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suguruplsr · 7 months

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P Power !

✰ ✰ ✰ you couldn’t help but be nice, letting them share you since they’re so desperate for pussy !

,, satoru & suguru x reader , threesome , they’re mean , unprotected , manhandling , degradation , lil praising , oral (m & f) , throat fucking , orgasm denial , dacryphilia , recording & picture taking (dub-con) , the recording is implied to be shared (dub-con) , dumbification , fingering & jerking off , slapping , dirty talk , creampie , a lot of pet names and names used in the form of degrading , idk I’m tired

“man, how come we didn’t find you sooner?” satoru whistles to himself shamelessly, cerulean eyes inspecting your body closely from behind. running his hands down your curves. you roll your eyes, avoiding the dark pair of eyes below you that belonged to suguru, who sat on the bed, you standing between his legs.

“because i’m not some object you look for. be glad i’m even letting you two do this.” you hiss, hiding the gasp that nearly escaped your lips when satoru cups your breasts that nearly spilled out your loose dress. “but, you’re letting us fuck you like one..?” suguru’s smart ass comment would have your heel deep in his crotch if it wasn’t for the way he held up one of your plump thighs, hands ghosting up your dress as he gives satoru a look.

“he ain’t lying. you even look like a slut. letting two big strong men handle you like this.” satoru chuckles, holding your hips up to let suguru take both your thighs in his arms. “i just felt bad for you— fucking beggars. a-always lookin’ up my skirts..” your voice comes out as a whine at the feeling of satoru kissing below your ear, rolling your unzipped dress down to fully cup your tits while suguru kissed your inner thighs, both of them moving you dress towards your mid-section to adore your ‘assets’ while holding you up. the way they just casually handled you had your mind already in a haze.

“but you want this more than us. oh— satoruu, she’s real fuckin’ wet. can’t wait to eat this pussy” suguru snickers at the immediate sight of your pussy, no panties, and absolutely soaked. a whine escapes satoru lips at suguru’s words, ignoring your gasp when he pinches one of your nipples particularly hard. “don’t hog her man! gotta see how dirty she is. and to think she was bein’ such a brat. fuckin’ hypocrite.”

satoru grumbles into your neck, grinding his hard on into your ass, and eliciting cute whines from you, playing with your nipples. “okay, okay. damn. get on the bed.” suguru huffs, slapping your thigh and letting you down. as you circle around the bed, peeling off your clothing, satoru whispers something in suguru ears, his eyes locked onto you with a playful grin. it must’ve been good considering the sick smirk that formed on suguru’s face.

well, that wasn’t even half of it.

“aht, keep suckin’ him off or i’ll stop.” suguru sneers as you take satoru’s dick back into your mouth, the aching of your jaw coming back to you and making you clench the sheets. “it hurts? oh don’t cry sweets. gonna cum down that throat n’ a bit and it’ll all be over.” satoru caresses your cheek as your thighs shake from suguru going down on you again, your legs spread and knees deep in the sheets, sucking off his cock like a dog while suguru had your cheeks spread, nose deep from behind and gliding his tongue over your clit.

you hum around satoru’s cock as you try to bob your head along his girth, unable to touch him due to suguru’s perverse reasons. “look so cute down there. don’t cum yet baby. gotta spill all down that throat first.” satoru’s chuckle has tears prickling in your eyes, jolting when suguru flexes his tongue into your cunt, drinking in your juices. “then you better hurry toru. she’s so messy~” suguru’s voice slurs , his eyes mimicking yours and rolling back. your pussy was practically a holy grail to him, and he definitely didn’t mind how you coated his chin, thighs threatening to clamp around face. it only made the bulge in his jeans peak more.

“eh? really? a whore true to her name..” satoru sighs, running his hand up to your head and pulling it back, sucking in a breath at how cute you look when his cock slides out your mouth. doe eyes looking up so innocently. “i’ll let you properly do it, next time.” he ‘apologizes’ with a playful edge to his ‘sad’ tone. his words make suguru pull away with a sigh, licking up your juices around his mouth and pulling away. you whine against satoru’s cock, only for suguru to silence your sound of disappointment with a slap on your ass and beginning to undress himself as satoru realigns his cock with your open mouth.

satoru’s cock rubs around your mouth slickly from the globs of spit around your lips, but before you could move, he holds your head still as his cock slips back into your mouth, “yeaaaa, just like that.” your pussy aches from the words, his cock kept bruising deep in your throat, gagging you and making you salivate around him. and you look so pretty, mascara running down your face and teary eyes struggling to stay open with every thrust into your willing mouth. “if y’r mouth s’like then that i-i bet your pussy’s fuckin’ tight” satoru grunts, feeling his cock ach in your throat before he pushed all the way in, spilling his cum down your throat and making you swallow it without a choice.

suguru eyes the dripping of your pussy from his spot on the bed, slowly palming himself to the sight, “open that mouth for him pretty.” he groans, him and satoru grinning from how you obediently show off your clean tongue. “how fuckin dirty..” satoru mumbles, taking a quick picture of you before pushing you on your back on the bed. “you can have her first. because i’m so generous~” satoru flashes a smirk over at suguru who only smiles with a look, “i already planned on doing that.”

“stop talking like im not—“ “you talk a lot when your mouth isn’t shut.” suguru’s quick remark has you frowning, your pussy throbbing around nothing before he slowly goes down on you. “got nothin’ to say? that’s what i thought.” he chuckles at your obedience, looking over at satoru, “wanna record it? gotta give ‘em a preview y’know?” “oohhh you’re right…” you scoff at their words hitting suguru’s chest, who was above you. “what are you two even talking about? why can’t this just stay between us..”

suguru sighs, kissing you and making you falter, “s’just a lil video for some friends, heard you had a great experience with one of them before. don’t worry too much.” satoru casually responds, not minding how your words were completely muffled by suguru’s lips. satoru sets up his phone in front of the bed, his cock immediately getting hard the sight of suguru playing with your wet pussy when he zoomed in. suguru had your thighs splayed out, two fingers deep in your tight hole and his thumb playing with your clit. it makes satoru eagerly sit down beside the bed, taking off his pants and palming his cock.

“yeah. jus’ let me take care of this little cunny of yours.” chuckling, suguru raises your legs, wrapping his arms around your thighs and dragging your wet pussy along his cock before prodding it in against your hole. “o-oh fuck.. suguru.” your little whimpers fill the room, tears building in your eyes from him working his cock into you. it wasn’t like this was your first time, but god, how and why the hell did this man have so much girth? the feeling of him bottoming out has you breathless, “s’okay.. y-you can do it. gonna cry f’me?” suguru laughs, yet almost choking from how your pussy sucked him in, as if trying to get him deeper even though it was filled completely.

“mhm! just too fucking..” you couldn’t even think, words being cut off by the slight roll of his cock in you. it was so cute to them, you’re already dumb on cock when he’s barely even moved. satoru’s hand tightens around his dick as suguru begins to rock his cock into you, your pussy juices making loud noises each time your pelvis’s meet. “shiiit, pussy’s a fuckin’ vice..” suguru gasps, sliding out slowly and watching how his cock dragged out your pussy. “c’mon suguru.. d-didn’t come here to get inspected. i wanna get fucked.” you pant out, your stomach twisting from the look that appears in his eyes.

“what a greedy ass bitch. he’s already got his cock in you and you're begging for more?” satoru’s condescending hum only edges suguru more. and if satoru wasn’t stroking his cock, then even he’d admit the change in suguru’s demeanor was pretty hot. “i know right? tsk. you remember the safe word?” suguru smirks when you nod, “don’t start cryin’ when it’s too much, kay?” suguru’s cocky grin has your pussy fluttering around him as he sinks back in, gripping the plush of your thighs tightly before rutting into you. “suguru! uh- oh!, yeaa just like that~” your moans were loud, like an angelic blessing to suguru as you squeeze your eyes tight.

“nahh, keep those pretty eyes open. you want suguru to see how good you’re taking him right? how much you like it. right?” satoru chuckles at the frown that tinges on your face, unconsciously spreading his legs wider with a deep breath, and rubbing the pre cum that dribbled down his length. you couldn’t help but dumbly clench around suguru’s cock at satoru’s words. only for you to choke when suguru buries straight into your sweet spot. “he’s right. c’mon, lemme see your pretty face, or you ain’t cummin.” the way you immediately obey has sick grins forming on their faces, you whining and stuttering when suguru continues to pump his cock into you.

“m’sorry. gonna keep ‘em open— fuck.” eyes rolling back, you move your hands to the sheet and grip them. suguru had leaned down pushing your thighs down and folding you as his thrusts hit you deliriously. “good girl. g-good fuckin’ girl..” suguru mutters out, his hip stuttering with each pound of his cock into you, and he couldn’t help it. your pussy was gripping him way better than any flesh light ever could. “suguruuu~ can i cum? please?” fuck, you felt so ashamed to even be asking for that, but he was hitting you in all the right places, hips snapping and filling you to the hilt, every single time.

“dunno. g-gotta ask toru for that one” suguru breathlessly chuckles at how your teary face turns to satoru who watched expectantly, the jerking of his hand was faster, matching suguru’s thrusts, “p-please satoru? need to cum!” if your thighs, which were probably numb, could shake in this position then you’re sure they would’ve, especially from satoru’s drawn out sigh, his bright eyes glowering down at you. “uhhhh, do you really? i’m sure you can last longer, heh” you sob at his teasing, gasping out when the head of suguru’s cock massages your walls, rolling to hit your g-spot.

“pretty p-please? i need to cum satoruuu, wanna wet sugus cock! n’ you wanna see that right? see my pussy cum all over~” crying, you throw all your respect out the window, hiccuping when suguru suddenly drives into you, “ah man. c’mon toru, that was a sweet proposal..” suguru huffs, shifting and sitting up completely over you, pinning his hands beside your head as your legs splay out around his waist. “fuck it. sure, go ahead.” satoru acts nonchalant, but you can see through your blurry vision how he clenched his teeth, his cock twitching as he watches suguru swiftly stuff his dick into you. setting a brutal pace that had you thinking of nothing, pussy tight around his cock and your tongue lolled out like a slut.

“suguuuu, g-gonna cum! oh fuck, so good!” suguru grunts as your blabbering reaches his ears, his relentless pounding starting to falter when his cock jolts at the feeling of your pussy spasming around him. “oh— fuck. w-want me to pull out?” suguru stutters out, yet you only lock your legs, still high from your orgasm, wanting to feel his warm cum deep inside you. “no! fill me up sugu!” suguru’s hips snapped with precision, his worries already gone from your sultry tone as he spurts into your cunt. and it feels everlasting, warm and hot, leaving your mind fuzzy. your eyes glance over to satoru’s form, who bucked into his hand frantically, ropes of cum shooting and spurring onto his chest as he cums.

“i hope there’s room for more. gotta give ‘em an encore right?” satoru’s breath shakes as he moves onto the bed, his messy hand sticking out towards your mouth and smiling at how you greedily lick the cum all over them, “you’re right. we should. plus she’s not out yet.” suguru chuckles, pulling out and giving your ass a firm slap, you whining in return as you sit up to look at the phone that was still recording. satoru grins,

“smile for the camera, pretty girl. i’m sure they’ll love this little preview~”

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katabay · 3 months

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SUBTEXT

so I've focused in on Perceval and Bors before, and I've done Perceval and Gender (for more on this specifically, see: Clothes Make The Man: Parzival Dressed and Undressed, Michael D. Amey) and did a whole comic that leaned into some subtext™ on temptation, but actually let's throw out the subtext! let's bring Augustine into this!!

Perceval, de Troyes (trans. Burton Raffel)

introduction to Confessions, Augustine (trans. Sarah Ruden)

so for perceval a knight is both the gender he wants to perform but also something that is expressly compared to god, and if god is a lover that seduces. well. does this not also apply to knights as well?

Homosexuality in the Renaissance: Behavior, Identity, and Artistic Expression, James M. Saslow

and while galahad might be the obvious choice, I think perceval's relationship with bors during the grail quest narrative is more interesting. it's not god that transforms perceval, it's the sight of knights for the first time. something in here specifically is incredibly intriguing to me, but there's a different text I need to finish reading to fully form some thoughts on it.

le Morte d’Arthur

and finally! tentatively. I think I might slowly start turning this idea I had a couple years back into a fully formed comic. we'll see! I had most of it blocked out, but halfway through reading augustine's confessions, I think was when perceval finally clicked for me as a character in a later narrative cycle setting. I think I might have to spend a lot of time doing some visual research first because my god I cannot consistently draw armor to save my life......back when I lived in new england, there was a museum with a wonderful medieval armor collection I could visit.....alas.........I will have to hit the books (literally, I have a collection of books on medieval armor but this is apparently the one thing I can't visualize properly in my imagination. save me, museum collections, you're my only hope)

⭐️ credits for the collage panels! (all open access or public domain, etc.)

-Saint George and the Dragon -Saint George and the Dragon (different one lmao) -Pages and Knights, Frontispiece for "The Man at Arms" -Cloisters

⭐ if you like my comics and have a couple bucks, I have a tip jar (ko-fi)!

⭐ and other places I'm at! bsky / pixiv / pillowfort /cohost / cara.app

#knights knights knights!#sir perceval #sir aglovale #sir bors #generic medieval tag #komiks tag #long post #there’s a forbidden citation after the ‘does this not also apply to knights as well’ that cites some Templar related academia #we’ll see if I start getting into the Templars here tho

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latenightdaydreams · 1 month

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can you do the virgin königx virgin reader where she finally lets him take her virginity (they got married)

Of course!

Virgin!König x Virgin!Reader (fem) Part2

MDNI🔞

Part 1: Here

Master list

>CW: fem/afab, virginity loss, p in v, oral

2k word count

König sits at the Bride and Grooms table watching you do your father daughter dance, and you look beautiful. Today was the perfect day. Your white wedding dress clinging to your beautiful body while your hair is done up beautifully. He can’t believe someone that looks like him, acts like him, could find such a beautiful wife. A beautiful wife with such a perfect pair of tits and a fat ass that can take every inch of his cock…

His eyes stay glued to you the whole night, using the excuse of social anxiety to stay seated and not socialize; in reality he is sporting a rock-hard boner that’s clear to see in his pants. Can you blame him? You look ethereal and he has the honor of deflowering you tonight. It’s all he can think about. What will it feel like? Better than anal? No way. Can it? His head turns as your voice snaps him back to reality.

“My family said they would clean up if we want to get out of here since it has been a long day.” You walk up to him and sit on his lap. His large hands instantly find their way to your thighs and rear.

“That’s very kind of them Schatz,” he can feel his cock starting to get hard again now with your weight on his lap and knowing he is one step closer.

You both stand and begin to say goodbye to the remaining family. König was doing his best to not seem impolite by rushing you, but he was also gently guiding you to the door with his tight grip around your waist.

Finally, you both leave and make your way to his SUV. He scoops you up and begins to kiss your neck as he walks the last few steps to the car.

“Meine Liebe, du siehst wunderschön aus.” He whispers in your ear as he gently places you in the passenger seat of the car. You smile and blush in response as he runs around the car to get in.

“Are you ready to go to the hotel?” König grabs your left hand and kisses the wedding band that now hugs your finger.

“I am,” you giggle with excitement as he begins to drive off.

König walks up to the hotel room door with you in his arms carrying you bridal style. A wide smile on his face as he bends down and lets you scan the keycard. Walking into the room there are rose petals everywhere as well as a complimentary bottle of campaign and two glasses.

He places you down on the bed gently, his lips finding yours and kissing you passionately. His lips are hungry for yours now that you’re both alone and able to do things married couples do. Not only can he fuck you, but he can cum in you. He can get you pregnant. The thought of someone so…desirable pregnant with his baby is driving him insane.

König pushes his tongue against your lips and bullies it way inside of your mouth; he is hungry for you. His hand begins to grope your breast over your wedding dress, eager to get you out of it. His hand reaches around back and begins to be greeted by buttons. This wasn’t going to slow him.

Pulling down your tight dress to expose your breast König begins to kiss down your neck until he gets to your breast, his lips kissing every inch until his lips wrap around your nipple and sucks while twirling his tongue around. His hand grabbing bunches of fabric and picking it up until he can get his hand under.

His hand feels the heat between your legs and his cock begins to rise. He pushes past your thighs to touch the lacey fabric that covers his holy grail. He lets out a deep groan as he pulls his lips from your breast. Bringing his hand out from under your dress, he pulled his button-down shirt and popped the buttons off to get it off quickly. You couldn’t help but to giggle at his eagerness.

“Let’s get this dress off of you.” His arm wraps around your waist and effortlessly flips you so he can see the buttons. His eyes widen seeing how many and how small they are. The top four broke from him exposing your breast. “Schatz, would you be mad if I just ripped them?”

“Yes!” You respond quickly, shooting him a glare.

“Okay, okay.” He makes an “oh shit” face as his fingers begin to work at the buttons. After what felt like eons he finally finished.

With one swift motion he pulls the dress off of you and lays it on the chair in the room. His eyes rake over your body. He has seen it hundreds of times before but this time it’s his. His hands go to his belt and he begins to undress from the waist down. You get yourself comfortable on the bed and scoot back to the headboard. Your leg falls to the side slightly and exposed how your red lace thong barely covers your pussy as one lip hangs out the side. You shaved? This was unexpected, but whatever you felt comfortable with König was into.

“Are you ready to start Liebling?” König asks while gently stroking his cock.

You give him a nervous nod as he approaches you on the bed. His heavy body made the bed sink as he moved his body over yours. His lips pressed against yours before he slowly began to leave a trail of wet and sloppy kisses down your body. Goosebumps rising on your skin as you squirm slightly from the pleasure of his kisses.

When his mouth met your pussy, you let out a light satisfied moan. His tongue teasing at first, only lightly licking up in quick motions as if you were an ice cream cone. Your eyes gazing down at him with anticipation. His icy blue eyes meeting yours as a smirk comes across his face. He lowers his head and begins to rapidly lap at your clit making your legs twitch like crazy. Your hands grasping the bed sheets as you let out a shaky moan.

Hips slowly roll back and forth matching his tongue’s motion. “Yes, please…” One hand moves to his head, brushing his blonde hair back. His eyes never left yours as he watched your reaction to his tongue.

Pulling back, König begins to rub your clit with his pointer finger. Slowly moving his finger down to feel the entrance of your vagina. His gaze drops as he looks at your beautiful cunt. His finger’s part your folds as he looks down to see your untouched vaginal canal. “I’m supposed to fit in that?” He thinks to himself, kissing your pussy a few more times he moves his body back over yours.

“Are we going to do it like this?” You ask nervously as his body begins to nestle between your legs.

“Ja, Liebling just relax, okay?” König was nervous as well, but he didn’t show it so you could relax.

Peppering small kisses across your chest and up your neck to your lips. His heavy cock resting on your wet pussy. The feeling of the heat and wetness teasing him. He moves his hips slightly to create some friction as he is rubbing it against your swollen clit.

“I’m nervous,” you say looking into his eyes as your hands go to the back of his head and caress his hair.

“I know, I’ll be gentle, Schatz.” He brings his hand up to caress your hair and brush it out of your face.

König moves his hand gently, slipping down to your thigh and moving your leg slightly up. He leans his body back slightly so he is kneeling with his back hunched over. With his other hand he grasps his erect cock and lines it up with your entrance.

Slowly he leans forward and pushes the tip in. Königs eyes frantically searching your face to make sure you’re okay. He can feel his sensitive tip being squeezed by your gummy and inviting warmth. With every bit of his power, he is resisting the urge to just push all the way in at once. Instead, he slowly pushes forward. His eyes trailing from your eyes down your body to look at his cock inching its way in.

You feel a sharp sting and pressure as he pushes in. A pained mewl leaves your lips as you close your eyes, your hands reaching for the bedsheets to grab. You read on the internet that it was only going to hurt a little, but you also read the average cock is only supposed to be like 5.5 inches and two fingers wide. You feel soft kisses on your forehead as he pushes in more and you moan out.

“Are you okay?” König asks, his voice dripping with pleasure.

“Yeah, it just hurts.” You look up at him.

“Do you want to stop?”

“No, keep going.”

He is thankful you said to keep going because he didn’t want to pull out. With both hands, he pushes your legs back a little more as he watches his cock slowly pull half way out. There is a bit of crimson red on him, but he knew it was to be expected so he doesn’t worry.

Pushing back in he groans loudly, his hips pressing all the way against yours this time as he bottoms out. Your virgin pussy now squeezing the entire length of his massive cock. The feeling of your walls fluttering around him, trying to adjust to his size, was too much for him. Eyes rolling back, he begins to buck his hips forward into you. The sound of your wet pussy is all he can focus on as his mind becomes lost in a haze of euphoria. He understands why men have gone to war for this.

“Fuck y/n, you feel so fucking good.” König growls as his eyes open to scan your body. Your breast bouncing beautifully in rhythm with his thrust. His dick covered in a mix of red and creamy white triggering something primal within him.

You begin to feel the pleasure overwhelm the pain as König pushes your legs all the way to your chest and begins to fuck you even faster. His massive 300lb body slamming into your tight cunt over and over. Your eyes going crossed as you struggle to stretch for him, babbling in your native language and begging him for more.

His cock passing over your sweet spot repeatedly causing a strange pressure sensation to build up at your core. Your hands desperately grab at Königs sweaty arms, feeling his muscles flex with every thrust.

“I- I have to pee.” You moan out.

This snaps König out of his euphoric haze and he looks down into your eyes, maintaining pace as he begins to watch you, knowing that you’re about to cum.

“König!” You moan out as the pressure begins to become too much and your legs begin to shake. You look into his eyes looking down at you. “I- I’m,” you can’t even speak

“Cum for me baby,” Königs voice sounds low and sensual. He leans back slightly to move one of his hands and he begins to rub circles over your clit with his thumb.

The extra touch took you over the edge. Legs trembling and eyes crossing, you let out a screaming moan. Your back arches as you succumb to pressure feeling. Waves of euphoria wash over your body as you squirt on Königs abdomen.

“Mein Gott, ja.” König whispers as he lightly slaps your soaking wet pussy.

“Es tut mir Leid,” Small whimpers leaving his lips König begins to mutter apologies in German over and over for not lasting longer, his pace becoming more erratic until he reaches climax.

A mix of both of your moans filling the room as his cock twitches and pulses inside your pussy. The head of his cock pressed all the way against your poor beat up cervix as he released completely. His eyes closed as he pants, trying to catch his breath. Droplets of sweat dripping from him on to you.

Slowly he lowers his body and wraps his arms around you. He begins to kiss you all over, telling you how much he loves you and is thankful you allowed him this moment.

#konig #konig x y/n #konig cod #konig x reader #könig #könig x reader #konig smut #könig smut #könig cod #könig mw2 #könig call of duty #konig mw2 #konig call of duty #konig x reader smut #könig x you #könig x y/n

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sincerelyrki · 4 months

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PIKA PIKA

↳ NISHIMURA RIKI SMAU

fate works in different ways, sometimes it even comes disguised as a life sized pikachu and a clumsy idol.

SYNOPSIS ➙ Niki knew that the pikachu’s on stage with them were real people dressed in a costume but that doesn’t mean he can’t get shocked after accidentally revealing one of their identities. his shock quickly changed to amusement as the revealed pikachu could only think of one thing to say as the tension in the room heightened- “pika pika?” it’s not like you could avoid him after humiliating yourself either, you still have all of tour left.

PAIRING ➙ idol!riki x nonidol!fem!reader

WARNINGS + GENRE ➙ smau. fluff. riki is down bad. forced proximity. opposites attract. reader is the leader of a 5 member dance group. angst. friendly fighting. real fighting (js one scene). overprotective riki. jealousy. yn gets in some fights. older reader (a year older). more to be added if necessary.

STATUS ➙ STARTED ! HIATUS [march 27, 2024]

TAGLIST ➙ OPEN ! send an ask or comment to be added

FEAT ➙ chuu (soloist). jaehyun (boynextdoor). wonbin (riize). ricky (zerobaseone). yuma (&team)

A/N ➙ i lied this one comes before he loves me not 😝😝 anywaysss

spotify playlist

PROFILES

| chuu’s chu (plural)

| emflopout

| yn’s dads

| fan accounts aka the holy grail

CHAPTERS

| one : if you want something to play with get a pikachu

| two : Shit day 😔

| three : girl he doesn’t want you [ written ]

| four : merrily we fall out of line…

| five : 1 2 3 any boys here? ❤️😍😝

| six : cake and candles my brother [ written ]

| seven : take off your sunglasses

| eight : fuck ass tom holland

| nine : reliable car max?

| ten : twenty questions

| eleven : MADE IT TO THE PRIV 💪

| twelve : my pini <3

| thirteen : i think i have a stalker

tba + titles are subject to change

@ SINCERELYRKI do not plagiarize, translate, copy or repost

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 28 days

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1968 [Chapter 1: Ares, God Of War]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.7k

Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! 🥰💜

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let’s begin with a definition.

Disaster is a noun derived from Ancient Greek: dus, a prefix meaning “bad,” and aster, or “star.” In the time when humans worshipped Zeus and Hera, Hephaestus and Aphrodite, it was believed that tragedies resulted from the inauspicious positioning of celestial bodies: a volcano erupts because of Jupiter, a returning comet brings with it a flood. There is a certain helplessness inherent in this mythology. There is predestined suffering that lies in wait until all the jewels of the sky have malignantly aligned.

Have you ever met someone who made you ache to change the stars?

~~~~~~~~~~

Gunshots explode through the lobby of the Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach, Florida; you feel the wind of the bullets as they clip by, fragmented metallic rage. Aemond is on the marble floor, blood pouring down his face, blood all over the white shirt beneath his navy blue suit jacket when you rip it open, tearing a button loose. He’s reaching for you through the jostling and the screams, leaving crimson handprints on your mint green dress. And you think: He just won the Florida primary. He’s not supposed to die. He’s supposed to be the president.

“What happened?” Aemond murmurs, his right eye dazed and only half-open; the left has vanished beneath a cloudburst of gore. Perhaps ten yards away, people have caught the assailant and pinned him against one of the vast Venetian windows until the police arrive. They’re roaring at him in red-faced fury, their closed fists strike his ribs and his cheekbones, their knuckles paint him scarlet and indigo.

“You’re alright, you’re alright.” You brace both palms over the maroon stain spreading rapidly across Aemond’s chest and press down as hard as you can. Your fingers are drenched in seconds, warm fading life. He’s bleeding to death. You shriek through the turmoil: “Criston?!”

“Is he okay?” Aemond asks faintly. He means the baby; you’re six months pregnant with his first child, his greatest treasure, his Atlantis, his Holy Grail. Aemond has already decided that it’s a boy. Sometimes you fear what will happen if he’s wrong.

“Yes, honey, the baby’s fine, don’t worry. Criston!”

Aegon is here instead, sweating out rum and ruin like he always is, hair too long, veins full of pills, colliding with you and pawing at his dying brother with untrustworthy hands. “Aemond?!”

You shove Aegon away, splattering him with blood. “Get back, he needs air!”

“Where’s he shot?! Let me see—”

“I told you to get back!”

“Goddammit, you don’t own him! He’s mine too!”

Criston has fought his way through the maelstrom and is dragging Aegon away by the collar of his frayed olive green army jacket, stolen from Daeron when he visited home after basic training, a uniform of embittered revolution worn by a man who’s never fought for anything. “Aegon, make sure someone’s called for an ambulance, then meet the paramedics at the door and help them find us.”

“But—”

“Go!” Criston roars, and Aegon scrambles to his feet and is lost within the crowd. You can hear Otto bellowing at journalists and hotel employees to make space for the fallen senator; there are flashes of cameras and prayers shouted aloud. Above your head are crystal chandeliers and a vaulted ceiling hand-painted by 75 Italian artists in the 1920s; swimming in your skull are visions of Jackie Kennedy in the pink suit filthy with her husband’s brains. It’s just before midnight on Tuesday, May 28th. Upstairs in their oceanfront Imperial Suites, nannies will be shaking awake the absent adults of the Targaryen dynasty, who retired with the children before Aemond made his victory speech in the hotel ballroom: Alicent, Helaena, Fosco, Mimi.

Criston’s hands—larger, stronger—replace yours over the gushing wound in Aemond’s chest. What did the bullet hit? His lung, his heart? He’s not speaking anymore, his right eye is closed. His bloodied hands rest open and empty on the floor. “Criston, he’s dying,” you sob.

“No he’s not. We’re not going to let him.”

“What’s the closest hospital?”

“Good Samaritan is just across the bridge on the mainland.” It’s Criston’s job to know these things, though he had been thinking of you when he plotted his meticulous notes in his day planner: in case you eat a bad cheeseburger, or trip on the stairs, or catch the flu and start burning up with fever. Aemond worries about the baby. Aegon has five children, Helaena has three, and Aemond will feel that he has been robbed of something if he does not swiftly procure a family of his own. He needs you on the campaign trail, but still, he worries.

Across the lobby, the police have arrived to arrest the aspiring assassin. He puts up a fight when they try to handcuff him and earns a nightstick to the gut, an elbow to the nose. He is choking on his own blood. Perhaps he is drowning in it. Good, you think.

“Don’t kill him!” Otto booms at the officers. “I want him alive for trial! I want him to ride the lighting up in Raiford, you keep that son of a bitch alive!”

“Aemond?” You thread your fingers through his soaked hair. What happened to his left eye? Is it somewhere underneath all that carnage, or is it gone? “Please wake up. Please stay with me. We need you. The baby and I need you.”

“He’s going to live,” Criston promises, both hands still clamped over the bullet wound to slow the hemorrhaging.

“Aemond, please…” How can he be the president with only one eye?

An old woman in a yellow striped skirt suit is lumbering close with a homemade prayer rope clenched in her fist. “A komboskini for the senator!” For his last rites. For his soul.

“He doesn’t need it!” Criston says. “He’s not dying! No one is dying tonight!”

Still, you take the komboskini from the lady, each of the 100 knots a prayer unspoken. She is a devotee of Aemond, and you must show her gratitude. “Efcharistó, aderfí. O Theós na se evlogeí.” They are some of the few Greek words you’ve mastered; you’ve used them often since Aemond announced that he was running for president. Thank you, sister. God bless you.

The paramedics arrive, splitting the crowd like a laceration, white uniforms and a stretcher to ferry Aemond away. People are wailing, cursing, swearing vengeance. Aegon has returned and is peering down at Aemond with those large, glassy, muddled eyes, afraid to ask. “Is he…is he still…?”

“He has a pulse,” Criston replies. He helps the paramedics drag Aemond onto the stretcher and strap him to it. Your husband’s shirt is now drenched in red like garnet, like cinnabar, like the poppies that commemorate the boys butchered in World War I, like the wasted blood being spilled in Vietnam, men reduced to memory. “Good Samaritan?” Criston confirms with the paramedics.

“Yes sir,” the most senior one agrees. And then to you, with great deference, with compassion that transcends what somebody can harbor for strangers: “Ma’am, there’s a place for you if you want it.”

“I do,” you say, tear-streaked face, hands bathed in blood. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

The ambulance is idling outside the main entranceway of the hotel. Criston grasps your hand to steady you as you step up into the back, and you take a seat on the red leather bench beside the stretcher. The paramedics are placing IVs, holding an oxygen mask to Aemond’s face, muttering urgently into their radio, abbreviations and code words you can’t understand, a secret language of organic calamities. High above the stars are crystalline and radiant in a clear sky. In your own chest—unshredded by metal, unpierced by rage—your intact heart is pounding.

The lead paramedic turns to you again and says: “We can fit one more person.”

It’s your decision. You are the senator’s wife; you were supposed to be the next first lady of the United States. You look through the ambulance’s open doors. Aegon stares back expectantly, his hair falling in his face, his arms thrown wide, petulant, combative, useless, drunk. “Criston.”

“Bitch!” Aegon hisses at you as Criston climbs into the vehicle. The doors slam shut, the engine rumbles, the siren squeals as the ambulance races westbound on Breakers Row towards County Road, which connects with Flagler Memorial Bridge and the mainland.

Through the rear window you watch Aegon as he stands in the white-gold hotel luminescence, becoming smaller and smaller until he vanishes, and all you can see are streetlights, and all you can smell is blood.

~~~~~~~~~~

Every story needs its cast of characters. Here are the major players in the summer of 1968.

President Lyndon Baines Johnson is in the White House watching the clocks tick towards November 5th, when his successor will be ordained. He has chosen not to seek reelection. Since his ascension upon Kennedy’s assassination in 1963, Johnson’s domestic focus has been unprecedented civil rights legislation and his War On Poverty, yet what has infected the media like blood poisoning is the war in Vietnam. On the television are napalm bombs incinerating Vietnamese peasants, caskets draped with American flags, riots being beaten down by police, college students torching draft cards and chanting “Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?” Now the president is sick in body, in spirit, in heart, and this is not a metaphor: he suffered a near-fatal cardiac arrest in 1955 and another shortly after John F. Kennedy was murdered in Dallas, Texas. He will die almost exactly four years after leaving office. Had he sought another term, he would have been unlikely to survive it. The public eye is something like a snake bite; it sinks its fangs in and you hope the venom burns clean before it can curse you with clots or hemorrhages or paralysis, before it can drown you in the dark waters of infamy.

In the void left by President Johnson’s surrender, four factions have emerged within the Democratic Party. The old guard—the same labor unions, congressmen, and local political machines who have steered the platform since the days of Franklin D. Roosvelt’s New Deal—has flocked to current Vice President Hubert Humphrey. Humphrey is competent yet uninspiring, a mid-fifties Midwesterner who flinches at the unpolished fury of antiwar protests and sedately lectures Black Power activists on the dangers of “reverse racism.” He is not a threat. He is a sheep in sheep’s clothing, and this is the time for wolves.

Senator Eugene McCarthy of Minnesota is unapologetically opposed to the Vietnam War, a moral crusader, a reluctant warrior, a man who wears his lack of taste for the presidency like a badge of honor. He feels compelled to run, but he does not crave it. He thinks this makes him a saint; but Joan of Arc was burned at the stake and Saint Lawrence was roasted alive. Like Halloween candy plunked into a child’s neon orange plastic pumpkin, McCarthy has collected his own coalition, college students and posh urbanites who believe themselves to be the future of the Democratic Party. In 2016, people will conjure McCarthy’s ghost when drawing comparisons to a controversial left-wing senator from Vermont named Bernie Sanders.

If McCarthy is the future and Humphrey is the past, then former governor of Alabama George Wallace is downright archaic. He is the candidate of choice for Southern white supremacists, averse to Republicans since Lincoln and still reverent of Depression-era New Deal programs that kept them from starving to death. Wallace is best known for his promise of “segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever,” and pledges to end the chaos that has besieged America through strict law and order. Provided he loses the Democratic primary, Wallace plans to run in the general election as an Independent, hoping to peel away enough support from the major party candidates to force the House of Representatives to declare the winner and then leverage his votes to negotiate an end to federal desegregation efforts in the South. His devoted wife Lurleen just died of uterine cancer, a diagnosis which Wallace kept hidden from her for years; doctors are in the habit of informing husbands of their wives’ ailments and giving them carte blanche control over the treatment plan, which unfortunately in Lurleen’s case was nothing. She was 41 years old.

In his short-lived castle of red corridors like the marrow rivers of bones, President Johnson hides from the hippies who jeer and spit; Humphrey frowns at them, McCarthy tries to appease them, Wallace says the only four-letter words they don’t know are “w-o-r-k” and “s-o-a-p.” But Aemond climbs down from podiums to meet them like old friends. He is young, only 36. He has a brother serving in the swamps of Vietnam. He is focused, determined, insatiable; he devours every scrap of news that is printed about him and writes his speeches by hand. As the self-admitted runt of the Targaryen family, Aemond knows what it is like to be underestimated. He wants a better America, and he wants to be the president, and he wants these things in equal, relentless measure, each fueling the other until these ambitions become inseparable. He has grown up hearing slurs against Greeks and consequently has no tolerance for discrimination, which he contends is antithetical to the American Dream. He attends civil rights marches in labyrinthian cities, antiwar protests on college campuses, union meetings in coal mining towns of West Virginia and Kentucky and Wyoming, music festivals crowded with long unwashed hair and braless women, fundraisers flush with the deep pockets of the Northeastern elite. Aemond’s coalition grows each day, bleeding away strength from his rivals like a Medieval surgeon. Their flesh turns cold and anemic, while Aemond’s heart pumps scalding torrents of blood.

If Aemond wins the Democratic primary at the convention in August, his opponent will almost certainly be the Republican frontrunner Richard Nixon of California. Nixon wants the White House just as badly, and he’s much smarter than he looks. He was Eisenhower’s vice president for eight years in the 1950s and lost to the ill-fated John F. Kennedy in 1960 by a whisker; some say he did not lose at all, but instead was cheated out of 100,000 votes by Kennedy’s mafia connections in Chicago. But with the Democrats divided and their incumbent president floundering, Nixon’s timing has never been better. He was once a poor boy with two dead brothers who earned a scholarship to Duke Law. Now he will become whoever he needs to be to win the presidency of the United States.

1968 is the year of wolves. The fangs are sharp, and the bellies ache with hunger.

~~~~~~~~~~

A local deli has opened early and sent sandwiches to Good Samaritan Medical Center for the family and friends of the senator from New Jersey: ham and Swiss, cucumber and cream cheese, tuna salad, egg salad, pimento cheese, BLTs, Cubans. The lobby is filling up with bouquets of flowers and handwritten notes. You pace and count the knots of the komboskini over and over again as you wait; Aemond has been in surgery for hours. The nurses periodically bring you Styrofoam cups of hot chocolate, scalding watered-down sweetness to distract you from the fact that some surgeon is currently rooting around inside your husband’s ribcage.

Alicent—a convert to the Greek Orthodox faith just as you are, though far more zealous, far more sincere if you dared to admit it—is pleading for God to save her son as she clasps her own prayer rope. Helaena is seated beside her, eerily calm. Helaena’s husband Fosco is wandering around boredly and inflicting small talk upon the nurses, ogling out the third-story windows, playing with his red Duncan yo-yo. Otto is making a series of calls using one of the phones at the nurses’ station. Criston is there too, leaning over the countertop and speaking with Otto in low conspiratorial whispers.

Aegon is sitting alone and glaring at you. He takes a rattling bottle of pills—prescriptions that doctors are too afraid not to write for him when he asks—out of a pocket on the front of his green army jacket, spotted like a leopard with your bloody handprints. He opens the amber-colored, cylindrical container and pours two, no, three tiny white tablets into his palm. He tosses them into his mouth and washes them down with a swallow of his own mediocre hot chocolate, still glaring. You ignore him.

“How could this have happened?” Mimi says again from where she’s slumped in her chair. Aegon’s wife has a Snow White sort of beauty, but with a perpetual ruddiness in her nose and cheeks from the gin she sips constantly. You suppose it would make anyone a drunk, being married to a man like that. Her maiden name was Marina Marceline Leroux, but everyone has always called her Mimi, even the press on the rare occasions when she makes an appearance. Her children—Orion, Spiro, Violeta, Thaddeus, and little Cosmo, only five years old—are all back at the Breakers Hotel with the nannies, the same as Helaena’s. Mimi blubbers to nobody in particular: “How…? Who…? Who would want to hurt Aemond…?”

Someone needs to sober her up. You fetch a BLT off the platter of sandwiches and offer it to her. “Here. Eat.”

“I’m not hungry. Who on earth could be hungry at a time like this? I’m absolutely nauseated, I’ll never want food again—”

“Mimi, eat the sandwich.”

“Fine, fine,” she slurs morosely, then takes an unenthusiastic bite. She listens to you, all the women do. They listen to you, and you listen to Aemond, and the circle is closed and complete.

Criston is walking over now. You turn to him, needing good news, bad news, any news. “It was a Wallace supporter,” Criston says. From his seat, Aegon is watching Criston with his slow drugged gaze, listening intently. “Some bell pepper farmer from up by Jacksonville.”

“He’s been taken to the local jail for holding?” you ask, and then add: “Alive?”

“Yeah, and he already has a record. Assault and battery. His brother-in-law is apparently a Grand Dragon in the Klan.”

“What the hell is a Grand Dragon?”

“Well, it’s higher than a Goblin, but not as illustrious as an Imperial Wizard, does that answer your question?”

“Perfectly.” You smile at Criston, a pained, wry smile. He returns it and places a palm over your belly. You are still wearing the mint green dress Aemond picked out for you this morning, before he won the Florida primary, before he was shot twice by the disciple of a political adversary and laid at death’s doorstep. You are still covered in your husband’s blood.

“You’re feeling alright?” Then Criston smirks, knowing how ridiculous he must sound. “You know. All things considered.”

“We’re both fine. The baby’s moving around, I can feel it.”

“You can feel him, you mean,” Criston teases, knowing Aemond’s preoccupation with his unborn son; but you can’t bring yourself to appreciate the joke.

Aegon says to you suddenly: “How the fuck did you let this happen?”

“What?” you answer, stunned.

Aegon stands and approaches, lurching, raging. “You always have to be right beside him, in the photographs, in the headlines, in the soundbites, but you let some psychopath run up and shoot him? Twice?!”

“I thought he just wanted to shake Aemond’s hand, or maybe get a quote for an article—”

“You didn’t notice the gun?!”

“Aegon, sit down,” Criston orders.

“It happened in seconds,” you say. “You think you would have done better? You and your Valium, and your Librium, and your Percodan? You think your reaction time would have been so superior to mine?”

“Please,” Alicent moans, mopping tears from her pink cheeks with a handkerchief. “Please, don’t fight, not now…”

“We are all friends here,” Fosco adds in his thick Italian accent, yo-yoing by a window.

“You want to be the first lady so bad but you can’t handle it!” Aegon shouts, his voice echoing through the lobby. “You’re not some prodigy, you don’t have all the answers, you’re just a girl who stitched yourself to Aemond and then you let him get shot, he’s being operated on right now, maybe he’s even dying, and you still act like you’re so fucking perfect—”

“You’re mad because you know that everybody here is thinking the same thing,” you tell Aegon, cold and cruel. “That if someone had to get killed tonight it should have been you.”

Aegon’s mouth drops open; he stares at you with that slippery, opaque, stoned woundedness, pathetic, infuriating, illogically childish. Everyone else pretends they haven’t heard you. Alicent sniffles into her handkerchief. Fosco begins humming I Want To Hold Your Hand. Mimi chews sluggishly on her BLT. From the nurses’ station, Otto says, holding the phone to his chest: “It’s George Wallace. He’s calling for Aemond’s wife.” Then he waits to see if you’ll agree to take it.

Of course you will. You have to. You are acting in your husband’s stead. You go to the nurses’ station and grab the handset when Otto passes it to you. “This is Mrs. Targaryen.”

“Ma’am, I just wanted to offer you my sincerest condolences.” He has a pronounced drawl, born and raised in what he has praised as the Great Anglo-Saxon Southland. You animal, you think. You braindead bigot. “I do hope the senator makes a hasty recovery. I sure would like to beat him at the ballot box, but I have no stomach for anarchy. An act like this is repugnant to me, as it should be to any red-blooded American.”

“It was one of yours, do you know that?” you say, dripping venom. “One of your hateful ghouls.”

“I have no such knowledge. But if the shooter does turn out to be a supporter of my campaign, I disavow him utterly. He deserves a nice long sit in Old Sparky and then to meet his maker.”

“You inspire men to commit violence, and then you renounce them when they spill blood. I’m still wearing my husband’s. It’s on my hands, it’s on my dress, and I will not absolve you of blame. You are a gardener of discord. You grow it like roses or wheat. You tend to it until it blooms.” Otto is studying you, bushy eyebrows raised. “If you’d truly like to repent, perhaps dropping out of the Democratic primary would be a good start. And then you could find something useful to do, like drowning yourself.”

From whatever office he’s currently lounging comfortably in, his shoes kicked up on the desk, Wallace chuckles. “Aemond is very fortunate to have as ardent a defender as you, my dear.”

“Yes, a devoted wife is such a treasure. It’s a shame you killed yours.”

“Ma’am, once again, I just wanted to express how terribly sorry I am for your family’s hardship. I would never wish for an incident like this—”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be emboldening white supremacists then!” You slam the phone as you hang up.

Otto looks at you. He says: “Did it go well?”

The heavy double doors leading to the operating theater swing open, and a surgeon steps through them, still drying his hands with a dark blue towel. He has changed his scrubs and washed his skin, but you notice a spot he missed: a fleck of half-dried blood up by his temple. That’s Aemond, you think. That’s a piece of him.

Everyone rushes to gather around the doctor, even Mimi; she lists like a ship taking on water as she walks, gnawing at all that remains of her BLT, just a sliver of white toast crust.

“The senator is alive,” the doctor says, and Alicent cries out in relief. Criston rests a palm on her shoulder. “But we could not save the eye.”

“He’s half-blind?” you ask. There’s never been a half-blind president. There’s never been a Greek one either. And the only reason this is stuck in your mind is because you know it will consume Aemond’s.

The doctor nods. “We had to remove it. The bullet that struck Senator Targaryen in the head, fortunately, was more of a graze. It ricocheted off his skull and didn’t cause any trauma to the brain, but his eye was…” He hesitates, trying to find a more polite word than shredded, macerated, pulverized. “Destroyed.”

“You stopped the bleeding?” Aegon says, astonished. “He’s okay? He’s really okay?”

“The second bullet pierced the thoracic cavity and was lodged less than an inch from his heart. He was very lucky. We repaired the damage to the best of our ability, and I am optimistic that the senator will make a full recovery. He’s resting comfortably now, but he should be awake soon.”

“Oh, thank God,” Alicent says, glistening dark eyes raised to heaven. The salient points gathered, Fosco wanders off again, his yo-yo dangling from its string.

Otto asks: “When can he resume campaigning?”

The doctor is caught off-guard; it takes him a moment to answer. “That will depend on the senator’s stamina as he regains his strength. If he chooses to stay in the race at all.”

Otto scoffs. “Of course he’ll stay in. This is what he lives for. You really can’t give me a ballpark figure?”

The doctor is determinately impassive. “I would estimate a month or two before he can withstand the rigors of the campaign trail again.”

“California is June 4th,” Otto recalls, counting off dates on his fingers. “Illinois is the 11th, New York is the 18th…”

“Look, there are people outside!” Fosco announces excitedly as he peers through one of the windows. “Hello! Hello everybody!”

“Fosco, you idiot, stop waving,” Otto snaps. “Go sit down.”

“But they are cheering.”

“Not for you.”

Fosco, somewhat deflated, grabs an egg salad sandwich off the platter and plops into a chair to eat it. He’s dressed in a green plaid sport coat and tight white trousers, very chic, very European. You’ve never been able to imagine Fosco and Helaena being passionately romantic with each other. They’re both a bit too doll-like for that, closer to Barbie and Ken than flesh and blood, blank stares and vague ambitions.

“Someone should talk to them,” Alicent says softly. She means the crowd that is forming in front of the hospital: journalists, cops, local politicians, mutilated veterans, college kids, farmers, fishermen, women and children, the future and the past. Everyone turns to look at you.

“I’ll do it,” you volunteer. You will, you must. Aemond could have chosen a hundred similarly suited women to be his wife, but he chose you, and when he did your vows became a blood oath.

Criston accompanies you downstairs to where the crowd has gathered just outside the front entrance of Good Samaritan Medical Center. The night air is warm and humid, the stars bright. You had thought of so many things to tell these people as you’d stood in the elevator as it descended, but now your mind is empty, fearful. There are photographers with blinding camera flashes and apostles waiting with famished eyes. From the depths of injustice and poverty and war, they have come to pay their respects to the man they believe is destined to save not just themselves but their world. What should I say? What would Aemond want me to say?

“I am very pleased to share with you all that Senator Targaryen is out of surgery and regaining his strength.”

There are cheers and applause and prayers; you are still clutching the komboskini that the old woman gave you in the lobby of the Breakers Hotel. You see more prayer ropes in this flock, and rosaries too, Bibles and dog tags, copies of The Autobiography of Malcolm X and Joanne Didion’s Slouching Towards Bethlehem.

“We would like to thank you for your heartfelt support. Aemond and I are so very grateful, and he is looking forward to being back on the campaign trail soon.”

More clapping and whistling, and then the crowd waits. You aren’t sure what they want to hear as you stand in the glow of the hospital luminance; your hands are trembling wildly, so you clasp them together as you hold the komboskini. Criston glances over at you, concerned. You settle on the truth.

“The man who tried to kill my husband tonight is a supporter of former Alabama governor George Wallace and an avowed white supremacist. Any ideology that advocates for violence and prejudice is a threat to our bodies, our nation, and our souls. We will not surrender to it, not even when our lives are in jeopardy. We will not concede that hope for a better world is lost. We will press ever onward with the knowledge that God is on our side, and that the future of this country is worth fighting for.”

You are bathed in flashbulb lightning; your ears ring with the thunder of the applause. You are shaking hands now, nodding, beaming, Criston following you like a shadow as you move through the congregation. You stop to listen to a middle-aged woman in a floral dress who wants to give you marriage advice: never get bossy, don’t become selfish, remember that you are his safe harbor in the storms of life. It is your job to gift her your momentary veneration. You have beauty, but she has wisdom; or at least, that is the bargain that has been struck, that is the presumption everyone agrees upon. She must have some advantage over you, otherwise the decades she has spent in service of her parents and husband and children have been wasted, she has carved away pieces of herself to feed hungry mouths until she vanished like the doomed nymph Echo. In return, she tries not to envy you too much, not to dismiss you as foolish or frivolous or lustful. Sometimes you think that women are filled with such vicious, relentless self-loathing that it feels good to direct it at someone else for a while, to pick apart another body, to tally up the deficits of her spirit.

“Aemond is so lucky to have you,” the woman says. You can barely hear her over the roar of the crowd.

And you smile as you dutifully reply: “I think it’s the other way around.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There is a television mounted on the wall in Aemond’s room. The news coverage, the volume turned way down low, oscillates between his own near-assassination and the stalled peace talks in Paris. Representatives of the United States and North Vietnam cannot agree, and so each day more body bags are flown home to return the bones of the nation’s sons and fathers to Missouri, Alabama, Idaho, Maine, Wisconsin, Maryland, Arizona, California, New Jersey, everywhere else. Someone has to end it. Aemond will end it.

“I dreamed I won Florida,” your husband mumbles, and that’s how you know he’s awake, here in a hospital bed and wearing IVs like strings of Christmas lights around a pine tree.

“You did,” you tell him, gently smoothing back his hair from his forehead. His left eye—where his left eye used to be—is bandaged; his words are soft and labored. “Humphrey was second. Wallace got third. But you won. And you’re going to be okay.”

“McCarthy?”

“It seems you’re devouring his coalition.”

Aemond’s lips slowly curl into a grin, triumphant. “It is God’s will.” And this is what he always says. It is God’s will that he survives, it is God’s will that he wins the presidency, it is God’s will that you give him sons.

“Yes,” you agree, lifting his right hand to kiss his knuckles. Then you press the komboskini you’re still carrying into his weak grasp. It means more to Aemond than it does to you. “Yes it is.”

Aemond sinks into unconsciousness again, morphine and dreams that blur with reality. There will be pain soon, and plenty of it, but he is free from that impending truth for now. You rise from your chair to tell the rest of the family that Aemond is beginning to wake up. Alicent and Criston will want to speak with him.

When you open the door, Aegon is standing there: an eavesdropper, a trespasser. He glares at you with his large wet ocean-blue eyes, hazy with pills, glinting with resentment. Reluctantly, you step aside to let him in. Aegon wobbles as he passes you and has to grab onto the doorframe to steady himself, scrabbling like a trapped animal.

“You’re a disaster,” you say, caustic like acid, biting, repulsed.

Aegon whirls and jabs his index finger against your chest, bloodstained mint green wool bouclé by Chanel. “You’re a vessel. You’re a cow. And one day he’ll be done with you.”

You feel something hitting you like a bullet, cracking ribs, piercing lungs, tearing muscles and ligaments. Your lips have parted, but you can’t fathom words. Aegon has said many things to you—bitter things, belittling things, things in mixed company, things when you’re alone—but never this. For the first time since you met him two years ago, he has won one of your sparring matches. He has the upper hand. He has wounded you.

Aegon can see this, certainly. But he doesn’t seem pleased with himself. He looks a little shellshocked, like he can’t quite believe he said the words, like maybe if given the chance again he wouldn’t take it. But the moment is over now, and you can’t get time back, it is a thread that unspools until every inch is gone, spent, tangled in a thousand webs.

Aegon staggers into the hospital room. You flee from it. Out in the lobby the phone at the nurses’ station is ringing again. They’ll all be calling now to give their requisite sympathies. Humphrey counsels prudence, McCarthy prays for peace, LBJ offers the empathy of someone who has felt the cold gaze of Death in his own doorway, Nixon praises Aemond’s resilience and quotes the ancient philosopher Seneca: “There is no easy way from the earth to the stars.”

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon x y/n #aegon x you #aegon targaryen ii x you #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen fanfic #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader

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celabi · 7 months

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tbh, I feel like I’ve been drifting away from the original scummy scara I made when I first made the au, so I would like to let everyone know that he is a BIG freak. the type of guy you avoid because he’s just… so creepy and weird. like, restraining order, banned in fifty states type of weird.

he will steal a pen you’ve been nibbling on in class, and do all sorts of things to it that you don’t wanna know. like shoving it down his throat or something idk.

he goes through the trash and takes the gun you spat out, and chews it as if he were a man on death row. and at this point he might as well be.

he ‘makes’ you home made lunch. (which is just store brought food he put into a lunch box). awe, so thoughtful, right? NO, he passed out after cumming so much to replace the dressing on your salad.

spits in your drink, so it’s almost like you’re kissing in a way, because his saliva is in your mouth yada yada. he’s so delusional, gosh.

this man jerks off to anything. pictures of you in a bikini. pictures of your panties that he snuck a photo of from under your skirt. hell, he has even fapped it to a post he found on one of your family members facebook where you look like the most ordinary person ever. anything.

he acts like an angel around you, but the moment you turn your back, he has this dark, violent glint in his eyes at anyone who isn’t you.

he STANK. like discord moderator who manages thirty different servers. he plays video games 24/7 and eats only fast food + he lives in his mothers basement so minus points.

his mind is SO dirty too. like you could be complaining about this one girl who has been getting on your nerves recently, and all he can think about is bending you over the table and running his hands all over your body. he thinks of you when he shouldn’t, and in ways he shouldn’t, even before you knew his name.

yeah he’s so sweet, and kisses the ground you walk on. but he also would love nothing more then to knock you up and keep you as his cute little spouse who he can come home and make love to every day.

god and he’s a brat too, don’t get me started. like, throwing tantrums when you decide to sit with someone else at lunch. starting fights with people who so much as look in your general direction (ones that he loses cause he is so small and scrawny). screaming profanities at the professors who separate your seating plans in lectures, and so on.

if you’ve been keeping up with my posts, you’ll know that this man has a literal sex doll replica of you he sleeps with at night. it’s so detailed to the point where there is freckles in the exact same spot they are on your skin. (even some moles and beauty marks that you didn’t even know you had, and god knows how he does).

has a shrine of you in his closet. strands of your hair he has collected. lipgloss and chapstick he has stolen from your bag whilst you weren’t looking. accessories like rings and bracelets. nail polish, all the works. and in the middle of this shrine, in all its glory, is a pair of your underwear that he took while you were in the changing rooms. he prays to it. the holy grail.

he has been dating you in his head the moment he saw you, like, gets a little annoyed when you don’t remember your five month anniversary, but the thing is, you didn’t even know you’re dating at all.

I love him. don’t get me wrong, but he is not the man you want to get involved with, like AT ALL.

go for someone like scummy alhaitham, who has (some) self respect 👍

#scummy scara :(#yandere scaramouche #yandere genshin impact #tw yandere

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norrisleclercf1 · 9 months

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pierre and reader who were childhood besties but he cuts ties with her to keep her safe but she gets hurt.

like i imagine they had those pretend weddings and printed out a fake marriage certificate and someone finds it and thinks they are actually married so they hurt the reader.

and pierre flips cus he literally left her to protect her but she still got hurt

A/N: See this is marriage, when you're having a shitty day and your wifey sends me this golden piece

"Will you just grow a pair; we need to find the information." A man hisses, standing in the pitch-black house. They shouldn't be in this house, no one was home, and the owner would not be so forgiving if they found out they were here. "Shut up, you fucker; the only reason we're here is because the boss said so." Creeping down the hallway, they have to be careful.

While this house had no one living in it for a while, they didn't know what type of security it would have. Breaking into the leader of the French Mafia was not brilliant, but they needed something against him. Studying the layout beforehand, they just needed to find the office.

They could use old papers or personal information. Reaching the door, they stopped waiting in case they could hear any ticks or anything to let them know if there were traps. Hearing nothing, they throw their bodies against the door, breaking it.

"Search everywhere." Nodding, the two men go off looking for a picture or a piece of paper with a name on it. One of the men stops, seeing a lock on a drawer. Taking their hammer, they knock it off and stop. "The fuck, he's married?" The other man laughs. "He's not." Reaching in, he pulls out the scrapbook.

"Really? Because this is filled with wedding pictures of him and some chick." Flipping through the pictures, he stares at the young face of Pierre Gasly and some girl in a white dress. "They look young." And they're right. The pictures were taken when you and Pierre were preteens.

It was one of those silly we'll get faked married and then promise to marry each other for real. Pierre was the first boy you loved, like truly loved in an all-consuming way. It was stupid, but you didn't know the future. It didn't realize that Pierre would stop talking to you and drop off the face of the planet. You last spoke years ago but kept the pictures and fake marriage certificates.

Sadly, the two dumbasses now in the office didn't know they were fake; to them, they found the holy grail of breaking Pierre Gasly.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Yes, I'm home." Balancing your phone to your ear as you jam the keys into your apartment door. "Mama, stop. Paris is safe alright, no one followed me, and I'm about to enter my apartment. Please calm down." This was a daily thing, talking down your mother as you walked from work to home.

She hated that you lived in the big city, wishing you stayed home. But Paris has been safe for many years, and it was no worry to you. Walking in, you drop your purse, kick off your shoes, walking to the windows. Your cat, Eclair. The damn cat Pierre got you as a "wedding gift" was still alive. It reminded you of fonder times.

"Mama, I'm safe. It's just me and Eclair here. I'm hanging up." Ending the call, you groan, rubbing the tips of your fingers over Eclair's back. "It's not just you and Eclair here." Gasping, you spin around, coming face to face with a man in a mask. "Tell Pierre we say hello." Raising his arm, something heavy whips across your skull. You didn't even make it to the floor before passing out.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The harsh cleaner smell hits you first, then the feeling of your skull splitting open. Noises leave your mouth, and you want to move your arms, but your body is so heavy it's like lead. "Ow." Throat is tight, so dry from no water or talking for a few days.

"Mhmh." Blinding lights have you blinking fast. Eyes adjusted to the darkness, now facing the light worsens the pain. Yet you fight against it, ears ringing, and finally, settle on the beeping to your right. The blurriness fades away as you take in the pristine white of the room.

You're alive.

Eyes float around the room, taking in everything, but a splash of color has your attention. Dirty blonde hair and tan skin against the black outfit have you squint. You don't know anyone who would dress or look like this. Maybe a cop? Waiting for you to wake up to ask about the attack?

"You're awake?" That voice didn't belong to a cop; no, it belonged to someone you haven't seen for what seems like a lifetime. "Pea-Pierre?" You have to stop the slip of the nickname. The body stands as it moves over to your side, leaning over. Those blue eyes, you dream of those blue eyes.

"I'm here, ma femme." You make a noise, something of a laugh, which has him smiling, his fingers hanging off the railing, touching the cloth wrapped around your head. "Don't talk. They did some damage." Something in those soft blue eyes has them hardened in the corners. No one else would notice, but you have stared into those eyes and learned everything about them.

"I want to apologize, but I can't. I left to protect you, yet my leaving left you unprotected in a way I never imagined. They went after you to get to me." Pierre smiles, seeing how your face morphs, wanting to ask questions, yet you can't. "I can't tell you why," Reaching down, he clasps your hand in his, pressing a feather touch of a kiss to them.

"But, when you get out. You're coming with me, then I'll tell you everything. Just sleep." You hate that you can't fight, but sleep is dragging you down, slipping you back into the darkness you've grown accustomed to.

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comfortless · 3 months

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Syl, my lovely, please. I need to see this vision come to life through your words. Would König take his darling to the Ren Faire?🌷

VANI!!! my angel!! of course he would… König is a just a hapless knight at heart & it gives him an excuse to treat you like an actual princess! 🗡💕 i can not promise you that he will not force you to sit in his lap and play skyrim or something when you get home though…! /:

“Danke for agreeing to come,” he whispers to you once you’re out in the sprawling field, an abundance of colorful tents, partitions and others in similar dress surrounding the two of you.

It’s a lot to take in, as though you’ve been whisked away to a separate world entirely; the air smells faintly of fresh food, a bard strums a lute somewhere out in the distance, and… was that supposed to be a dragon’s roar?

König dons a veil of tightly woven chainmail, only a glimpse of his jaw visible, lined with prickly stubble. The rest of his armor leaves little glimpses of him, his thick wrist between cuff and glove, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he curls his arm around you protectively. If it were possible, he seems even larger wearing the plates of armor, far more imposing like this.

Tucked at his side, stands you in your linen bliaut, a soft woolen cloak dyed a royal blue thrown over your shoulders; a stark contrast from the shimmering and hardened armor of the knight guiding each of your steps with his arm around your waist.

König has to look at everything— marveling at the handmade objects and shiny, smithed weapons in each booth.

When you give him a quizzical glance as he ghosts his gloved fingertips over the angular blade of an exceptionally smart spear, he pauses his frantic admiration for a time to explain to you that it reminds him of one he read about once— like Odin’s Gungnir, fierce and proud. Even you take a moment to admire its craftsmanship, to which the pale blue of his eyes seems to light up; he makes the purchase without a second thought.

You find yourself enjoying the atmosphere, especially with that ever-present grin on König’s face; he’s in his element surrounded by fantasies drawn from history. It’s a nice change, seeing him so filled up with whimsy as he whisks you from tent to tent, buying you anything that catches your eye, taking your picture any chance that he gets.

You humor him, lifting your skirts a little when you pass between two of the fabric structures, hidden away from the eyes of any other grinning merchants, pretty ladies, and bellowing bards.

Seated in his lap he tells you of holy grails and swordplay tactics while feeding you from a dish on a wooden countertop, a pastry stuffed full with apple.

You only think to offer a complaint once you note the three now emptied pewter goblets of mead in front of him as König proclaims he wants to act out a proper sword fight with one of the others donning armor in the small, hastily fenced in area serving as a knight’s training yard.

(It was certainly a coincidence that the one he chose to spar with happened to be the very same man who offered you a friendly wave in passing.)

He makes a display of his swordsmanship, swift knocks and parries that leave your eyes wide as you clasp your hands over your mouth; even a prise de fer as you dig your nails into the wood of the shoddy fence. You’ve never seen him so swift, so brutal, as when he finally knocks his opponent into the dust, the sharpened edge of his blade pointed downward. Had this not all been pretend, you could imagine the bloodshed that would have occurred here.

Thankfully, König backs off, dips his head in a begrudging bow to his opponent before wandering back to you.

Your hand is pried from the fence, a kiss placed upon every knuckle as you praise his talents. He smirks, proud, and whispers to you something about how he had to show off for his lady. Even has the audacity to tell you that he would kill for you, and you knew very well it was not said entirely in jest.

When the sun finally dims and lanterns are lit, bathing the green below your boots in a soft, tangerine glow, you find yourself helping to loosen the straps of König’s armor. Poor thing had not thought to wear a proper shirt beneath, or.. perhaps, that was intentional. The sweat glistens off of him when you’ve tossed his dark top and curved metal into a heap, the curls of his chest hair sticking to pale flesh.

You rove your hand over him to dull the ache of those straps digging into his shoulders. He groans, contented as he pulls you up to your feet, leaning down just enough to kiss you, to desperately grope at your hips, your rear, before the strumming of a lute and the cheers and giggles accompanied by dancing fills your ears.

Attentions turned, you find yourself curling your hand into his, tugging him towards the feathery songs and shuffling of feet.

“We should dance,” you suggest, all giggles when you tilt your head to offer a pleading glance to him over your shoulder.

“Anything for you, meine prinzessin.”

#ily vani you get me we share a brain!! i want to go to a renfaire with him…#könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig x you

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medi-melancholy · 9 months

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i love karna fate grand order so fucking much because in serious grail wars he’s an extremely fascinating, imposing, and badass character who just has this unique, grand air about him, he looks almost otherworldly and speaks with such purpose yet personality, and he has a huge amount of power, but he's dangerous because he does hold back until he either feels the need or is instructed to just explode everything

but nearly all the rest of the time he exists he is an autism creature in the shape of a gender man who just happens to have godly powers

he may look pretty and composed but do not be fooled. this is the glowy body horror god baby. he is a Huge Dork(tm). he never knows what to do with his face. when given the choice to wear whatever casual clothes he wants he dresses like an arts college student who just tossed on 2-3 layers of whatever was laying around on their dorm floor before heading to the nearest whole foods. his ass is the posterchild for flat fuck friday. he absorbed the meathead jock braincells from the guys he hung out with in life and during christmas he goes full unga bunga about it

in vibes alone karna is like a goofy baby albatross compared to his brother who may as well like the perfectly sleek and beautiful adult ones with the perfect eyeliner in comparison. which is ironic, because karna already has the natural makeup (also, once again, do not be fooled, arjuna is a screaming disaster on the inside, but that's a love post for another day)

i think one of my fav examples of the contrast between ~beautiful ikemen~ karna and absolutely clueless fucking loser karna is that bit in the 5th anni pv where there's that shot of him oh so cooly popping open a bottle of champagne, and he's got the bishie sparkle going on, and looks sooooooo pretty in his fancy clothes,

and then you realize

he just soaked arjuna with it, probably entirely obliviously

tl;dr karna good. yes he is cool. yes he is dorky and silly as all hell. duality of mankind

#fgo #gif #long post #i just!!!! i love him!!!!!!#sometimes i feel like a lot of people only think of him as being plain and uninteresting (listen he's just awful at people'ing ok)#or the ultimate badass like he was in apocrypha (he IS badass but he has so many other sides!)#this isn't even getting into how kind he can be or just how good of a servant to his master he always is #i want more fuckingh loser karna representation! cmon!!!!

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colleendoran · 2 years

Text

The Secret Language of a Page of Chivalry: Gone Fishing

Neil Gaiman's Chivalry is a sweet and simple story on the surface, but is full of allusions and literary references, and the symbolism in the art, as well as the art style, serves as meta-narrative.

Previous post re: the symbolism in the art for Chivalry over HERE.

One of the pages readers ask about the most is this one, where Mrs. Whitaker in the Oxfam shop finds an old book entitled The Romance and Legend of Chivalry (1912).

Written by Scottish author A. R. Hope Moncrieff, this popular tome was published in multiple printings and editions in many languages. While most of his books were intended for young boys, they would be over the heads and/or not to the taste of many modern readers.

They are dense and wordy, but I love them.

You can find good copies of the first edition with the gorgeous cover you see here at reasonable prices. If you can spare $20-$30, you shouldn't have to settle for cheap, modern editions which are ugly and don't have that pretty gold stamping.

It should be obvious why Mrs. Whitaker has focused on this book during the course of Chivalry.

What some didn't understand is the reference there in the top corner written in red pen: "Ex Libris Fisher".

This translates to "From the Library of Fisher" as in The Fisher King.

The Fisher King otherwise known as King Pelles, Sir Galaad's grandfather. (And for those who don't understand why Galahad is spelled Galaad, an explanation HERE.)

The inset images in the illuminated manuscript sequences aren't just there to dress up the page. They have meaning.

On this page the meaning is pretty obvious: in the upper right, a fish, then an image of a man fishing, then young Galaad, then the castle. Also, King Pelles holds a spear.

King Pelles was known as The Fisher King because he had a disabling wound and was unable to do much of anything but sit in his boat and go fishing.

There are a number of layers of meaning to the tale of the Fisher King, the most obvious being that the king, also known as the Grail King, charged with the task of protecting the Holy Grail, is a fisher even as Christ is a fisher of men.

But the Fisher King, it is implied, has been wounded as punishment for a sin, the which sort of varies depending on the King Arthur tale version you read. (The derivation of the name Pelles, or the medieval French word for fish, is a pun on an old French term for sin. Can't find my reference on that, sorry.)

Pelles was wounded in the thigh. Some interpret this as a wound to the genitalia, which robbed the king of his vitality. Since the strength of the king was the strength of the land, the land withered as well.

Referring directly to a man's wounded genitals was super-rude back in the day no matter what they do on Twitter now: so it was common to simply refer to a "wound in the thigh" if a man had issues in his nether regions.

The spear the king holds is the Spear of Longinus, which a Roman centurion used to pierce the side of Christ, and which was used to deliver a wound to Pelles, the Dolorous Stroke, a wound which cannot be healed until the coming of the Grail Knight who will ask the right questions and take the right actions.

These actions depend on which versions you read, and we could be here all day going over them and who did them.

As for the sin of Pelles, it is asserted that Pelles was either a philanderer or he refused to marry the woman he should have in order to ensure the bloodline of the Grail. To repair that damage, Pelles sets about getting his daughter Elaine going with Lancelot (by shocking means) to ensure that Galaad is born, because he knows only Galaad can achieve the Grail.

In Sir Thomas Malory's Le Morte D'Arthur, the story is rather confusing and the role of King Pelles gets split between Pelles and another king.

But there are a lot of wonky things in Malory, so don't stress, the man never had an editor, he was in jail while he wrote most of the book, and he did his best.

Pelles is healed by the Holy Blood on the spear. Or a knight asking the right questions. Or by drinking from the Grail.

Depending on who is telling the story.

With the Achievement of the Grail and the redemption of King Pelles by the knights, in particular his grandson Galaad/Galahad, the king is healed, sins are forgiven, and the land is healed.

Mrs. Whitaker, who is being visited by young Galaad on a quest, has just found a tome in an Oxfam shop that once belonged to Galaad's grandfather.

Pelles, who failed to be as chivalrous as he should have been and ended up spending a lot of time fishing instead of running his country, perhaps learned some lessons from The Romance and Legend of Chivalry that got passed down to Galaad, because this Neil Gaiman tale is Twilight Zone-ish like that.

And now you know.

Thanks to my Patreon patrons for sponsoring this post and so many other wonderful things.

#chivalry #neil gaiman #king arthur #sir galahad #dark horse comics #fantasy graphic novels

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aris-ink · 2 years

Note

just saw your post and i’m excited. can you please write a taehyung x reader one. pseudo incest and dubcon and manipulation <3

lmao I'm so sorry everyone

pairing: taehyung x reader

genre: forbidden romance, step!siblings au

warnings: intoxication, dub con, soft manipulation + corruption, pseudo incest, praise, degradation (only a little), creampie, tae is basically an angel (with horns)

"Easy there, baby."

You breathed in and out slowly, leaning on Taehyung while he sat you on the edge of the bathtub. He crouched down in front of you, searching your glassy, unfocused eyes with concern.

"How much did you have to drink?"

A few seconds passed. His expression darkened into disapproval as he watched you struggle to remember the answer to his question.

"A- a bit too much," you concluded at last.

"I knew I shouldn't have let you go to that party."

"Taehyung, stop," you protested weakly. "You're not my father."

He narrowed his eyes.

"Then how about I go and get your father? I'm sure he'll be delighted to know that while he's working his ass off to get his daughter through college, she's busy sneaking out and drinking."

"That's not true," you whispered, but you were starting to feel queasy and it had nothing to do with the alcohol in your system.

"So I can tell him, then?" Taehyung asked. The tone of his voice was innocent, but there was a wicked gleam in his eyes, like toying with you brought him some sick sense of satisfaction.

You tried to swallow the lump in your throat, capable of doing nothing more than shaking your head in answer.

Taehyung sighed. He reached out to stroke your hair, running his fingers through the soft strands.

"I just worry about you. I want what's best for you. You know that, right?"

He pressed a kiss into your cheek when you nodded and straightened up, proceeding to unbutton his black shirt. Your heart flipped in your chest. All of a sudden the spell broke, and you found the ability to voice your thoughts again.

"What are you doing?"

He slipped the silky material off his toned shoulders, letting it fall to the ground.

"You need to wash up, baby," he said simply, leaning down to wrap an arm around you. "Here, let me help you."

Confusion made you feel so small next to him. You didn't protest when he lifted you up. But when his fingers grazed your thighs and he began lifting the hem of your dress, you squirmed, placing your hands on his chest.

"I can do it myself, Tae."

You tried to push him off you, though it was clear you were in no state to fight him. He arched an elegant brow.

"You can barely stand right now."

You shook your head, clumsily trying to stop his hands from reaching your dress again.

"Stop, you shouldn't-"

"I shouldn't what?" Taehyung questioned. His dark eyes burned into yours, his hands giving your thighs a squeeze, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "I just want to take care of you, baby," he said, his voice so soothing it was almost hypnotic. "Isn't that what brothers do? Take care of their little sisters?"

You didn't understand why, but you froze. It might have been the tenderness in his voice, or the way his touch spread a wave of heat through your core. Either way, this time when he lifted your dress, you didn't try to stop him, and he rewarded your compliance with a kiss to your neck. It made your knees buckle.

He wrapped an arm around your waist again and pulled you close.

"Good girl."

You let him unclasp your bra. It joined his shirt on the floor, leaving your chest bare and vulnerable to the hunger in his eyes. At the very back of your mind, even with the liquor buzzing through you, you knew he should have looked away. But he stared openly as he pulled down your underwear, drinking in every new inch of uncovered skin like it was his holy grail.

You had no choice but to let him lead you into the shower. He was right; your knees felt too weak to hold up the weight of your own body, although you weren't quite sure if that could be blamed on the alcohol alone. The pressure of the water streaming down your skin was a pleasant rush. You closed your eyes, letting it wash over you. It was easier to bear the touch of Taehyung's hands in complete darkness. Like you could hide away from the mortification that came with getting wet as he held you against him. You couldn't help it; you were pressed together too intimately in the rising steam of the shower. His jeans did little to hide the hard on you could feel pressing into your lower back.

His breathing grew shallow by your ear as he poured soap onto your shoulders. He massaged it into your arms with great care, moving towards your neck softly.

"Good girl," he whispered again, wrapping his fingers around the column of your throat. He stroked it a few times, applying light pressure. The sensation made your pussy throb with an intense heat. It felt like he was rewarding you for being compliant in something so deviant; thanking you for letting him take advantage of you, so sweetly, fine hands wrapping around your breasts to touch them and knead them.

"Taehyung," you moaned, "I don't think-"

"You don't need to think," he tsked, biting on your earlobe. You shivered. "Just let me take care of you, yeah?"

His hand began a slow descent down your stomach. You clenched your thighs, a gush of wetness flowing down the flushed skin. He parted your swollen lips and found your clit, rubbing into it immediately with the pad of his finger.

You flinched in response to the touch, but Taehyung tightened his arm around you, trying not to groan at how wet you were for him.

"I'm just making sure you're clean, baby," he murmured hotly against your skin. Your hips buckled, the speed of his fingers increasing as he continued to rub you, relishing in the soft whines that were leaving your throat.

"Such a good girl," he praised, his voice low and raspy. "Take it just like that. Feels good, doesn't it?"

You tried to protest, shaking your head weakly, but your pussy dripped under his sinful ministrations, your spine tingling as you felt your orgasm approaching.

"Almost done, baby," Taehyung reassured. "Almost done. Gotta make sure you're all nice and clean."

Your knees knocked against each other when your thighs shuddered, the tension in your stomach snapping and making you gush. He finally let himself groan into your ear, watching your pussy tremble under his fingers intently.

"Good girl."

He kissed your shoulders, then turned to grab some shampoo, taking his time to wash your hair. The feeling of his fingertips on your scalp could have lulled you to sleep, especially after he's just made you come. You sighed, all previous tension in your body gone, replaced by the warmth of his touch. It reminded you of your childhood, when he would wipe your tears away and kiss your skinned knees. With the way he was acting, you would have wondered if everything that happened moments ago was nothing more than a screwed up dream; but the pulsing in between your thighs was a real enough reminder. He must have sank all the way into your bones, because you could feel him everywhere, your skin tight with the heat he consumed you with.

He led you out of the shower and dried you first, not paying attention to his wet hair or jeans. He probably didn't even realize how good he looked, down on one knee, muscles on display as he rubbed your calf gently with a soft towel. For the first time in your life you found yourself admitting to wishing that his mum had never met your father, for the simple, selfish reason of being able to feel freely now, without guilt or doubt lurking in your ribs.

Taehyung didn't have such an issue. It didn't bother him in the slightest what title or whose surname you carried. What did it matter? You were happy being close to each other, and he made sure to keep an eye on anyone that had anything to say about it. No person, law or god was going to get in the way of this for him. Whether he had to get rid of a random stranger, your best friend, or take you far away from your parents never to be seen again. He's loved you for as long as he could remember.

You let him dress you and put you to bed, like a little girl. The strangest thing was that it didn't feel out of place at all. And when he left your side to turn off the light, you couldn't stand the aching longing that drummed in your chest. You fell apart under his touch like a house of cards; and now when his hands weren't on you something felt missing. You wondered when he managed to sneak this deep into your heart.

You knew he would probably be coming into bed with you. It wouldn't be the first time for that, but it certainly was for how he crawled underneath the covers right on top of you, settling himself in between your thighs. Now clad in just a white, cotton shirt and briefs, his hair already dry, he looked so soft. You didn't get to admire it, though, because your stomach was dropping rapidly, your breath caught in your throat. You could feel him resting against your core; thick, heavy and rock hard.

You were so damn cute to think that the night was over.

Your hands reached to steady themselves over his shoulders. You pushed at them, all to no avail. Might as well have been pushing a boulder. Unmovable.

"Taehyung-"

He shushed you, covering you both up with the sheets, like that made what was going on underneath all okay. A burst of warmth flooded through your system when he pressed his lips to yours, July fireworks exploding behind your eyelids.

"Don't you trust me, baby?" He whispered. "I took care of you, didn't I?"

The experimental thrust that followed was deliciously sinful. His bulge rubbing up against you made your stomach jolt.

"You'll take care of me too, won't you?"

"Taehyung-"

He grabbed your jaw and kissed you again. This time his tongue invaded your mouth to taste you. He moaned into the kiss, like he just got something he's been waiting for longer than you could have imagined.

You melted under him, and as soon as you did his hips started rutting into you, his clothed cock twitching against your cunt. You mewled, the heat in your body becoming too overbearing when he pulled away to slide his briefs down in a hurry.

"Wait, wait!" You cried. Might as well have been talking to a boulder. He couldn't hear you at all.

He hooked a finger into your panties and pulled them down your thighs, wasting no time in chasing the long awaited skin to skin contact. His eyes were stuck on your pink, glistening cunt as he palmed his cock. You placed your hand on your chest, willing to calm the erratic pounding of your heart. He was so pretty, but so thick.

With a hiss, he placed his shaft against your bare, swollen lips, sticky with arousal.

"You're so fucking tiny," he gritted. His cock jumped at the observation, his mouth finding its way back to your neck. You whimpered, your fingers curling around his biceps, like you still wanted to push him away despite how much you ached for his touch. This was so wrong in so many ways.

"Baby," he pleaded raspily, sucking a pretty bruise into your neck, a mess of teeth and tongue. "Let me put it in, yeah? Just the tip, I promise. Just the tip."

The constant pulsing in your core increased in intensity, arousal flowing out of you and covering Taehyung's cock all over. You could feel him twitch in response. He wrapped his fingers around it, pushing it against your clenching hole. The pressure felt divine.

"I just want to feel you, I promise."

He was breathless, his brows furrowed in concentration. He slid a few inches forward, the heat of your cunt enveloping the flushed, leaking tip snugly. He groaned, dropping his head to your shoulder. Despite the fact that he continued to hump you, he never dared to slide in deeper, teasing you with a taste of pleasure that had your eyes rolling back.

"Mm, doesn't that feel good, baby?" He inquired. "Imagine how good it would feel if I slid all the way in. You'd be so full."

You moaned into his neck, shaking your head but spreading your thighs wide open, making him gasp above you.

"Good girl. I'll just - fuck," he swore, pushing himself deeper into you. Your cunt throbbed, struggling to accommodate him as he sank all the way in. The stretch was uncomfortable, but at the same time so good you were on the verge of trembling.

Taehyung bottomed out with his entire body tensing up, not giving you much time to prepare before he snapped his hips back and slowly started fucking himself into you. His strokes were soft, like those of a lover. So soft they didn't match the dirtiness of his actions.

"Not... Not fucking you, baby," he stuttered, his lips parting open in pleasure. "Just- just need some relief. I'm not gonna come," he groaned. "Fuck, yeah," the words were coming out hot and breathy, bumping against each other on his suddenly clumsy tongue. "F-fuck, I promise, baby. I won't come."

You whined, your head almost hitting the headboard as his thrusts sped up, rocking you deep into the mattress. You had given up in your attempts to stop him, only one thing stuck on your mind besides the pleasure shooting through you.

"Don't- don't come inside," you stammered, arching your back to let him hit you deeper. But combined with the request that only made Taehyung groan again. He leaned his forehead on yours, entwining your fingers. With his free hand he held on to your hips, keeping you firmly in place.

"I know you want me to fill you up," he whispered in between rushed, shallow breaths. "Gonna make you all mine, angel. And you'll take it all."

You tensed around him, unable to deny the rush his words sent through you, making your pussy flutter around his cock in excitement.

"Oh f-fuck," he grunted, pounding into you harder. His balls were tightening, so ready to release years of pent up tension all down your tiny pussy, but he needed to hold on just a little longer. Just until you creamed all over him first.

"Come for me," he breathed out unsteadily, his hand slipping in between your bodies so he could start rubbing your clit again. "Be a good, little fuck toy. I know you want to."

He muffled your cries with a messy kiss, the thumping of the headboard against the wall growing frantic as you tightened around his cock. From the moment he sank inside you, he knew; nothing could ever compare to the wet, heavenly heat of your cunt, gushing and spent, all because of him. He followed you into oblivion with a deep, drawn out groan let out into your mouth. Releasing inside you felt even better; his cock twitching and making a mess as he fucked his cum deep into you. He made sure to engrave himself into your body like he has spent years engraving himself into your soul.

He slipped out of you with a wince, sensitive but missing your warmth so much already. His chest heaved, hot breath washing over your face as he examined it.

"Good?" He asked.

You were so starry eyed, your cheeks flushed, but only an affirmative, incoherent mumble left your lips. Taehyung smiled, humming, pressing sweet kisses into your sweaty face.

"You're all mine now."

You sighed, your eyes shutting. You were already floating somewhere in between reality and dreams. It felt like he had hold on both dimensions, seeping into every corner your existence had even so much as ghosted with its presence.

You felt him cuddle up to you, wrapping both arms around your waist. You never felt as secure as you did when Taehyung held you; and if he got up and left after what just happened, you didn't think you could bear it. It was too late to feel guilty; you had fallen right into his trap some time ago, so steadily and slowly you didn't even notice. There was no denying these facts now, or the call of his heart to yours. A full moon that awakened all of his senses and gave him purpose, the only thing that has ever blessed his unholy soul.

In the morning he'd kiss your shame and worries away until you'd cry and beg him to fuck you again. He'd start taking you out on secret dates, making plans to pull you closer, step by step, until you were addicted to his mere presence. Just like he was to yours. Why still live with your parents, baby? Just move in with me. Don't you want more freedom? I'll take care of everything.

And you trusted him to do so. In the end, Taehyung always wanted what was best for you. And who'd know better than an older brother?

#goodnight yall #dhshdh #bts x reader #yandere bts #taehyung x reader #bts imagines #bts smut #bts scenarios #bts reactions

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