Finding him at the basement after beating up all the guards, he flinches at first, his face covered in days old blood and a set of broken ribs. There's his signature chuckle but it's weak and breathless. This stranger just showed up, saved him without asking anything for return. And when they manage to escape the Embassy, they tell him, this is were they part ways and disappear. Brynjolf left alone wondering if he'll ever get a chance to thank them. He didn't even caught their name.
(This could possibly work as an non- LDB-route as well. Still going into the Thalmor Embassy, but maybe being hired to snoop to get rid of Ulfric's dossiers instead.)
Later they'll find out they need to head to Riften and they'll end up finding already familiar face to them.
Some time would go by, then one day in a fleeting moment they'll show up at the marketplace of Riften. Brynjolf's heart jumps to his throat, his body still remembering what he went through and he'll have a visceral reaction to remember it all again. Maybe it wasn't so long ago. Poor man is about to have a mental breakdown in public.
And he can't let them slip away again. "At least tell me your name", he pleads them and as he grabs them by the arm, he remembers how their hands felt against his bruised cheeks.
And it turns out they were looking for Brynjolf after all.
cw: 18+(mdni), monsterfucking!!, fluff, tail humping, scenting, possessiveness, slight workaholic baelor, praise, dirty talk, p in v, knotting, oral(f!receiving), oral(m!receiving), nesting!!, breeding, cock-warming, overstimulation if u squint, tail fucking(?).
a/n: OUR BIG DRAGON IS FINALLY HERE!! i might've gone overboard with this one oops. but alas, i put my whole freakussy into this!!! apologies for any mistakes, and thank you for being patient about this one! i appreciate it a lot < 3
✧ LOOKS
⤷ dragon hybrid!baelor's tail is on the thicker side. heavy, long, and very sturdy. it's missing any membrane, with the scales smooth and hard along its length. nothing fancy, nothing that'll catch people's eyes when it swishes and curls behind baelor. the end of it is pointy, and could definitely hurt someone if aimed at a more vulnerable part of their bodies, which the prince keeps in mind, but rarely uses, if ever. he likes knowing that, if no weapons are at his disposal, he has an ace up his sleeve that he could use, and with full control as well. that's the thing about baelor: he has near full control of his dragonic side, having exercised it since he was a boy. rarely losing control, rarely having the kingsguard to get a hold of him to stave off any outbursts. but of course, he doesn't use his tail only in perilous situations. baelor also enjoys exploiting it for your own benefit: grabbing things for you, steering you in the right direction when you are next to him, wrapping it around any part of your body for contact—as long as it's proper, of course, if in public settings—to soothe you or himself, when court weights too hard on his shoulders or you get rather overwhelmed at feasts. he likes to stroke your skin with the tip of his tail, just soft, rhytmic brushes that lull you back into comfort.
⤷ baelor's talons are not the sharpest, but not the dullest either. as said prior, he likes knowing he has ways of besting his opponents if need be or defend himself if by any chance he gets attacked. we have to remember he is next in line to the throne, which means he needs to stay alive and well long enough to have the crown placed upon his brow. he cannot and will not take any chances of being caught defenseless. he might have the kingsguard around, but even then, the odds of being hurt are never zero. dragon hybrid!baelor sharpens his talons just enough to prick at skin if dug into with intent, but never enough to injure if he just scratches lightly at skin, which he does often when you're near. he never draws blood with you, hates to see any of his dragonic features ever being used to hurt you in any way, shape, or form. if it wasn't for you, his talons would be sharp enough to draw blood forthwith, but alas, he takes measures for that never to happen unless willed by him towards people who wish him harm.
⤷ his scales are scarlet in color. they look akin to rubies in the sun, shifting and glittering with the rays of warmth. baelor does not particularly care to show them off, but makes sure they are visible, especially in court meetings or when he is called upon in some corner of the realm on princely duties. he wants people to know he is blood of the dragon, which runs so deep in his veins that even his features took after the ancient beasts people so feared. that is what he wants, for people to make the connection between what once was and what is now, that he is the closest thing to the dangerous, ruthless beasts of time long gone and fit to rule; strong enough to do it. the scaly plates encompass the whole width of his shoulders, swirling up the length of his nape and disappearing into the fine hairs there. they dip along his spine, a cluster of them, like freshly spilled blood, ending in that sturdy, glorious tail. you love the ones along his navel that travel slowly towards the base of his cock; it always makes your pupils dilate with want just at the sight. but you're not so crass as to not appreciate the reddish scales that dust his temples and ears, even a few stray ones here and there down his chest.
⤷ dragon hybrid!baelor has horns, but not in the way you might think. they're almost entirely of solid bone, with a cluster of scales at the bottom from where they sprout on either side of his head. the horns are extremely sturdy and rather sharp at the end. in the beginning of your courtship, baelor was worried at times that he might accidentally nip or hurt you with them, but with time, he learned to maneuver around you in such a way that the threat of them towards you is very minimal. it's quite bothersome for him to wear helmets, which is why he asked for one that allows for his horns to sit comfortably inside the steel without hurting him, or simply, to have two gaps at the top for the horns to pop out outside the helmet. baelor ended up wanting both. he wears the latter at tournaments and jousts to intimidate his opponents a little. it's the one time where he can prance around and preen, not weighted down by duty and crown.
⤷ his wings are kept against his back, but not all the way. they're ruddy and wide, the membrane thick and vibrant, expanding way past his body when unfurled fully. baelor commands a room quietly, without raising his voice, without making a fuss. the dominance is in the way he holds himself: the way he walks, looks, and comports himself. he uses the wings to his advantage, letting them unfurl just enough to shroud his broad back and the width of his shoulders, but not more than that. it's calculated, and it works wonders at letting him take up space and be imposing when he walks into a room, without even needing to speak. sure, he is the heir to the iron throne, and the title demands obedience, but how long would a mere legacy hold courtiers in check if he didn't have proof that he could fill the role waiting for him? having people stepping aside to make room for him fills baelor with pride; of his house, his name, and the man-beast he is.
⤷ baelor's eyes are slitted, like any dragon's. he tries his best not to make it known when he has been slighted, especially in court, but his pupils always give him away. they thin so, so much when something gets on his nerves, even if otherwise his body gives no sign of his irritation. but, in the same measure, when he looks at something he likes, something he loves, something that pleases him, his eyes turn to almost black with the way his pupils expand and widen, overwhelmed by the warmth he feels in his chest.
⤷ dragon hybrid!baelor's tongue is slitted, but just a bit at the end. does not like to showcase such a detail, unless it's with you, and only for your viewing. but there are times when a lord or sycophant says something too daring or out of place in court, and baelor would lick at his lips, letting the tip of his split tongue slither out just a bit, enough to be seen, with the barest hiss, before addressing the offender. it works like a charm in making himself heard and obeyed.
✧ BEHAVIOUR
⤷ dragon hybrid!baelor is all about control and appearance. to the outside world, at least. he needs to appear like he is in control of himself and his dragonic side, especially when members of the court are around. proving oneself does not leave room for mistakes, and no matter how kind and benevolent he is, one slip could crumble it all away. baelor has the favor of the small folk and lordlings alike, and wants to keep it that way until he can feel the cold touch of the crown upon his brow and have the realm at his fingertips. until then, restraint and impeccable etiquette must be exercised every moment of the day in the presence of others. not that it does not come naturally to baelor, but some days are harder than others, and reigning in his more baser, primal instincts proves to be a challenge.
⤷ as the heir to the iron throne, baelor is very busy and well known to be a bit, or more of a workaholic. he dislikes it because it keeps him away from you, his mate, for too long at times. perhaps from an outside perspective, he might seem like a serious, kind husband who will tend to his wife as duty demands, but not much more. that could not be further from the truth, for he craves you even when you are right next to him. you are a balm to his senses, softening the hard edges that come with the incessant demands of duty he is subjected to every single day. there is no better cure for his self-destructive ways of working himself to the bone than a stern look from you or a plea for respite. it shatters every shackle that binds him to his solar, his desk, his stack of letters and reports, and guides him right back to you, where he belongs.
⤷ unfortunately, there are days when he cannot simply disregard duty and has to lock himself in his solar for hours on end, at times the whole day, just to be able to make a dent in all the stacks of papers he has lying around on his desk. it unnerves him, because he is aware that it makes you lonely. a wife should never go too long without the presence of her husband, and he would be remiss in letting you wallow in too much solitude. so, he comes up with a solution that will allow you to be close to him and grant him the possibility of working on his princely duties. he builds nests for you in his solar.
⤷ as a dragon, the urge to provide his mate with a nest is as old as time, and baelor knows how much you love the one he had built for you in your shared chambers, so why not... give you more? he makes sure the necessary materials are the softest gold can buy, from silks to wool to rich cotton, all just for your comfort. the way your face lights up when he offers the idea makes his chest rattle with a pleased rumble, knowing he has made his mate happy. the nests are placed in his solar a fortnight after: one close by the windowsill so you can soak up the sun while you read and knit, one in a more secluded corner, where the temperature drops just a bit, ideal for taking naps and resting, and baelor's favorite, one right under his desk, tucked beneath it, as close to him as possible.
⤷ despite what the realm might think, baelor craves you like no other; needs to be close to you as much as duty allows, and will do anything to make it happen. he loves it when you just curl up onto the nest under his desk, fingers gripping onto the hem of one pant leg or holding onto his tail. it's a heady feeling, having his mate seek him, wanting a point of contact even like this. the beast prowling in his chest almost purrs with delight when he feels you tug as much of his tail as you can towards yourself to cuddle it, cheek pressing against scales as you use it as a pillow while you slumber. baelor always takes a couple of minutes just to watch you, the tip of his tail slowly caressing your sleep-flushed cheek so, so tenderly, unable to help himself from touching, his heart skipping a beat when you unconsciously lean into the contact.
⤷ but, that is not the only way he uses his tail, especially when he has you so close to him, so sweet and warm. spending time next to him, just watching him pore over documents and work himself to the bone, bores you at times, as much as you want to wave it off and continue being a supportive wife. many a time have you enticed him to give in to less... princely endeavours, using all the weapons at your disposal to make his resolve crack bit by bit. a flutter of your lashes here, a whine there, a tug on his tail or breeches, all in favour of his attention, if even just for a few moments. and baelor, your dear dragon, your ever dutiful husband, was powerless to resist for too long, especially when you leaned back fully into the nest, parting your thighs while you slowly inched your skirts up to your waist, showing off your smallclothes, or at times, lack thereof. always wet, folds glistening with your arousal, calling to him like a siren song, he was too enamored of a man to resist.
⤷ do not think that baelor would push his chair back and crawl under his desk after you. no, not at all. work could not wait, now could it? so, he used his tail to give his pretty, needy wife what you so sought after, hands still busy writing letters and grain reports, delighting himself in the sounds of your moans and pleasured sights from under his desk. it was so easy to brush the tip of his tail upwards along the soft skin of your thigh, slow and steady, letting you feel him, building the anticipation before giving you what you wanted, swiping through sodden folds and drenching his scales in your slick. baelor always loved that sharp, breathy intake you took whenever the tip of his tail finally flicked against your clit, circling the sensitive nub in relentless motions, before tapping against it enough to make you gasp but never enough to sting, unless you asked for it nicely. it always reminded you of how your husband loved doing the same thing with the head of his cock whenever you fucked. mimicking the action with the tip of his tail always made you heady and bashful with lust.
⤷ flicking and playing with your clit, dipping his tail just a bit into your wet hole to tease, ever careful not to hurt you, swiping through your folds again and again. baelor does anything to get you to cum as much as you want, multitasking between continuing his work and drawing out the most delicious sounds from your plush lips, letting you soak his tail to your heart's delight, happy that he's able to offer you release. at times, you get so overwhelmed, fingers grasping at his tail, needing something to ground yourself to, ending up pressing the scaly muscle against your soaked cunt and grinding against it, humping it eagerly to get yourself off, whining high in your throat at the feel of the bumps and ridges against your clit. your dragon always finds it so endearing, making sure to curl his tail just right, helping you chase that delicious heat, wanting his wife to never want for nothing.
⤷ he loves to croon at you, even if he cannot see you. "feels good, my sweet?" baelor would hum as he continued writing, a small, pleased smile curling onto his lips as your moans got a little higher at the sound of that rumbled tone of his. "that's it, that's it. good girl." his praise washes over you in waves, bringing warmth to your skin and more slick between your thighs, only getting you to hump his tail faster. "you're dirtying me, my love," your dragon would continue, but not as a reprimand, the candor of his voice too gratified to sound like a reproach. "are you marking me, hm? getting that sweet honey all over my scales? is that how you scent your dragon, sweetling?"
⤷ it gives both of you a sort of thrill. you're under his desk, in a nest he crafted for you, and he cannot see you, the wood obscuring everything you are doing. but he can hear all the sounds, all the whines, everything. the wet noises your cunt makes when the tip of his tail prods at your sopping hole. the rustle of your skirts as you grind your hips. the way your feet and elbows sometimes hit against the side of the desk, making the wood rattle just a bit, his handwriting skittering against paper, making him huff. never angry, always pleased. baelor cannot see you, but he can feel you around his tail, onto it, and hear every single sound your body makes; you make. it's maddening.
⤷ and you have a perfect view of how hard his cock gets. how he spreads his thighs just a bit to relieve some of the pressure, the length tenting his breeches obscenely, making you even wetter. you try not to fall prisoner to the pull in your gut that tells you to move closer, to assist your husband the way he does you. but how could you ever, when you see his cock twitch every time your moans pitch higher because of the way the tip of his tail taps wetly against your clit? how could you not sit up and crawl between his legs, dipping your head to mouth and mewl along his clothed thigh, rubbing your cheek against the hard print of his cock insistently, offering him the friction he so craves?
⤷ he's weak for you, forgoing his papers in favour of petting at your hair, humming as he watches you paw at his crotch, mouth open, tongue licking at him through his breeches. you're so eager, and he's never felt more powerful than in that moment, with his pretty wife between his thighs, willing to offer him pleasure in return. your fingers make quick work of his breeches, whining impatiently until you can get your mouth onto his cock, lips stretched around the girth of him, muffling your noises. "good?" baelor rumbles, letting his talons scrape and pet at your hair, tender and soothing, lulling you along as you suckle and lick at his cock. the expression on your face is serene, almost peaceful, and your husband knows what you need. "rest on my thigh," he coaxes. "hm, yes, like that, my love. good, good. stay like that for me." and you do, mouthing at his cock, swirling your tongue around the length, cockwarming it while it rests inside your mouth. baelor knows this is relaxing for you, even if it takes a lot out of him not to thrust inside that perfect, wet warmth enveloping him, but he holds back, petting your hair, brushing your cheek and crooning soft praise as your eyes lower, half-lidded and drowsy, mouthing at his cock lazily, suckling occasionally. he makes sure to rub your back with his tail, wanting you as pliant and melting as possible.
⤷ of course, your mouth is not the only one being used for pleasure, for there are days when he hauls you from under the desk, placing you flush atop of hardwood, not caring about the papers and ink spilled for once, needing one thing and one thing only: to service you with his mouth. baelor is uncaring if he rips your skirts a little or not as he hikes them up your thighs, revealing your pussy to him, wasting no time in smushing his face right into the slick heat of you, inhaling the musk into his lungs and letting it fester, growling deeply into sodden folds. long tongue, the forked end of it lapping at you with fervor as he holds you against his mouth, tail wrapping around your waist to press you as close as possible, feasting to his heart's content. your juices coat his beard, nose, and chin, the pepper-salt hairs glistening with your slick in the candlelight. he preens at the way you arch off the desk, your fingers threading through his hair to press him further into you, grinding against his tongue until you cum. your husband is more than delighted to pull as many orgasms out of you as possible until you're spent and boneless.
⤷ he doesn't wash off the scent of you from his beard. baelor leaves it there until the morrow, way past when the council has finished, loving the thought of having your scent clinging to him, just as his is all over you, for he had nuzzled you incessantly before leaving your bed that morning. your husband never lets you leave his side until you reek of him, wanting every single courtier that comes into contact with you to smell him in you first, and then your sweet scent warping around his own. a dragon needs to protect his treasure, to hoard it close and deter any grubby paws from touching it. baelor always leans close and sniffs at you at the end of the day, when you both retire to your chambers, nose pressing to skin and clothes and hair, making sure there are no other scents cling to you. only his. only ever his.
⤷ scenting you so thoroughly ties into the need for him to breed you every time he fucks you. rutting into you deep and slow, too frustrated from working so late into the night, sometimes knotting the air, too eager and wound up, his body not having the patience to be all the way inside. but then again, having the pleasure to stuff you full, nudging his fat knot inside of your wet hole, groaning "shh, i know, sweet girl, i know." as the girth stretches you wide, one broad palm smoothing down your back soothingly to coax you to relax. "s' too big, hm? but you can take it, my love. just a bit more." when he's finally all the way to the hilt, your walls squeezing around his knot so deliciously, he can't help but blanket you with his body as he fills you again and again with every snap of his hips. "so good. gods, you're so warm, my heart. just right for my clutch to grow."
⤷ and a clutch will eventually grow, for baelor is sure to keep his cock inside you as deep as it'll go, his knot keeping all his seed where it needs to be: in your womb.
⤷ as much as he loves the heated moments, your dragon also wouldn't trade the tender ones for the world. the way you ask the maesters to prepare oils and creams for his scales and horns, your gentle fingers rubbing them in so carefully, making sure to get the salves in all the ridges and crevices. baelor's scales are so shiny afterwards, making him preen with delight when you fawn over them, admiring the way your dragon looks, all pampered and taken care of. you love helping him like this, making sure he looks impeccable for court, for the realm, feeling warmth in your chest when you see how regal and powerful your husband is, scales glistening in the light like rubies.
⤷ even as busy as he is, baelor would always put you first, the realm is his duty, but you are his heart. he cannot imagine not having you close as his wife, his mate. having you close is no longer a need, but a constant in his life. wrapping himself around you as you sleep, tail curled around your waist or thighs, pressing you flush to him as he scents and sniffs at your throat and hair, whispering how much he loves you, how blessed he is to have one such as you next to him. his duty to the realm is, by extension, his duty to you, as well. baelor wants to make the seven kingdoms a better place so you can live and exist in a better place, safer, happier, less concerned by misfortunes. he truly wishes no harm to befall you and will do everything in his power to make sure that one day his wife breathes with less weight on her shoulders because he willed it so.
saiki is, evidently, not the most socially aware person alive: from his psychic powers starving him from the human experience to his mind-reading rendering him unable to read body language and understand tone or hidden meaning in words.
thus, when saiki finds a wife who, as per his request, wears a germanium ring that silences her thoughts to him, he's a mess.
not only that, saiki's social ineptness really comes to light when having to face you, who he actually experiences emotions around. him dealing with those emotions as someone who felt very little before was a sight to behold.
[ silly note drabble: i bet saiki, who can't really express himself well physically or verbally, makes up for that with using a ton of emojis over text. he's not expressive or emotive and feels bad for it so tries to make up with it via things like "🙂❤️" in response to something romantic or "😛" when he's hungry or something. he really tries! ]
you always try to be very understanding about [his social awkwardness], always being open and clear about communication, etc.
however, you have seemed to get saiki to develop a silly little habit.
every time saiki did something sweet or convenient, you would give him a little peck on the cheek.
when he brought you dinner, you thanked him and pecked him. when he got you water, you thanked him and pecked him. when he gave you his jacket, you thanked him and pecked him.
in total misunderstanding that the kiss was just a natural little affectionate instinct, saiki thought that the cheek-kiss was some sort of reward. subconsciously or consciously.
thus, every time saiki does anything (of that sort), he pauses and draws his face near you in expectancy.
like a dog awaiting a treat after doing a trick.
saiki isn't the most affectionate guy. the want to be physically touchy doesn't completely elude him, but having the sudden urge to kiss or something isn't common for him.
thus, your random affectionate gesture to him became positive reinforcement.
that wasn't your intention at all and you, once you realized what had become, gave it a hearty laugh. saiki got embarrassed.
...and yet he still continues to do it. old habits die hard!
"nico where were u" um... what... i've been here the whole time... "no nico you were gone for a fucking week where have u been" WHATTTT LITERALLY MADE THAT MARRIAGE DRABBLE YESTERDAY STOP GASLIGHTING ME!!!!! STOP!!!!!!!!!!! GUYS!!!!!!!
i'm joshing of course. sry i've been so busy bro the summer is always so insufferable. i've also been a lazy bones
do u giys want to hear about my love for vampires because i'm losing my mind over vampires. boy me fighting the urge to write shitty vampire saiki fanfiction is one of the greatest battles in mankind we should write an epic about this OMG HAVE I GUYS TOD U ABOUT MY LOVE FOR GO FOR IT NAKAMURA EVERYTIME I SEE MEDIA ABOUT IT I START UNCONTROLLABLY SHAKING WITH JOY IT'S NOT EVEN FUNNY GUYS I NEED A FUCKING SEASON TWO OR I'M GONNA LOSE IT MY LITTLE GAY BOY I NEED CLOSURE I CRY AND SCREAM
why is this note longer than the drabble itself. Oh my god Guys Sorry.
btw what should i do for my 200 followers milestone. Or should i do 250. i dunno. VAMPIRE KUSUO no. it should be something that benefits the public. not traumatizes it. Ok. Ideas. Mama Nico Need Ideas.
saiki k taglist (comment to be added!): @skeletaldino @puppysandrainbows @aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa444 @handwrittenscripts @cutepuppy1845 @loafsoobin2 @heyits-you @i-bitch-you-bitch @starrrforeverheart @iridoscopy @blurredkissesx @mjfr @dragemballz @mari-ana-grande @lovelyrosesxoxo
Breaking News: The guy who always wins his bets wins another bet!
Aventurine now outranks Pearl, who runs a planet. So can we please put the "he's powerless" claims to bed?
Every time any form of interaction between Aventurine and the IPC gets brought up in the game, I just grit my teeth now, because it inevitably revives the (literally) years-long debate: "Aventurine never wanted to join the IPC!" "Aventurine is a slave and has to stay in the IPC or they'll kill him!" "Aventurine was going to be executed for breaking his cornerstone!" "Aventurine hates the IPC!"
Saveeeee meeeee pleaseeeee.
I just don't know how the game can continually drop stuff like this:
This is, in fact, Jade telling Aventurine he can quit the IPC. At least 40% of this fanbase owed Jade an apology yesterday.
Yet the fandom can still struggle so much to understand that Aventurine is not the faultless victim that people seem to so dearly want him to be.
We not only now have in-game confirmation that Aventurine's after Oswaldo Schneider, but we even have confirmation that the entire Strategic Investment Department is after Oswaldo Schneider, which means that Topaz, Jade, and the other Stonehearts, are, in fact, Aventurine's genuine allies. He's not "using" the IPC to achieve his personal vendetta without his coworkers' knowledge--his personal vendetta is a standing Strategic Investment Department agenda item. They are all drinking the Hateraid together.
Aventurine's exactly where he (thinks) he needs to be right now.
Accumulating power through his employment with the IPC is not only what Aventurine originally wanted long ago when he got himself caught for the desert scheme--it's exactly what he wants right now, because everything in the Strategic Investment Department's plans aligns perfectly to his individual goals. Aventurine bet he'd get a promotion following Penacony because he wanted one. (Were we really out here thinking that the guy who always wins his bets would bet on something he didn't want? 😭)
Furthermore, this new SP description confirms that Aventurine was never at risk of execution for breaking his cornerstone. I still have no idea why people ran away with that idea when both Aventurine and the Myriad Celestia video itself confirm the only actual punishment on the table was losing his power:
Butttttt even if execution was an option they were putting on the scales, Aventurine already knew the outcome of the decision before the votes were ever cast. Aventurine wasn't in any danger, even from the start, because he already knew Diamond would decide in his favor:
Just as Aventurine said all the way back in 2.1, Diamond is explicitly a "ends justify the means" kind of person, and he acted exactly as Aventurine predicted, granting him a reward for his stunt in Penacony rather than any form of punishment. Aventurine knows the people he's working with. He knows the system and can play it like a fiddle. He's not Aventurine of STRATAGEMS for no reason, come onnnnn people. In this high-stakes game called life, the IPC is Aventurine's "hotel on Broadway," providing him everything he needs--it's extremely unlikely he'll be leaving them any time soon.
And this just continues to confound and frustrate people when it comes to talking about his character. Over and over again, it's "Aventurine isn't like the IPC; he wouldn't do the kinds of things they stand for!" or "He's only there to get revenge; he hates everything they do and doesn't support their colonizer land-grabs at all!"
But he has.
His primary role is in serving the Ten Stonehearts' "asset liquidation" function--that is, overthrowing anyone who fails to comply with the IPC's plans. He has murdered people specifically for the IPC; it's right there in his character story! D;
We had an entire subplot in Penacony about the noble struggle of the native Penaconians who gave their literal lives to free their planet from the tyranny of the IPC--and Aventurine went in and deliberately took that freedom away again. He has never expressed even the slightest regret for rewinding the clock on the centuries-long revolution that Hanunue and Mikhail died for. He effectively did to Penacony exactly what was done to his own planet and then got rewarded for it.
Aventurine is every bit as much of an IPC lapdog as any other member of the Ten Stonehearts--even less empathetic than some (Pearl, at least)--and has never claimed to be anything else.
In fact, the game goes out of its way to try to hammer this home by often refusing to let the Trailblazer respond to Aventurine in anything but a vaguely standoffish manner, repeatedly calling him out for being with the IPC--despite Trailblazer managing to befriend everyone else and be perfectly cordial with former enemies like Sunday, Skott, and Topaz. The game drills it into our heads constantly that, at least until my boy Sugilite Diamond drops, Aventurine is the IPC poster boy.
And people just can't stomach that, so they keep inventing this alternative version of him who is more sympathetic, less responsible for his own actions, who never meant to join the IPC, or who has no choice in his morally questionable schemes against others. It's big bad Jade's fault. It's fate's fault. It's anyone but Aventurine's fault.
But that's just... not the point of this character...
From the very beginning, all the way back to his days in the desert, one of the central aspects of Aventurine's character is the need to survive, because he carries the legacy and hopes of not only his entire clan but also specifically of his mother and sister, who died to preserve his life and believed that he would bring their people prosperity one day. Even if "their people" is now only him, the struggle to not end up squandering what his family bled and died for has haunted Aventurine's narrative from the time he was tiny.
Despite how much he has personally wavered--even clearly wanting to give up--Aventurine's story is, at its core, about living on no matter the cost. And the truth is that sometimes "the cost" of Aventurine's survival is other people's lives. More than 30 people went into the death maze when Aventurine was a slave, and only Aventurine came out, because when push comes to shove, he has to endure. Even while hoping it will happen, he can't allow himself to die a meaningless death or simply fade into obscurity. He's got to do his family proud.
First that meant getting into the IPC to try to bring them resources and aid. And then, failing that, now it (at least partially) means capitalizing on the convenient goal of the Strategic Investment Department to get one up on Oswaldo Schneider. It means doing everything he can to amass more wealth, more power, and more authority to fortify his own position. And it might even mean stabbing people in the back, if that truly becomes the only option.
(I'm actually inclined to think that Aventurine is rather more loyal than he paints himself and is unlikely to stab anyone in the back if he could absolutely avoid it, but if there was truly no other way to keep going...)
Of course, it's impossible to really judge Aventurine for any of this!
Everyone wants to survive, everyone does everything in their power to preserve themselves when things get ugly. The intention of gaining wealth and power to help family and allies is a noble quest. Revenge on a bad person is usually treated as justified in fiction, so going after Oswaldo is viewed very positively by the players.
But where is the line?
At what moment does one's desire for power, wealth, material comforts, and even revenge exceed the realm of nobility and become greed? Can gold gained by evil means ever be truly clean? If you're seeking riches for a good reason but still trampling over the less fortunate to get them, can your "good reason" ever really be justified?
In your quest to survive, to thrive, to be avenged, what--and who--are you willing to sacrifice?
That's the point of this character.
Aventurine has always been a walking contradiction: The victim who now helps victimize others, the colonized who now helps colonize, the eternal winner who has lost everything, with pockets full of money but with nothing worth cherishing, wanting to die and yet clinging to life.
He entire role in the story is to present us with a nuanced picture of the IPC's impact on the HSR universe:
Unlike Topaz whose conscience is still (mostly) clear (perhaps only by sheer force of will at this point), Aventurine is fully aware that the IPC is evil. He's not under any illusion that they're actually a force of good for the universe. He doesn't buy the "We help poor planets that can't help themselves" propaganda in the slightest, and he's made it clear that he doesn't actually approve of the methods some of his own coworkers (namely Opal) will stoop to. He thinks the IPC are pretty shitty people, and doesn't reserve that opinion just for Oswaldo Schneider.
But he also contributes to the system knowing it is fundamentally evil.
He willingly joined the organization that contributed to his sister's death. He willingly helps undermine planets' freedoms the same way his own was oppressed. While people continue to struggle to survive across the universe, Aventurine takes the "meaningless" wealth he's amassed and blows it on million dollar perfume and pink diamonds.
He lives the polar opposite life he had in his childhood: Now he has otherworldly strength, now he has riches, now he has every comfort imaginable, now he has a pseudo-mother figure and a pseudo-sister figure, so he's never alone... Now he is needed, now he is successful, now his blessing serves its purpose and actually helps him advance, now he can pursue a goal of getting justice for his people again...
Everything Aventurine currently wants out of life, he can get from the IPC. So why wouldn't he be there willingly?
(Don't get me wrong; I'm not saying Aventurine likes the IPC. He's never claimed to be genuinely loyal to them, never seemed like he particularly enjoys his job, and even in the recent description of the SP talks about having to "force a smile" for the camera. He's not under any illusions that the IPC is the coolest, bestest, greatest company to work for ever. But he stays because, in his mind, the benefits outweigh the small, small cost of his morals. Maybe he thinks he already lost those long ago, so there's no morals left for him to lose anyway.)
It's not actually a healthy situation. The IPC is probably one of the worst possible places in the universe for him to be. They definitely contributed to his genuine desire for suicide in Penacony, and the cognitive dissonance that working for the same company that left your family to die would bring with it would be staggering.
But being a "bad victim" is the point. Being willing to bed down with the bad guys for personal gain is the point. We're supposed to recognize Aventurine's willingness to stain his own hands, and even as we sympathize with his motives--protecting himself, treasuring the legacy of his family by valuing his own life more, seizing Oswaldo Schneider's power and influence--we're supposed to recognize that the situation is not so easily labelled black and white, that the Strategic Investment Department being better than the Marketing Development Department doesn't make them good people--that having noble intentions does not always confirm the ends will justify the means.
I'm not sure how many more times the devs have to stamp "I-P-C" on Aventurine's forehead before people will start to finally entertain the idea that he's not a "hapless prisoner who would surely never do bad things to other people if the meanies weren't forcing him to."
I can't believe that we're like two years in and I'm still begging people to let the morally grey characters be actually morally grey. 😭
PLEASE GIVE ME MILES HEADCANONS. I know I usually love angst but I can have some fluff hcs with miles ( I saw u write for spider man hehe)
Also if write Gwen x Reader pls give me headcanons with them too
Miles Morales' Sweetheart Headcanons
Miles constantly "forgets" his hoodies at your place just so he can see you wearing them the next day.
When he's nervous or particularly happy while holding your hand, his fingers accidentally stick to yours, and he gets incredibly flustered trying to "unstick" himself.
He hides tiny spray-painted doodles of things you like in spots only you would notice on your walk to school.
During study sessions, he’ll slide one of his headphones onto your ear to let you listen to a beat he's working on, watching your face closely for your reaction.
He loves the "Spider-Man kiss" trope and will frequently drop down upside-down from your ceiling or window frame just to surprise you.
Even after a long night of patrol, he’ll swing by your window just to hear about your day, often falling asleep for a few minutes with his head in your lap.
He’s teaching you how to use a spray can, patiently guiding your hand and getting more paint on his own face than on the wall because he's distracted by you.
When you go for "swings" across the city, he keeps one arm locked securely around your waist and constantly checks in to make sure you aren't scared.
He keeps a sketchbook specifically for drawings of you, ranging from serious portraits to goofy doodles of you eating or sleeping.
Miles is a huge "physical touch" person; whether it's bumping shoulders or resting his head on you, he always wants to be in your orbit.
/bɪˈriːv.mənt/
The state one is in when losing someone important to them
Spiderman: Across the Spiderverse
42! Miles X F!Reader, 1610! Miles X F!Reader
Synopsis: Miles is missing, and all you can think about is getting him back. Upon finally finding him, however, you're taken aback by the copy that stands beside him—the same copy that was staring at you with wide, shaking eyes full of... disbelief?
Note: I can't—for the life of me—believe how many notes the first part got after just a few days of being out, you guys are actually insane. Thank you all so much. And thank you too, Kingpin, for giving me the idea in the first place lmao. (Do me a huge solid and lemme know if any of my Spanish needs some work, I studied it for 3 years but it's been over a year since it's been put to practice so I'm a little rusty)
Miles would never drop you, not in a million years—you knew that.
Something had stopped him, forced him to let go as he froze in time; in an assortment of colours he couldn't control—that was how you found yourself where you were now—free-falling to your death for what was perhaps the second time in your life.
"Y/N!"
It was a lot scarier the first time—you had to admit—when you fell from the glass room right beside the huge collider more than a year ago. At the time, Miles had insisted you stay away from his spider business for your own safety, but you—being you—followed him down anyway.
That was your first mistake.
Your second—however—came in the form of letting Kingpin know you were there after allowing quite the ridiculous sneeze out of your mouth. And once he saw you, it wasn't hard for him to pick you up and throw you through the shattered glass in his rage and dismay of his failed plan.
Miles had his back completely turned to you when it happened, and yet—somehow—he was the first to whip his head around and notice your quickly descending form.
"Y/N!"
You had come so close to the ground—seconds away from touching it—when that familiar warmth wrapped its way around your waist, carrying you through the wind to prop you onto your own little cloud of safety.
Ever since then, Miles refused to leave your side. He took you out on every mission he went to—pretty much every news station had you pinned down as 'Spiderman's girl' and he never bothered to correct them.
So even as Gwen went off to another dimension, Miles grabbed you before following after. Even as he was invited to the headquarters of this 'spider society', he refused to go without them also granting you permission inside too.
When you asked him why he went to such lengths for you, he simply replied, "I almost lost you once while being in the same dimension as you, if you think I'm going to let it even come close to happening again, you've got another thing coming."
So no, you didn't find the second time you were falling to your death all that scary. Not when you knew Miles would save you—
"I've got you, cariño."
—you just didn't exactly know that it would be the other one that did.
His arms were wound tightly around the underside of your knees and upper back—carrying you so intimately, looking at you with so much love in his eyes, you found yourself growing slightly flustered.
...okay, very flustered.
"Oh, Cariño," as he spoke, he didn't lose the breath in his tone—the gentle air of disbelief he took on since your arrival, "you're here. I can't believe it—you're here. Te extrañé mucho." ("I missed you so much.")
You were speechless, gaping up at him like a clueless fish—what else could you do? You were being held in the arms of a copy of your best friend after he basically just confessed to you because the 'you' in this universe was apparently dead.
Though, luckily for you, there was no need to say a word for he continued speaking with those soft, fond eyes, "I missed your smile and your laugh. I missed how you always used to tug me around whenever something caught your eye... and how you would go on and on about whatever show was your new obsession of the month. You were always so... pretty when you spoke passionately.
"Speak for me, cariño," he continued, "let me hear that pretty voice of yours again."
"I—" you were stuttering—why were you stuttering?—"I, uh..."
Pull yourself together, Y/N.
"Miles—"
"Ah, I just realised how much I missed the way you say my name."
"—guh!" How the hell was he spitting such smooth lines? "Miles! Just listen for a minute, okay?!"
"Of course, mamí."
"I— I'm not who you think I am. I mean, I am Y/N but I'm not your Y/N. And you're not my Miles."
As the words came tumbling out your mouth, the boy's—this earth's Miles'—lips tugged down, gaze hardening and grip around you ever-so-slowly growing tighter.
"Don't be silly, mamí, of course I'm your Miles. I always have been and always will be."
Your brows furrowed and your eyes trailed to the view behind him, moving rapidly as you tried to locate your best friend. Though, soon, your view of the sky was cut off by the male with braids once more.
"What are you doing?" A growl. "Stop looking for him, look at me. I'm right here. He dropped you."
"He glitched! This isn't his world so of course he would, it wasn't his fault!"
You were quick to defend him—he was your best friend so of course you were. There was no way you were having anyone accuse him of anything negative, even himself.
"Cariño, you almost died. Again. He can't take care of you." Miles narrowed his eyes, as if just the thought pissed him off; as if he had the right to be pissed off.
"Oh what?" You scoffed. "And you can? I'm my own person, I don't need to be taken care of."
Stubbornly, you found yourself pulling away from him—or well, attempting to at least, he didn't seem to want to let you though, judging by the way his claws slowly began to dig into you a little.
His eyes were narrowed and his lips were tugged down, gaze seeming to pierce through you—as though he was trying to use you as a vessel to glare at the person he was really mad at.
Though, soon, the expression was gone, replaced by sullen eyes and an almost-far-away look—glossed over in a cloudy haze full of what you could only assume to be the grand despair that was grief; grief over a loss so great, it would pain someone to even admit it ever happened.
"Cariño, please. I don't want to argue with you, I just got you back. Please."
The look on his face, the crack in his voice—it was all too much, you almost couldn't stomach it, and soon, your arms loosened up as you lost the will to pull away.
"Miles," you whispered, "I... I'm really sorry—"
"Don't be, you're here with me now, aren't you? We can make up for all that lost time."
"I can't." Your vision blurred as you shook your head from side-to-side. "I'm sorry, I can't."
For a moment, all was silent. No words were exchanged, leaving only the strong wind to howl in your ears; to warn you of your grave mistake and whisper taunts into your ears. Then—
"It's because of him, isn't it?"
You almost couldn't muster words. "Huh?"
"The other me—it's because of him that you won't stay with me, isn't it?"
The look in his eyes was something of a dark nature, swirling with malice; with hate so inextricibly deep, you almost couldn't believe your own eyes—because... because there was just no way, right? There was no way your Miles (or any other Miles for that matter) could exhibit such a lethal level of loathing towards anyone...
"If I get rid of him, it won't be so much of a problem anymore... sí?"
/bɪˈriːv.mənt/
The state one is in when losing someone important to them
Spiderman: Across the Spiderverse
42! Miles X F!Reader, 1610! Miles X F!Reader
Synopsis: Miles is missing, and all you can think about is getting him back. Upon finally finding him, however, you're taken aback by the copy that stands beside him—the same copy that was staring at you with wide, shaking eyes full of... disbelief?
Note: this one's for my cousin. The idea actually came to me while I was rewatching the first spiderverse lmao. Who knew Kingpin was such a source of ideas?
part two.
You saw it—on the control panel—42. Miles had been transported to Earth 42.
You belonged to 1610; which meant that Miles also belonged to 1610.
He was in the wrong universe.
Your best friend was stranded in the wrong universe.
Now, if you were a rational person, you would've called for back-up—maybe even gotten Hobie's help like Gwen had. But you weren't a rational person—and could anyone blame you?—your best friend was probably in danger, of course you would act without thinking.
The watch wasn't hard to swipe, everyone was too caught up in what had just happened with Miles to care for guarding their little 'goober' dimension devices. Tracking him down wasn't terribly difficult either, not after you knew which world he went to.
All you really needed to think about was where exactly you had to open the portal—but luckily for you, Margo was willing to help.
"You owe me for this, by the way." Her head tilted your way, lids narrowed in a sassy look you dismissed with a wave of your hand.
"Yeah, okay, what're his coordinates?"
With a roll of her eyes—that you very much thought was quite rude—she gave you just what you needed; his exact coordinates.
The assortment of colours and geometric shapes appeared before you with a few taps of your finger against the cold device, flitting across the room in a bright blur of pure chaos that hurt your eyes to look at—
—but you would endure it; if only for Miles' sake.
"This is stupid, by the way—" you turned, facing the girl who insisted on making a snide comment every five seconds, "—you're not even a spiderperson."
"Says the girl who's speaking to me through a VR headset and isn't actually here right now," you growled.
"Careful, I can shut this whole thing down right now and tell Miguel what you're planning," she returned your apprehension with crossed arms, brows furrowing even further.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," you sighed, "it's just— I'm worried about him. Please don't tell Miguel. Miles has saved me so many times, it's time I save him for once."
You assumed you must've looked rather pitiful for her features to have softened up, arms falling limp by her side as she, too, gave a sigh; though hers sounded like it stemmed from a different type of exasperation to yours.
"Just... go. Before I change my mind—preferably."
You gave her the brightest smile you could muster, hoping to god she could see all the appreciation in it—and there was a lot—before turning back around to take a step into the portal.
"Miles! I'm here to—"
As soon as you walked through, you were met with a dark room—though, that wasn't what caught your attention. Instead, your wide eyes landed on that familiar hanging bag, beat down and bits of its material flaked off.
Chained up to it, was your very own, Miles Morales. And stood directly opposite to him was... also Miles Morales?
Alright, you were aware of this whole 'spiderverse' thing but you didn't think it would be this trippy.
"...save you?"
They were both staring directly at you, however, the expressions situated on their faces were vastly different.
Miles—your Miles—had his eyes blown wide, shaky pupils not leaving your form for a second, even as he started frantically shaking his head from left to right, he still remained in eye-contact with you.
The other Miles also had his eyes blown wide. This time, however, it wasn't in warning—no—his pupils were dilated and his form stood rigid; still as a statue.
"Cariño..." he whispered; so much breath in his voice, it barely sounded like words were coming out.
"Y/N! You have to get out of here!" Your Miles yelled, pulling at his chains as though it would get him any closer to you.
You scoffed. "And leave you? I don't think so."
"Don't worry about me! You have to—"
"Cariño."
You blinked, casting your gaze back over to the other Miles—who now stood much closer to you than before. He was just an arm's length away, in fact, how did you not notice him approach you?
"Mi vida, oh Y/N..." his voice was soft as he spoke—quiet and coated in an emotion you were unfamiliar with—hand moving up to your cheek to gently trace a cold, steel claw over it.
"Hey!" The sound of metal chains clicking grew more frantic from behind him. "Stay away from her! Don't you dare hurt her!"
Either the Miles in front of you was ignoring your friend on purpose, or he genuinely didn't hear him, because he continued to do as he was doing—continued to give you shivers from the icy material against your cheek.
Then, all too suddenly, he flew into your torso, engulfing you in a hug so tight—so inextricably emotional—you stumbled back a little from the sheer intensity of it all.
"You're alive..." he breathed out—and it was then that you finally understood what the tone of his voice was. "You're really, truly alive. Oh mi cariño, I've missed you so much."
"Wha—?"
"Lo siento... lo siento." He buried his face into the crook of your neck and the surface of your skin slowly grew wet, your collar soaking up. "I didn't get there in time, I couldn't save you."
You and your Miles shared a glance.
You saw your reflection in his eyes; the look of shock on his face; the scenes that flashed through his pupils. You saw a fear in him, one unlike anything you had ever seen before.
You saw your near-death experience replay right before him.
"Te quiero—" the other Miles—the one holding you—grounded you once more with his words as he pulled away just enough to look you in the eyes and continue, "—you know that, right? I'm so sorry for not saying it before. If you hadn't— if you never— I'm so sorry."
The phrase shocked you, sending an electric pulse down your spine and rendering you utterly immobile.
"I always have. For the longest time. It's always been you. It's always—only—ever been you."
If what he was saying was true... then—?
"Y/N!"
Suddenly, the metal against your hips was replaced by the familiar silky material you were used to; the one worn by your Miles.
"Miles," you breathed out, looking all around you to see the shattered glass that flew in the wind—scattering in all different directions as the warmth of the inside abandoned you.
"I'm gonna need you to hold on, okay?"
You nodded.
Then, you glanced behind him, catching sight of the familiar geometric mask of the Prowler—sharp claws out—coming in hot and fast and furious.
"Miles—!"
"I know, mami, I know. I need you to trust me for a minute, alright? You know I'll never let you get hurt."
You nodded once more, nails digging into his dark suit as you buried your face directly into his chest. You felt yourself flow through the air, swiftly moving as the wind worked against you, pushing back on your hair as though you were its worst enemy.
It was nice. It was fun. It was... bound to go wrong.
One moment, you were safe, all coddled up in Miles' arms as he swung through the sky—the next?—
—you were falling.
"Y/N!"
(Note: I feel like I need to address this because some people seem to be misunderstanding what I'm doing with Margo.
First of all, Margo is not AT ALL being mean in Bereavement. The whole of that fic is written in the Reader's perspective (and I'll prolly end up writing something in both Miles' perspective too) - this makes her an unreliable narrator so you can't trust the way the story is being told to you is 100% accurate to the true events.
At the start, the Reader is frustrated because she knows her best friend is stranded on another universe - this makes her unfairly take out her frustration on Margo when she thinks lines like 'who always seemed to have to say something every five seconds' (paraphrased).
Margo thus responds accordingly (as she should) and although she threatens to tell Miguel, she never actually would because she is legit one of the only real ones in the movie. So no, to those commenters that were accusing me of making her 'aggressive' cuz she was black - that is not what I'm doing at all. I am writing the Reader's perspective after just having lost her best friend.
Margo is the only one helping. She is literally being kind to the Reader. If anything, the Reader is the one being rude to her but again, that's because her best friend is missing which isn't an excuse but definitely an explanation.)
˚₊‧꒰ა he has certainly made an impression—possibly the worst one.
⤷ coming into the most prestigious of academies with just a measly scholarship, phainon was well known throughout campus. dressed in thick frame glasses and a hideous sweater, one that combined both shades of yellow and purple, it was only a matter of time that he was stopped by the host club.
⤷ after trying to find a quiet place to study, phainon accidentally wandered into what he thought was an empty room. he was shocked to see the neatly arranged tables and expensive dining sets on each section. luxurious couches were spread throughout the room, shining beneath the expensive chandeliers with a slight cream color. in the chaos of his arrival, he accidentally pumps into an expensive vase—shattering it into pieces.
⤷ the host club was made up of five members. there as the quiet, brooding type: ratio, who focused on the logistics and finance of the club. the beautifully arrogant and rich prince: aventurine, whose identity hinges on gambling and spending money on expensive drinks. the flirtatiously attractive: argenti, a magnet for all things pretty. the overly energetic and eccentric: boothill, a man who entertains with flashy party tricks and sportsmanship.
⤷ but the fifth member was the only one phainon truly cared about: you, an elegant lily in a field of roses. you were softer than any wind. kinder than most. like a peach warmed by the afternoon sun, you glimmered with every smile. as the main attraction to the host club, it puzzled even the smartest of students when you decided to take phainon under your wing.
⤷ he started off clumsy. tripping over his two feet and spilling tea over your new and pristine shirt, you watched as he apologized profusely on his knees. aventurine laughed in his face while you shook your head. with an embroidered handkerchief, you wiped away at a small dribble of tea on phainon’s face, ignoring the way he looked up at you with a puppy-like expression.
⤷ you did your best to teach him the basics. entertaining guests. pouring tea. making small talk with girls. boothill and argenti were genuinely surprised that after only a month of practice, phainon was making great progress. he even had a small fan club for him. however, the new attention meant very little to him. the only eyes he wanted was yours. someone who had seen the potential in him and offered solace to this new environment.
⤷ the two of you would spend more time with each other as the school year progressed. students came to notice the fond look in your eyes every time you talked about phainon. your expensive lunch boxes have even been replaced with smaller ones, usually looking more homemade than ever.
⤷ even your most loyal of patrons came to ask you: who is phainon to you? were you close? these questions danced around the school, causing a worldwide stir. while you were acutely aware of the rumors, phainon’s head was spinning. the last thing he wants to do is worry and put you into a bad position. you had already fronted the price of the vase he broke earlier that year. having to deal with a few ill-mannered rumors would only make things worse. when he tries to bring it up to you, fearful of your quiet stare, the look in your eyes tell him otherwise.
“i’m sorry. i feel like i’ve caused a lot of trouble for you,” phainon admits, feeling nervous in this new position. you had him laying down on the couch, head pressed against the flat of your thighs. your fingers drag through his hair, combing the tangled locks. “if it helps, i can stay away from you.”
the room is empty right now. aventurine and ratio had left to attend a meeting with the school board, specifically regarding funding and overall attendance rates. argenti was in the gardens, tending to his roses. meanwhile, boothill was at the recreation building—practicing his aim for the next sharpshooter competition. in other words, you and phainon were completely alone… together.
your laugh tickles his ear, “nonsense.”
“i could care less about their opinions. host club president or not. i wouldn’t put anyone else’s thoughts over yours.” your weight against his head becomes lighter, and he notices that you had pulled your hand away. he can’t help himself—he’s pouting in your direction, and without much hesitation or thought, you rest your hand against his scalp. “not being around you would pain me more than you think.”
phainon’s lips press tightly against each other. he glances up at you, examining the way your pupils dilate in his presence. a strange warmth washes over him and he boldly wraps his arms around your stomach, pressing his face against the surface of your body.
“do you think i’d be better without you?” your question causes him to ball your clothes in his fist. a fear that had bunched itself up in his stomach finally escapes through a sharp exhale from his nose.
“sometimes.”
“why?”
“unlike everyone else here, i can’t give you much. i’m penniless. the best i can offer you is my smarts but even then, you don’t need it.”
even though he couldn’t see it, you were smiling. “i love having you around. it means more than gold itself. to say you offer me nothing is false lie. you’ve given me more than i could ever hope for.” your fingers droop down from his hair and towards his jawline, dragging across his skin. “life feels less boring. and despite my riches and success, there is something comforting about you. i don’t think money could replace this feeling in my heart.”
your words cause his heart to swell and grow ten times bigger. so much so that it becomes palpable and nearly unstoppable. you didn’t have to say it directly for him to understand the feeling in your chest. it was the same for him anyway.
so he leans up, testing the waters by pressing a gentle kiss against your lips. one that you reciprocate with utmost happiness. your arms wrap themselves around his neck, pulling him closer as the sun’s ray peeks through the thin, lace curtains, carving your shadows into the room.
"you're disgusting," as you wrap your legs around his ass. "stop cumming in me-- oh, my god--"
"Stop cumming on my cock!" he's ramming into you as hard as he can, slamming the headboard into the wall with every stroke. "cant pull out when you're dr-dripping down my balls and... god, fuck, when your body does that-"
his head dips down to suck your tits into his mouth and the sensation makes your body twitch and kick-
warmth pulses inside you
"I can feel it, that's so gross," you whine. "i hate you-"
The first time you see Baelor is outside your father’s study.
He’s speaking in a low, conspiratorial pitch, but you can still hear traces of their conversation through the wood your ear is pressing against–the topic of discussion being that of his eldest nephew, who is, apparently, of marrying age.
The richness that coats his voice is audible despite his words being mostly muffled by the thick, oak door, “My brother finds himself preoccupied with his second son as well as the youngest two of his offspring,” there’s a brief pause, then, “it has left him unable to find a suitable match for his eldest son.”
“I understand, your grace,” is all you are able to hear because two servants are passing by with a loud, wobbling cart that drowns out the last portion of the conversation.
Just as they’ve rounded the corner, dousing the corridor in silence once more, the handle of your father’s study twists and you’re spinning on your heels to hide behind the nearest stone column.
Your breath catches when you see him exit.
He’s draped in black and dark red silks that accentuate the width of his shoulders and tapered waist, and dons two rings, a pin in the shape of a hand atop his left shoulder, and a heavy weariness that nearly makes you wish you could relieve him of his burdens.
Though, it’s the dark hair atop his head, heavily sprinkled with strands of silver and grey, and the mesmerizing dual-toned colour of his eyes that captures your attention, causing you to freeze like an ensnared rabbit the moment his stare settles on you.
“Come, come.” your father calls, beckoning you to approach their towering forms with a fond smile, “Your grace, allow me to introduce my only daughter.”
Baelor’s expression falters the tiniest bit–his brows raise and head tilts as he studies you with a slow blink and a fixed, assessing look.
A soft, “Hello,” leaves his lips, sending an array of chills over your skin despite the syrupy, hushed tone that is used to speak it.
You bow, “Your grace,” and your voice cracks in spite of the effort you put in to disguise the fact that you are, quite evidently, intimidated by the older man.
Your palms dampen and nape begins to buzz under the weight that shrouds his gaze; an unsettling warmth rises over your chest and throat, drifting upwards until it burns the flesh of your cheeks.
“Forgive me, I will take my leave. It was a pleasure to meet you, your grace.” with another low bow, you await their dismissal and then retreat to somewhere you can catch your breath.
You halt only when the reason behind your heart’s erratic rhythm is exertion, not a pair of odd-coloured eyes.
You are informed, three moons later, that your house and House Targaryen would be a formidable match–one that will soon be united through marriage.
Surprisingly, you find yourself at ease with the decision, it is not entirely unexpected given what you had overheard. What is unexpected is who you are betrothed to; you had been certain the heir had been negotiating the terms for your hand in his nephew's place, only for him to end up as your betrothed.
A fortnight later, Baelor returns, but not empty handed–an array of beautifully crafted wooden cases accompany him, all filled to the brim with expensive oils, muslins and silks, spices, and jewels in the form of matching sets.
During the celebratory feast, he goes out of his way to make you feel at ease, querying how you enjoy spending your days, what preferences you have when it comes to sweet or savory delicacies, if you prefer horseback riding in the mornings or evenings.
He is maddeningly attentive in a way that is, quite frankly, dizzying.
Despite enthusiastically answering each one of his questions, and occasionally asking one of your own in return, you could scarcely meet his eyes and you did not have to, to know that they did not leave your face for the remainder of the festivity.
There was a physical weight that accompanied his scrutiny–you had dug your nails into the meaty flesh of your palms to refrain from passing out.
The wedding takes place a moon after he returns to King’s Landing, with you by his side.
The ceremony is a combination of both of your houses’ traditions; bleeding lips meet, the fingers of bound hands interlace, a chaste kiss is pressed against your skin–leaving a residual mark and the evidence of your union on your forehead.
Baelor leads you to the banquet hall, past boisterous hollers, which the both of you spend barely a quarter of an hour within before he’s leading you down the main hallway, to a wing of the castle you were not given access to prior.
He turns to assess you, “Are you well?” the fluttering in your belly intensifies at the sound of his raspy timbre.
“I am well, your grace.” your reply is almost too soft to hear.
Baelor’s eyes slip, for the smallest fraction of a beat, to your chest before swiftly returning to your face as he outlines your schedule for the next two moons, “If there’s anything you wish to add or remove, please, tell me.”
Then, he’s pushing open a beautifully carved door–one that was unlike anything you had ever seen before–and beckons you inside with a gentle smile and raised hand.
Quivering legs carry you into the chamber, continuing until you are close enough to perch yourself upon the silken bedding. Your intertwined fingers rest atop your lap as you sit with a stillness that mimics the carved statues that line the corridors, and a growing warmth that swells over your face.
Baelor is quiet for a long beat, head tilting as he remains near the door; it goes unsaid that he stands between you and the only route of exit. He’s watching you with a strange glint within the blue and brown of his eyes–it makes your stomach churn from a combination of awareness and uncertainty.
“What have you been told of tonight?”
The hammering in your chest increases until it’s a deafening rumble that makes it difficult for you to hear your own response, “Forgive my crude language, your grace, I was informed that you will.. slide against me, and then I will be with child.”
The faint creases bordering his eyes deepen, following the pattern of his dark, long lashes.
Baelor moves to crouch in front of your seated form, hands rising with a deliberate leisureliness so as to not startle you when he begins unlacing your gown.
He’s so close and so incredibly warm.
“Thank you, your grace,” your words are breathy when they hit the air, ignoring the sensation that arises when his exhale fans against your bare shoulder, “you have been so kind.”
There’s an indescribable expression marring his face as he quickens his pace until, a mere moment later, he’s freeing you of the fabrics that cover your shuddering figure.
Did he mean to take you with the blood smeared across your faces?
“There’s more to it than sliding against one another,” Baelor explains, studying your features with a ferocity that has your face burning hotter and eyes focusing on the line of dried blood that splits his bottom lip, “have you ever touched yourself?"
The casual way he inquires sends a spike of shock up your back, “No!” your fingers clutch at the bedding below as you quickly add, “Your grace.”
His fingers begin unbuttoning his own ceremonial attire, making a show of slowly unlatching every clasp and tugging at strings. Once the final lace is loosened, he murmurs, “Touch yourself,” and takes a step closer to your sprawled form.
You freeze, the speed of your breathing fills the gap between his expectant stature and your flustered expression. When you meet his gaze, your throat tightens as though it means to suffocate you.
“Where, your grace?”
“Between your legs.” he answers as a hand rises to comb through his beard, reminding you of what it had felt like when he had kissed your forehead; the hairs had been softened by oils–a mixed blend that you recognized as jasmine, amber, and saffron.
Your brows furrow, confusion licks at every ounce of your being, unraveling every lesson you have been taught, “But, you are..”
When your hands do not move from their hold on the clumped silks you rest upon, he removes the dark red sash that had been tied around his waist that morning, then wraps it around your eyes before securing it in place with a firm, but undoable, knot behind your head.
“Your grace?” worry replaces the confusion you feel.
Baelor’s response is a low-pitched murmur, “It would please me,” you hear him take a step closer until the soft fabric of his breeches are brushing against your thin skirt, “if you pleasured yourself.”
A nervous tremor passes over you–a prickling feeling that climbs up your arms, burrowing itself beneath blood and sinew to reside within bone.
“Spread your legs,” he quietly commands and your throat snags on a shallow, tremulous breath, betraying the traitorous heat unfurling within you despite your mortified stillness.
You recall the little guidance your mother had offered you, “Lie back,” and, “it will end quickly,” but especially, “do not disobey his grace.”
Trembling fingers lift your sheer skirt to settle between the slick-smeared centre of your legs, “Oh,” you whimper; the lack of vision combined with the heightening of sensations and an eagerness to please has you jolting the instant your digit makes contact with your heated flesh.
“Lower,” Baelor instructs, “yes–one finger, slowly,” your skin burns as though it may ignite any moment now.
Once again, his pleasing baritone wraps itself around you, weaving through your senses until all that remains is the way he enunciates every word that leaves his lips–the crisp sharpness in the way select letters are formed on his tongue.
“Gently, like that, yes–very good,” Baelor’s voice is low and hoarse, making him sound almost.. angry.
Your finger follows his instructions, collecting the wetness that you had produced, separating your puffy folds, massaging the bud at the top in small, circular motions until your limbs are spasming and your movements are jerky and desperate.
“I cannot–,” you pause your ministriations, chest heaving as you listen to the sound of his ragged breathing reverberate over the stone walls, “please, I do not..”
In a flash, he’s above you, descending to lick at the vein thrumming wildly over the length of your throat, and all remnants of propriety leaves your quivering form. The low groans he lets out in tandem with your own mewls produces a wetter, noisier slick between your legs.
He smells so good.
A calloused, heated hand grasps your nape as a pair of lips press against your own; his tongue swipes along the seam of your mouth and, when you gasp, he takes advantage of the parting to taste you.
The residual blood that coats both of your lips fills your tastebuds, eliciting an embarrassed whine from your throat.
The invasion of the muscle is quick and unrelenting, stroking against yours in a way that makes your stomach flip pleasantly. His hand ascends to tangle in your hair–angling your head exactly how he wants it whilst tilting your face to reach even the deepest crevices of your mouth.
You had never conjured that such intimacies could exist, especially ones as overwhelming and possessive as this.
Baelor pulls your final layer of garment upwards until the entirety of your body is on display, then, slots his knuckle alongside your finger to languidly move over the arousal smeared between your folds.
“Does that feel good, pretty girl?” he croons, rubbing at your swollen, heated flesh with practiced touches as you struggle to form a coherent reply.
“Oh, ple–please,” you’re sobbing, fingers clutching at the ivory cuff around his wrist; you're releasing over his hand with a high-pitched cry and uncontrollable convulsions.
His mouth trails down your chest to lick at the sheen of sweat coating your skin; his sharp teeth tug at your nipples, alternating between suckling and biting until another release is trickling down your legs.
“Sweet girl,” Baelor rasps, his touch transforms from precise and unrelenting to featherlight as his hand ascends to caress the skin below your navel.
Once you catch your breath, he withdraws.
Through the thundering of your own heart in your ears, you hear the jostling of clothes, boots being carelessly kicked to the side, and the sound, as well as the physical sensation, of the bed creaking as it dips under his weight.
“I want you to follow my instructions,” Baelor begins with a lilt, his nose nudges at your jaw and your lashes flutter against the sash hindering you from seeing, “can you do that for me, my dear?”
for the last thirty minutes, maybe even an hour, you’ve kept your hands on phainon’s face, lovingly smushing his cheeks. at first, the man didn’t mind it all too much. he loved attention, especially if it was coming from you. he didn’t resist when your fingers grazed his cheekbone, dragging over every inch of his jawbone. the look in your eyes was of hazy adoration. your skin was warm and he could feel your pulse on your wrist, beating tenderly against the pads of his fingers.
but you’ve been holding him for long, he is starting to fidget and get antsy. its making it difficult for him to leave and do laundry. and god knows he needs to wash that purple and yellow hoodie. phainon has been subtly whining in front of your face, sticking out his tongue to lick at your palm, hoping that with his grossness, you will finally let him go.
however, that only eggs you on further. as you lean closer, you lick his cheek. phainon fails to realize that with his strange antics, it would only attract even stranger people—therefore, his attempt to outgross you fails, as you were equally as gross for him as he is for you. he whimpers even louder when you bite the side of his face, exaggerating your lip movements to feel as if you were devouring him.
“stop…” he cries out, not even bothering in the slightest to push you away. if anything, he leans forward, wrapping his arms around your waist as he pulls you down onto the bed. your chest is pressed flush against his, so you could feel directly how hard his heart was pounding against his ribcage.
“i seriously can’t,” you continue your conquest on his body, leaning in to pepper kisses against his exposed neck, “you’re so cute i think i’m going to have to eat you, and make sure every part of you dissolves in my stomach.”
your words cause him to laugh hysterically. they inevitably snap something within him, and he raises his body, pushing you under him. your eyes widen in surprise, seeing your puppydog boyfriend finally taking charge—he leans close to your ear, dragging his tongue against your lobe. you couldn’t even get a response out before he takes a big bite out of your trapezius muscle.
“this isn’t enough to for us to be even,” he huffs, wiping the side of his mouth with the back of his hand, “i want to eat you too. do you think if we ate each other on opposite ends, we’ll be like ouroboros?”
your smile gives him a good enough answer, but your arms wrapping around his neck is better.
pairing: Phainon x Fem!Reader
summary: A painfully ordinary healer is transferred into the worst possible workplace scenario: direct proximity to the literal sun in human form—Phainon, the Deliverer you have been secretly, responsibly, and catastrophically worshipping from afar.
Between overflowing infirmaries, impossible odds, and a boss who thinks throwing you at the Chrysos Heirs is “character building,” you must keep people alive and keep yourself from combusting every time Phainon smiles, laughs, or unforgivably, comes back just to see you.
This is, let's say, a comical story about accidental closeness, professional boundaries being obliterated, and the terrifying realization that the man you admire from a safe distance might be looking back… and finding you hilarious.
status: Ongoing
一 PART I: Safe Distance? Obliterated
一 PART II: Discount Day: Enter at Your Own Risk
一 PART III: Hello, My Name is Embarrassment
一 PART IV: A Healer's Guide to 'How to Lose Your Chill in Front of the Sun God' 101—Yet Again
一 PART V: One Healer, Five Chrysos Heirs, and a Funeral for Existing
一 PART VI: A Tale of Two Dummies (One Divine, One Ghost)
一 PART VII: Don't Call it Clinging, Call it Intimate Resolution
一 PART VIII: Anaxa's Provisional Title Has a Colon. Of Course, It Does
一 PART IX: Free Dinner (Derogatory) vs. Free Dinner (Affectionate)
