bearing down in soft, slick circles that have you gasp loud and relax further into him. There’s a give, and he slides further, stretching you around the hot, throbbing mass of him. A groan rumbles deep between you both, and you shiver at the vibration of it. There’s lips at your neck as he shifts, offers a single shallow thrust that knocks against something inside you and you go limp, completely, utterly, surrendering.

“That’s it, Maus.” He murmurs darkly, and the scrape of his voice is hard in his throat as he holds back, ever gentle with you. “My Liebling.”

“I can do it.” You rasp into his lips, chest rising and falling like the ever changing tides of the ocean. “I want to.”

He groans then, low and heady and you feel him shudder atop you just as his thumb presses down on your clit and you whine at the pleasure there, lacing through your veins and building below your stomach. The pressure is a distant reminder of what's to come, of how you're not leaving this bed until he's had his fill of you.

“So strong.” He growls, and rewards you with another shallow thrust that had him inside you deeper still, farther than you ever thought possible. “Such a strong girl, Maus.”

“For you.” You gasp, back arching and he’s there, inside you in a place that makes your voice choke off into a wail.

“For me.” He repeats, and he’s drawing back now, robbing you of words as your cunt clings to him, unable to let go. “Only me, little Maus.”

And then it begins, as your voice rises skyward and he delves into the depths of you, ruining you for any other man ever again.

#König #könig x reader #konig smut #konig x reader #konig imagine #reader insert #smut #18+#minors dni #thursday night thots

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sky-kiss · 6 months

Text

Raphael x F!Tav: 18+ : Woops. Hand Slipped Again.

_________

The gods will see her damned for this, she thinks.

She doesn’t care; she’s not sure how to care anymore. Tav turns her face into the pillow, her sharp filling the boudoir. It joins the debtors' chorus. Her fingers curl in the sheets, searching for purchases, searching for anything to keep her from coming untethered. She doesn’t manage it. He’s pure heat at her back, claws biting at her hips. His wings fan the air around them, and she is trapped.

His sheets are silk (of course) and black (of course), contrasting with Raphael’s red skin. The adventurer’s thighs ache, spread wide to accommodate the breadth of his hips. He leans forward over her, his chest pressed to her back, and she has rarely been more aware of the disparity in their size. The weight of him at her back leaves her dizzy.

The cambion catches the shell of her ear between his teeth, purring, dark. “Tsk, already wet for me, mouse? You make this too easy.” She chews the inside of her cheek, fighting not to rock her hips as his fingers dip between her legs. He strokes her once, circles her core, and gathers her slick. She is dripping for him; so much of their relationship revolves around the hunt, and he has left her wanting since just after dawn. He brings his fingers to his lips and then sucks them clean. “In this, at least, you never disappoint, pet. Here, have a taste.” As if to reward her, he strokes her again. She’s rewarded with two fingers pressed deep into her heat, thrusting lazily before he slides them out. He brings them to her lips; she sucks them clean without thinking, reveling in his low moan.

He thinks she’s powerless in these games. She knows better. She digs her tongue between his index and forefinger, swallows around his fingers, and is rewarded by a shift of his hips, digging at her ass. Raphael presses forward until her breasts are crushed against the mattress. There’s nowhere left to shift. She can only rock back against him, the thickness of his cock pressed between her legs.

“Should I expect anything more than talk from you, Raphael?”

It’s a challenge. He smirks, gold eyes glittering, wolfish. He leans over Tav's shoulder to catch her lips, guiding himself to her entrance. Her groan is low and reverent. That first press is intoxicating and empowering. It is as if he is too big to fit, struggling to push inside.

And then he’s there, stretching her, just this side of too much. Tav drives her hips back, wanting every inch. She wants to ache from this. Raphael canted her hips higher, rocking forward to catch her lip between his teeth.

“Greedy little mouse.” He licks the corner of her mouth. “Far be it from me to extol any great virtues. But patience...you would benefit from a study in patience."

She wants to laugh, but the sound dies on her tongue, lost in a breathy yelp. Raphael grips her waist hard enough to bruise, all that infernal strength brought to bear. She finds she prefers it. Raphael treats her with no kindness and no respect for any perceived fragility. He fucks into her with centuries of pent-up hunger, and Tav rallies to meet him.

One of his hands teases between her legs to stroke her in time with his thrusts. It’s unnecessary; Tav is already close, but she knows he likes this. He loves to feel her clutch at him, tight and hot and entirely his. Raphael stills within her, head thrown back, panting as he rides out her orgasm. He is still hard inside her, and she whines.

The devil noses her ear. “Ask for more, sweetling. Beg me for it.”

She knows this game too well; if she begs him, Raphael will pull out of her, leave the boudoir, and leave her wanting.

She pushes at his shoulders, shoving him until he’s flat on his back. The correct answer is to ride him until they're both screaming.

#bg3 raphael #raphael x tav #my writing #sorry this was my warmup this morning lol #im burdening yall with it #BACK TO THE LORE MINES #smutttttt #but like #not extreme

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hellishjoel · 6 months

Text

what happens after

2.9k / pairing: joel miller x f!reader

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summary: A string that pulled you out of all the wrong arms, right into that dive bar. And what happens after.

warnings/information: swearing, alcohol consumption, minor injury, blood, light angst, allusions to smut, one-night stand vibes, soft!joel (thank you kiwi!)

A/N: I have been working on multiple wips, but then this idea struck, and I wrote it in a day and a half flat! Thank you to @kiwisbell for beta-ing this one shot!! It would not sound as clean as it does without her <3 love you kiwi!! And thank you @thetriumphantpanda for being my cheerleader when I was screaming about this idea and obsessively writing it <3 Lastly, I've decided to start using banners because I was introduced to @saradika's blog and I'm OBSESSED! Please consider reblogging and checking out their masterlist!

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“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Shit,” the first-name-only man named Joel mutters.

You’re standing in his kitchen, feet circled in glass shards. The light above the kitchen sink spotlights a small droplet of blood that glides with vigor down your foot. You barely feel the cut, but the sting is underlying.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” you blurt, the reality of what’s happened finally hitting you. You were just filling a glass of water. Perhaps you were snooping inside the handsome stranger's home. You were curious about the older, southern-charm-filled man with the barely-there smile who took you home after an hour of casual flirting over drinks.

Joel grabs your waist since your feet are frozen in place, afraid to move. He uses his upper body strength to hoist you up and out of harm's way, assuring that he doesn’t step on any spare shards himself as he rests your body to sit on his countertop. Your hands gently grip onto the breadth of his broad shoulders, fingers delicately pressing into his warm skin as your body lightly shudders from the chill of the counter.

“Sit,” he barks.

You nip at your bottom lip, soft and tired eyes glancing at the blood that trickles onto his floor.

“Did you step on any?” he presses, wetting a paper towel, gathering the pieces on the floor, and carefully navigating them into the trash bin.

“No, didn’t step on any. But when it broke…” You tilt your head down, Joel following your eyeline to see how a shard had nicked your skin after the glass had shattered into tiny fragments. He sighs quietly and flattens his hand to coast up and down his stubble-filled jawline in thought. You purse your lips and hesitantly meet his eyes.

“Just a scratch,” you say, shrugging it off.

Joel brings your foot up, heel resting on the edge of the countertop as he observes the two-inch-long scrape that barely breaches the surface of your skin. He grabs a tissue and lightly wets it, placing it over the scratch and adding pressure as you wince. He instructs your hands to take his place. “Stay,” he says before exiting the kitchen.

“I’m not a dog, you know! I know more commands than just sit and stay.” You huff as you lean your head back, gently thudding your skull into one of his cabinets as you echo out your pain with a whispered curse.

A light flicks on down the dark hallway, and you observe his quiet home in silence. The glass of water was your initial goal. After Joel fell asleep beside you, tuckered out after midnight activities, you caught a second wind of energy and found yourself staring at the ceiling in boredom.

Sneaking out from under the covers, cupping your tits as you searched the floor for your underwear. Everything was a mess, socks thrown about and shoes a tripping hazard in the middle of the doorway. You pulled on his shirt he wore at the bar. It smelled of pine and a little bit of Old Spice deodorant. Attempting not to wake him, you quietly felt your feet meet the cold hardwood as you snuck out of his bedroom. You didn’t know much about him besides that he was a casual flirt. The southern accent gave his origins away. And god, did he know how to press you up against his truck just right.

His body was perfectly chiseled marble. Broad body with a stocky torso and large, calloused hands that melted into the soft skin of your cheeks. His tongue licked your lips before he explored your mouth. Your hands were in his dark chocolate hair, those wispy curls that lined his forehead, and the perfect crow’s feet by his eyes. It was all a blur after that. The amount of times you came was damn near blinding, which made it all the more frustrating when you couldn’t sleep. You slept the best in your own bed, not a stranger’s.

The hallway light flicks off, and Joel returns with a small first aid kit. He doesn’t look at you but rather focuses on cleaning the small wound with a little soap and more warm water. He’s controlled the bleeding; the cut was too small to make a real fuss anyway. You whimper as he adds an over-the-counter antiseptic cream to prevent infection.

“Shush,” he whispers in false annoyance, brows furrowed in concentration as his body looms over yours, foreheads barely brushing as you both watch his hands carefully mend you.

“You shush,” you counter, watching as a small smile breaks across his face. He playfully scoffs after he applies a small brown bandaid across the expanse of your foot.

“What, were you sneakin’ out on me?” he asks, voice low and drenched with sleep. You feel bad for waking him.

You tighten your lips in a furled smile, your soft hand gently cupping his rugged cheek. “I don’t do that. Anymore.”

Joel scoffs playfully, his hand reaching up past you to the knob of the cabinet by your head. He slyly picks up a glass and fills it with water at the sink before offering it to you.

“Thanks,” you mutter with slight embarrassment, the back of your neck catching some heat as you gently sip on the cold water.

Joel crosses his arms, curiously gazing over you adorning his shirt. He had worn it earlier to the bar. He was meant to meet his brother, Tommy, but he never showed. Joel decided, since he was already there, that he could kick back an ice-cold beer or two. You were looking too pretty, silently staring at the flatscreen above the bar, playing with the straw in your drink.

“Seat taken?” he had asked, to which you gave him that gut-clenching, glowy smile. The first thing he found himself sneaking glimpses of were your perfect lips. Whether you were grinning, speaking, or sucking on your straw, he wondered where else those pretty lips would look so perfect.

For the next hour, his singular goal was to kiss you, to taste you. Anything after that was considered a bonus. He had never felt this feverish for a kiss in so long. To taste someone. To melt. So when you batted your eyelashes and gently landed your warm hand on his upper thigh, he was hooked. Luckily, so were you.

After midnight and his head hit the pillow, he was out. Until he woke to a crash coming from further inside the house, and the other half of his bed was empty. He found a pair of sweats and, half-asleep, found the source of the noise. And there you were, bare-legged, shirt dangling by your upper thighs, and your hand outstretched, holding nothing but a figment of air. He looked down at your feet, seeing that a glass must have slipped through your fingers.

“So if you don’t sneak out on men anymore in the middle of the night,” Joel continues as he helps you down off the counter, your feet still cautious as they hit the ground before you both exit the kitchen, “what were you doin’?”

You follow him to his living room. He pulls the string to a standing lamp before he settles down in a large chair. From the looks of it, that’s his chair. He falls into it perfectly, like he’s probably done a million and one times after a long day of work or a lazy Sunday watching football. You settle on the taupe couch beside his chair and set your glass of water down on the side table.

“I just had a hard time falling asleep. I thought maybe a glass of water would help.”

Joel nods slowly, eyes grazing over your body: your bandaged foot, accompanied by bare legs and his worn shirt that hung oversized on you. He liked the sight. His eyes flitted back up to your own, watching as you slowly surveyed his living room with a hint of curiosity.

You abandon your spot on the couch, walking up to a bookshelf with your hands lightly clasped behind your back. Despite being a tad quiet and very broody, he seems like a complex guy. His interests are scattered, from a manual on the birds of North America to a collector’s edition of Fitzgerald’s The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Your fingers stroke the old book's spine, turning to a small framed photo of him and a young girl. He has a daughter—of course he did.

Joel looks younger, hugging the girl at his side with his arm wrapped around her shoulders while she dangled a set of keys in the air, an impossibly infectious smile on her face that made her cheeks glow. Joel’s hair was a lot darker. Thankfully, he still had all of its fullness. Pretty curls licking at the ends of each strand, no salt and pepper in sight like he has now. Aging suits him.

“She’s beautiful. What’s her name?”

Joel watches from afar as you admire the silver frame and its contents. That picture was from several years ago when Sarah was a teenager, and she had just passed her driver’s test. On her first try, too. They did lots of practicing in the shopping mall’s parking lot after hours. She was no natural, though. And Joel wasn’t the best teacher, with only a pinch of patience to his name. But she begged him to practice nearly every damn day after school. She wanted to be the first of her friends to have her license.

“Sarah,” he says with a fond smile, just happy upon speaking her name. “She’s at Texas U, studying…” He pauses and shakes his head, always forgetting the long and strung-out major. He closes his eyes and puts his head down to think. “Geosystems engineering and hydrogeology. What that means, don’t ask.”

You give him a crooked smile before placing the photo back in its rightful spot. You picked up a few other pieces, Joel explaining them in a sentence or less.

“Photography books?”

“Sarah’s. She does it as a hobby.”

That explains the vintage camera one shelf down. Your fingers find the neck of an acoustic guitar that was resting against the bookshelf, playfully wiggling an eyebrow at him. It was beautiful, finished with a light wood stain, and the strings were just freshly tightened. He played, and often. Now you noticed all the small guitar picks of varying colors that littered nearly every shelf. He could play guitar, but could he sing? You decided it was a tad too personal to ask, but you’d keep it in your back pocket.

You hum and hold up an old football trophy with his name etched on the nameplate, cocking your eyebrow playfully.

“MVP?”

Joel simply closes his eyes and shrugs as he purses his lips, his silent way of saying no big deal.

You both sneer playfully, admiring the other little tidbits of Joel. And now you had his last name from that trophy. Joel Miller. He disappears into the kitchen while you keep exploring. Old southern cookbooks, more sports memorabilia, plant and nature guides, along with a hiking pamphlet for the local area.

Tiredness sets in behind your eyes. You can feel it in your body, the way you’re slowly growing heavier, and standing is too much of a chore. Your eyes flick up to the window once you’ve sat back down on the couch, seeing the distant orange of a rising sun through his windows.

Joel returns from the kitchen, two mugs in hand, with hot steam rolling off the top like billowing smoke.

“You take cream? Sugar?”

You shake your head and take the coffee as it is, letting your fingers get accustomed to the warmth of the mug. “This is fine. Thanks.”

Joel tips his head, chin pointing to the door. “I’ll grab you a blanket. We can sit on the porch swing. If you’d like,” he offers, to which you nod. Joel grabs the blanket that's folded at the end of the couch, and you follow him out the front door. It’s a little chilly. The grass is glistening with morning dew. Joel sits down first and puts his arm around the back of the porch swing.

He puts out his hand, offering to take your coffee. You wrap the blanket around the top of your shoulders and pull it tight around you, small hands clutching it around your chest as you fall in beside him. You settle your head on his shoulder, and once he’s returned your mug, he gently runs his hand up and down your covered arm.

Joel can smell distant perfume and the eucalyptus shampoo you’ve recently used. You can feel him set his chin at the top of your head, both admiring the sun starting to rise beyond the houses huddled around the street’s small cul-de-sac. The morning chill disappears once the sun arrives for its shift, humming as you feel the warmth that seeps through your stomach from the coffee.

“You make one hell of a cup of joe, Joel.”

He lets out a breathy chuckle through his nose.

“Thanks.”

As the sun rises higher in the sky, you feel that it’s time to go. Not because Joel is rushing you or things are feeling awkward after a one night stand. It was just time.

After you finish your coffee, Joel walks you back inside. He sets your mugs in the sink, tiredly rubbing his eyes before he follows you to his bedroom. With his help, you’re able to piece together your wardrobe from the night before.

He snuffs out a laugh as you turn your back to him to take off his shirt, changing into the one you came with.

“S’nothing I haven’t seen already.”

“Wouldn’t you like that, Miller,” you tease before you secure the top, grabbing your purse and assuring you have stuffed your cell phone, wallet, and keys inside.

Joel pushes himself off his bed, a strange feeling inside him as he watches you get ready to leave. That’s how this sort of thing worked, one-night stands. But he enjoyed you and your company beyond what happened in the bedroom. You’re delightfully chatty and a tad clumsy, but there’s no denying that last night into this morning was one of the best days he’s had in a while.

“Do you need a ride back to the bar? To get your car?” he asks once you’ve returned from the bathroom, vying for more time with you. Perhaps he could make breakfast, or you both could finally fall asleep after a long night.

“No, thank you, though. My friend is on her way to pick me up.”

Joel nods gently and stands silently with his hands stuffed in the pocket of his sweats. He walks you to the door, his living room flooded with the orange hue of early morning light. He sees a car slowly pull up to his driveway, to which you look up to him with a light, tired smile.

“Get some rest,” Joel mutters quietly, his own voice laced deep with a need for sleep. “And take care of your foot.”

“Thanks. Will do.” You playfully salute him, and he opens the door for you. He walks you down the porch steps, both of you casually smiling in an unsure way of how to say goodbye. Joel is the first one to make a move. His hand settles on your waist, stopping your movements as he pulls you into his front. His head dips down, and he shares one last kiss with you. The lips and smile that lured him in the first place. Soft and gentle, unlike the hungry and eager ones from last night, where he pressed you up against his truck.

You can’t help but smile and lace your arms loosely around his neck, kissing him back as a gentle thank you for everything and sorry for breaking your water glass. You smile as you pull away, just a few inches as one of the hands you had weakly resting on his broad shoulder moves to cup his grey stubbled cheek.

He was so handsome, too handsome to only see just once. You place one last peck to his lips before he releases your waist with slight reluctance, sighing as you step inside your friend’s car. Joel watches as the car circles around the cul-de-sac, making their way down the road. Joel clears his throat and bends down to grab the newspaper that was tossed by the grass.

Once inside, the house felt utterly empty again. No woman had been here in so long, looked at him the way you did in ages. He wouldn’t pull two mugs down from the kitchen cabinets for a while. He wouldn’t share his bed any time soon. He’d wondered if he’d see you again. And maybe you two could just talk because, frankly, he enjoyed that part too.

Sex and the physical connection he shared with you was one thing, but what happens after might be what he’ll cherish the most. The banter, the conversation, falling asleep beside one another, or at least the attempt to do so. Joel would remember those fragments of happiness, the little things that brought him warmth that spread through his chest. Until then, or until he sees you again, he’ll revel in the memories shared.

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#joel miller #joel miller smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal the last of us #pedro pascal joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller one shot #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #tlou #tlou fic #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #hellishjoel #joel miller x reader #joel tlou

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