loser #1 @www-loser-org - Tumblr Blog

Men who put your comfort before their ego. Men who ask what you need and actually do it. Men who don’t sulk when you need space. Men who defend you in rooms you’re not in. Men who hype you up to their friends without making it about sex. Men who remember the small shit you said months ago. Men who plan around your schedule instead of expecting you to rearrange yours. Men who don’t get insecure when you're better than them at something. Men who check in after an arguments. Men who take accountability the same day, not three days later after they’ve cooled off. Men who don’t punish you with silence. Men who are soft with you even when they’re stressed. Men who don’t need you to mother them. Men who don’t joke about your insecurities. Men who are fine with you leading in bed and outside of it. Men who don’t need to be the main character in your life. Men who take “no” for an answer the first time. Men who are proud of you in public and gentle with you in private. Men who don’t keep score of every nice thing they do. Men who would rather lose the argument than lose you. Men who stay consistent even when things are messy. Men who know it's just the bare minimum.

catbayunthestoryteller

Missing Cat (Part 2)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x f!reader (Modern AU)

Summary: You find a missing cat that belongs to a certain Targaryen. During the time which takes you to find the owner, Vhagar becomes attached to you, so now Aemond must deal with sharing her with you. See part 1 here.

The bandages came off on a Tuesday.

You weren't there for the removal, that happened at the surgeon's office, a sterile room full of equipment you couldn't name, with Aemond's mother in attendance and you very pointedly not invited. But you were there when he came home, walking through the door of the penthouse with his left eye uncovered.

The scar was still there, a pale silver line cutting through his eyebrow and disappearing into his hairline. But the eye itself, the eye he'd kept hidden behind patches carefully arranged hair, was visible now. Clouded, yes. A milky blue where his right eye was sharp violet. But open, and looking at you, or at least in your direction.

"How did it go?" you asked, setting down the book you'd been reading.

Aemond didn't answer immediately. He set his keys on the console table by the door, then walked to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. His hands were steady, but there was tension in his shoulders.

"Mother is optimistic," he said finally, his back still to you. "She's already talking about the next surgery. The one after this one. The specialist in Geneva she's been corresponding with."

"That's not what I asked."

tessarionbestgirl

Hotd the feminist show.

Here women are constantly victims and have no desire of their own.

Hotd the feminist show.

Where Baela is only relevant when comes to her become the object of desire of men.

Hotd the feminist show.

Where they cut the only canon black woman of the books and give all he traits to men to make they likeable and to humiliate their own canon black woman.

Hotd the feminist show.

While write a scene of a mother trying to force a abortion on her daughter.

Hotd the feminist show.

Where the worse victim of the war is described as autistic to a cartoon level until they need to flash out her to her death.

Hotd the feminist show.

Where in all episodes woman are either sexually humiliated or assaulted.

Hotd the feminist show.

Where woman are not allowed to be characters, but a object of a message.

Hotd the feminist show.

moxnv

Evidence ~ (Bullseye x Reader)

Benjamin Poindexter x F!Reader. - You're one of New York's best forensic photographers. You document each scene, every small seemingly insignificant detail, and do it all with far more respect and care than the investigators. It's a quality of your work that nobody seems to particularly care about. Until someone does...

Warnings: 18+, violence, graphic crime scenes, Dex stalking reader, slow-burn cat & mouse dynamic, eventual smut, subtle kn!fe play, slightly subby Dex if you squint, unprotected P!inV! (please wrap before you tap guys), implied voyeurism (??), Dex is kinda creepy but not pushy.

A/N: This is somewhat long guys, I'm so sorry, but this idea has been wracking my brain for months and I couldn't stop typing. I had to build up the plot before the sexy time, but it's there, I promise.

INSPIRED BY THE SONG - One Way Or Another - Until The Ribbon Breaks

The dead were always quieter than the living.

That was arguably the first thing you learned when you became a forensic photographer. The living wailed and screamed, contaminated crime scenes, cried into detectives' shoulders, and argued with police, begging for answers that nobody had yet.

The dead? They simply waited.

You adjusted the focus ring on your camera, waiting for the flash to recharge before taking another photograph of the apartment's narrow hallway. Blood had dried in a splatter across the chipping paint of the wall interrupted by a single handprint leading towards the front door. You had arrived to the scene earlier than usual at the request of the rest of the forensic team.

"Need anything?" A low grumble from behind you.

It was the lead detective, a rough man with an intimidating presence, one you'd grown all too accustomed to over the past few months. You had worked with him on murder after murder, all carried out in the same, calculated process, and no incriminating evidence to lead to the culprit. He was tired. You could tell by the dark sunken bags under his eyes. No doubt, he'd spent many hours in the night trying to solve these cases.

"No, not right now," You hum quietly in response, snapping another photo with a loud click.

Everyone on the scene was tired. This was the third one in two weeks. Any and all horror or sympathy was replaced by exhaustion and a sense of normalcy. Nobody cared about the grief: The sobbing family in the complex's hallway, the neighbors peeking through their cracked doors and covering their children's eyes, it was the same nightmare that everyone on the scene had lived through for months.

You tried to make up for it the best you could, not quite finding yourself at the point of numbness yet. You crouch down next to the victim. Middle-aged, thick wedding band, ink stains on two fingers. Someone who probably worked at a desk... Someone who had been alive yesterday...

You reached over, gently straightening the crooked picture frame that had fallen against his shoulder during the struggle with a gloved hand. A photograph of two little girls smiled back from the glass. Your heart ached at the sight. It was the normal for these victims to have families, but the thought of two little girls having to grow up without a father made your stomach churn.

"I'm so sorry..." You murmured, voice barely above a whisper, "I know this isn't how you'd want them to remember you..."

You stand up again, snapping one final photo of the body. As you clicked, the coroner approached, the same exhaustion on his face as the lead detective.

Nobody ever questioned your little ritual. They never would.

Across the street, four stories above the level of the crime scene on an inconspicuous rooftop, Benjamin Poindexter lowered the binoculars.

He'd expected the usual procession of uniforms and routine. What he didn't expect was you, apologizing to a corpse. Not out of policy or anything of the sort, but because you felt as if someone should.

It was a tenderness he'd never seen before from people like you, a quiet, gentle acknowledgement of a tragedy that has been seen time and time again.

He stayed on that rooftop far longer than he had planned.

***

The next morning, you sat quietly at your desk, sipping on a coffee that had long since gone cold. You supervisor appeared almost out of thin air, pale as a ghost, and dropped another case assignment on your desk.

"Brooklyn," She said, "Assumed homicide."

Your brow furrows and you let out a deep sigh, already reaching for your camera bag and badge.

"Busy week."

"It's New York."

By noon, you were already ducking beneath yellow crime scene tape, flashing your badge at the officer barking orders at the crowd of people and hungry reporters pushing against one another to get a better view.

It was a small condo, well kempt, rather lavish for being on the smaller side. One singular victim, as usual, with minimal signs of forced entry.

You begin the same routine you've had for a long time, using your camera lens to survey the scene quietly as officers and detectives' share quiet conversation around you.

Mid-range. Blood spatter. Entry wounds from a sharp object on vital points. Evidence markers. Nothing unusual from the scenes you'd inspected in the past. That was, until your lens caught something in the corner of the frame.

You lower your camera, eyes locking in on the focal point that you'd spotted through the lens.

On the windowsill, perfectly centered sat a white marble.

Something about it unsettled you. Not that marbles were impossible to find in a home, but because this one looked placed... deliberately. It caught the light of the window like it had been perfectly set for the camera.

You swallow hard and glance towards the evidence technician.

"Has someone marked this yet?"

He frowns.

"Marked what?"

You blink and point to the windowsill.

"The... marble?"

He glances to the windowsill for a millisecond, barely sparing a thought, furrows his brow, and then looks back at you.

"What are you talking about?" He murmurs, turning his attention back to the victim's body.

You gulp and settle your gaze on the windowsill again. It's still there, perfectly placed, waiting.

You take a deep inhale and lift your camera.

Click.

That photograph shouldn't exist.

You realized that before the image had even finished developing.

The print hung from the drying line by a tiny metal clip, swaying almost imperceptibly in the draft from the ancient ventilation system. One by one, the apartment came into focus. The entryway, the lamp overturned during the struggle, evidence markers 1-34, the blood pooled beneath the victim. And there...

On the windowsill, a white marble.

Your stomach dropped and you step closer, nearly bumping into the line of hanging photographs. Centered in the frame with impossible precision, bright against the dark paint of the windowsill.

It was small, of course. It was a marble for heavens sakes, but you couldn't make sense of the fact that the initial investigation team never saw it, especially because they were as thorough as it gets.

The logical side of you just presumes they missed it or deemed it as too insignificant to care about. Or perhaps, for some odd reason, someone on the team placed it there before you arrived, even though that was a complete violation of the policy.

At this point, however, policy didn't mean nearly as much to you. Because even with your logical side, something about this didn't feel right, and you do something you'd normally never even consider. You gently pull the photograph off of the drying line, gently tracing the edges as you survey it closely. As your eyes scan it over, that unsettling feeling only sets in more.

You can't reasonably explain why, but you slide the photo into your bag instead of the evidence folder, heart thudding against your ribs.

***

Benjamin Poindexter hated hospitals. They were too bright, too... chaotic. Too many people experiencing each and every emotion all at one time.

He exited through the emergency department without breaking stride, the nurse at the reception desk too involved with a screaming family member to notice him.

He glanced up as he walked. The security camera above the automatic doors had been facing three degrees too far left for almost six months and nobody had fixed it yet.

Normal people rarely noticed the little things like that. That was why they died.

He crossed the bustling street, disappearing into the late afternoon crowd. Three blocks later, he stopped outside an old camera shop, the outside noticeably rundown and sticking out like a sore thumb compared to the modern and refurnished buildings next to it.

He wasn't here because he needed anything. He was here because the display window reflected the sidewalk behind him.

You walked past exactly on schedule, camera bag over your right shoulder, coffee in your left hand, only one earbud in one ear.

You always adjusted the strap after crossing Seventh Avenue. Today was no different.

He watched your reflection intensely.

One.

Two.

Three.

Your hand reached up, tugging the worn canvas strap higher onto your shoulder as you walked, a mindless routine movement that nobody else would ever think to notice.

He smiled to himself.

You spent the rest of your boring afternoon trying to convince yourself you were imagining things. There had to be an explanation. It was misplaced piece of evidence or a child's toy overlooked by responding officers? Maybe the fatigue and stress had finally caught up to you? Anything.

By seven o'clock that evening, you'd almost succeeded. The trials of the day finally subsided, and you felt as if you could finally take a full breath.

That was until you unlocked your apartment door.

Stepping in, you felt exhaustion creep into your bones like every day, but this time, something felt different.

You looked around, eyes adjusting to the dark. Nothing was apparent. Everything was in the same spot as you left it this morning. There were no open windows or doors, truly nothing that would implicate some sort of forced entry or disturbance.

But yet, the hairs on your neck still stood straight up. You stood motionless for a moment, listening to the sounds around you. Save for the distant sounds of traffic and noises from other apartments, yours was silent. Not a gentle silence though, a silence that instead put you on edge.

You swept your eyes through the living room again, more focused this time. Nothing was abnormal. Bookshelf, couch, coffee table, everything in its perfect condition as usual. You let out a shaky breath and step further in, the shift of your body causing the light from the hallway to make something glint briefly in your peripheral.

You freeze, heart beginning to thud, as your eyes follow the glint.

In the center of the small table by your couch sat a single white marble.

You have never once owned marbles.

For several long seconds, you simply just stared, the thumping in your chest becoming audible now. Not taking your eyes off of the table, you fumble around in your bag, clutching your phone and pulling it out slowly, like a spooked animal.

You don't call the police. Instead, you open your camera app and quietly snap a picture. When the flash goes off, the marble gleams again, like an eye looking back at you in the dark.

***

You sat at your desk long after everyone else had filtered out for lunch. The marble rested inside an evidence bag beside your keyboard. You'd looked at it at least thirty times. Every single angle, every reflection of the light, mulling over every single explanation in your mind. Nothing made sense. There were no signs of forced entry when you did a sweep of your apartment, yet there was no possible way that marble found it's spot by itself...

After making yourself nauseous thinking about it all, you opened the department's digital evidence archive.

Case #24-1187

You enlarged every crime scene photograph, surveying every detail in every room. Nothing particularly unusual. Then, you get to the kitchen. You see the photos of the body at all different angles, and the blood spatter on the walls. Then, the photo of the window.

The marble gleamed from the windowsill, just like you remembered it. It made your nausea much more apparent, but you took a deep breath and kept moving through all of the archive.

You eventually reach the responding officer's body camera footage, and you click through the timestamps as procedure.

The responding officers enter, sweep every room, make contact with the body in the kitchen. The camera shakes as the officer walks to the window to look for signs of forced entry.

No marble.

Wait.

You rewound, pausing the video on the clearest shot of the windowsill.

No marble.

Your pulse quickened as you feel bile rise in your throat. You slam your laptop shut and stand up abruptly.

No marble.

The evidence photographs and the bodycam footage contradicted each other. Someone placed that marble in that spot before the forensic team arrived. Someone interfered with the crime scene. That wasn't supposed to happen.

Ever.

You stayed frozen in front of your laptop. The fluorescent lights above you hummed quietly, completely unaware that something had shifted.

That was the unsettling part.

The office looked exactly the same, the same stacks of weeks old case paperwork, the same half-empty coffee cups abandoned on desks, the normal quiet hum of computers running in the background.

But your understanding of the situation had changed.

This wasn't some strange coincidence.

Someone had entered a secured crime scene.

Someone had altered evidence.

And somehow, you were the person they wanted to notice.

You slowly sat back down, opening your laptop reluctantly and hovering your shaking hands over the keyboard.

Every instinct you had as an investigator told you to stop. You should close the file and report the discrepancy, bring someone more qualified in to examine everything.

But another part of you kept pulling you back all because of one question you couldn't ignore.

Why the marble?

If someone wanted to tamper with the crime scene, there were easier, less... nonsensical ways.

They could alter the body, clean up the blood, hide the signs of a struggle. Typical things that a calculated killer would do that you've seen plenty of times. Instead, they deliberately placed something there after the body was discovered. It was meant to be seen.

You scroll back to the photo of the window you had taken.

The marble came back into view, the same sight you had gone over in your mind hundreds of times. This time, your eyes moved away from it and you notice something else.

The angle.

You clicked open the image properties, opening a new window. Same with the crime scene floor plan. You return to the original image again.

The window where it sat wasn't facing toward the body, or any other significant part of the scene.

You zoomed out to look at the full picture again, the building across the road coming into view behind the marble. You pull up a map of the street and examine closely, eyes landing on the building opposite of the apartment. You... recognize it.

It used to be an old office for an insurance company that went bankrupt almost a year ago. You stare at the screen for what feels like minutes, your palms becoming increasingly clammier as your leg bounces nervously. It's a direct line of sight into the condo's window from any vantage point.

Your fingers begin to shake as your mouth falls open.

The marble was placed there because whoever left it wanted you to know where they had been standing, and you, the photographer, were the only one that could make the connection.

You should have stopped there. You should have closed out of everything, gone to the break room, and eaten your lunch in peace. Instead, you grab your coat and leave the building entirely.

This wasn't your job. Your job was to take photos of crime scenes and make reports of them. But, you had it all. You had a possible point of origin, a compromised crime scene, and evidence that someone had been watching. For weeks these murders had been going on, and for weeks nobody could make heads or tails of them. But now, you had a lead, and you couldn't pass it up.

The building was only a few blocks away from your office, a quick and chilly walk. Despite the nerves ravaging your body, you reassured yourself that you weren't investigating alone. You were doing this for the sake of your team and the victims that had their lives ripped away from them in the most gruesome ways. Besides, you weren't in any danger. You had a lead that you were following up with. What's so wrong about that?

The building was much smaller than you had remembered. The windows were all dark and the sign above the entrance was removed, leaving only the faint outline of letters contrasting the wear of the rest of the brick.

You approached the door slowly, shivering as a cold wind sent chills down your spine. It was locked of course, but as you stared at it, you notice something. The chain in front of the door was there, but the lock wasn't. It was broken off and laying on the ground a few inches away from your feet. Someone had definitely been in here recently.

As is your nature, you take a picture before slipping inside. It was dark, only the natural light of the outside gently sweeping over the lobby, which smelled of dust and old paint. Your footsteps echoed as you walked, the sound startling you.

You hastily made your way through every floor, finding nothing but abandoned cubicles and the occasional fallen ceiling tile. Eventually, you make it up to the rooftop, which was only a few floors high.

It was quiet up there. The city stretched endlessly around you, and wind rushed past your ears, carrying the sounds of people and traffic below you.

For a moment, you almost found a sense of peace. Nothing outwardly felt wrong, but as you walked forward towards the edge, you find a makeshift chair of cinderblocks, and a small knife laying on the ground next to them.

Your breath catches in your throat as you step closer, leaning over the edge. From this spot, the entirety of the original crime scene was visible. You could see the expanse of the neighborhood across the street, including the condo where everything had begun. You focused in closer, realizing that you could also see inside the window into the kitchen at a perfect direct angle.

Whoever was up here could have watched the whole thing unfold. The arrival of the police, EMS, the forensic team, and you.

Your chest tightened as you stepped back, realizing that this was never about the victim or the murder. It was a clue about whoever had carried this act out, along with all of the others.

But why now? Why start leaving clues now?

As you stepped back, something catches your eye that you hadn't noticed before, tucked behind the knife. You freeze entirely, already knowing what it is without having to look.

Slowly, you turn to the knife and crouch down. As you thought, there laid a marble. But it was different this time? Instead of the normal white sheen, this one was black, placed just for you to find, and underneath it was a crisp folded piece of paper.

Your natural instincts win you over before anything else. You take a photo of all of it. The viewpoint, the makeshift chair, the knife, and the marble. Only after snapping a hefty amount of pictures do you finally retrieve gloves from your bag and pick up the note.

You unfold it, being met with meticulous handwriting, perfect spacing, and the words,

YOU FOUND WHERE I STOOD

Your first thought was that you should be afraid. Maybe you were. But underneath that fear was curiosity.

Whoever this was, they weren't running from you, they were guiding you.

Across the street, blending in with a crowd of passersby, Benjamin lowered his binoculars. The same pair he had used to watch you many times before. He watched you stand in the same exact spot he did, studying your features and finding fear lace them slowly as you discovered everything he had left for you.

He expected you to be afraid, anybody would be. But they would run. You didn't. You studied, analyzed, documented, and searched every single detail, just like he hoped you would.

That's what interested him the most about you. You were so... careful. So tender and gentle with everything you came across. You never left anything untouched or unnoticed. He understood that. He liked that about you.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a notebook, flipping through it. The pages were filled with observations about you and your routine. Times, patterns, habits, all the simple little details nobody would ever think to pick up on.

He turned to a blank page and stared at it for several seconds before finally writing.

SHE FOUND THE THIRD ONE.

***

You didn't sleep.

Not because you were afraid. That would have been easier to digest. No, this was an overwhelming feeling of inquisitiveness.

The marble sat on your kitchen table. It was black this time, not white. A deliberate change.

You had spent the entire night replaying absolutely everything that unfolded throughout the week. The crime scene, photograph, the missing marble in the body camera footage, the rooftop, the note.

You found where I stood.

Not I was there, not I saw you, not I know who you are.

You found where I stood.

The wording bothered you for many reasons, but mainly because it wasn't about what happened. It was focused on perspective. Whoever this was wanted you to see what they saw exactly.

You looked at the marble again carefully, then at the photograph from the rooftop. You had taken over one hundred pictures and spent hours attentively examining each and every one of them, and there was one thing in particular that finally caught your eye.

You zoomed in closer on the photograph of the note in your gloved hand. Behind it was the view of the street below, and the crowd of people casually going about their daily lives. But in the middle of those people, in a small gap, was a figure. It was too blurry to make out any sort of details or features, but one thing was evident. This figure was looking directly at you on the rooftop.

This person was watching your every single move. They watched you put the pieces together, and you had no idea.

The next morning, you went back to the rooftop. You told yourself it was because you missed something. It was a reasonable excuse, people missed things all the time in investigations.

Deep down, though, you knew that wasn't the entire reason. In some sick, adrenaline-junkie way, a part of you wanted to know if he would come back. You hated that.

You hated that whoever this person was had managed to turn fear into fascination. It was a slippery slope into danger, and you knew that, but yet, you couldn't help yourself.

The rooftop was different. The makeshift chair was gone, along with the knife. You stood near the edge of the building and looked down where everything was the day before. There was nothing. No new marble, or note, or any other item.

A strange disappointment settled in your chest before you could stop it. You immediately pushed it away.

You turned and walked toward the door, biting your lip with frustration, then something caught your eye.

A small scratch in the concrete, a few feet away from where the chair had been. You were used to catching things out of the corner of your eye at this point, but a new feeling of excitement settled in your chest this time in place of paranoia.

You crouched down and looked closer.

There was a faint mark, almost invisible, in a curved line, like someone had rolled something across the rooftop hard enough to leave a tiny mark.

You followed the direction of the line, eyes moving toward the far corner of the roof right next to the edge. You walked over slowly, and there it was.

A small glass marble laying by the ledge on the ground. It was a deep scarlet red this time.

You didn't pick it up. Instead, you took out your camera and snapped a photo of it. You expected this.

You removed a small evidence marker card from your bag and turned it over, carefully writing a sentence on it before setting it beside the marble and walking away,

Benjamin expected you to take it. That was the point. The previous two had worked because curiosity always won eventually..

He watched from the building across the street. He figured you would find it. You were smart. He also figured you would take a photo of it. That was your routine. What caught him off guard was that you just... left it. That wasn't like you.

His brow furrowed as he watched you leave the rooftop. That wasn't supposed to happen. He waited until you were gone before crossing the street.

The rooftop was empty, except for the marble he had left and the note, which he hadn't expected either.

He picked it up, turned it over, and carefully read the words a few times. For several seconds, he simply stared at it. It was somehow completely different from what he had expected, yet perfectly fitting.

Why me?

Benjamin looked toward the street, a small smile on his face. You were already gone. Mostly everyone in New York City wanted to know who he was, what he wanted, what he has planned next. The normal things. But you... You wanted to play his game. You wanted to find the reason.

For the first time, it didn't feel like he was studying you. He felt like you were studying him, and that simultaneously excited him and unsettled him at the same time.

***

You started noticing him everywhere. Not him specifically, of course. You had no idea what he looked like. But that was the problem, you started noticing everyone. The man standing too still outside the coffee shop, the woman who kept looking over her shoulder on the subway platform, the person who walked the same route behind you for four blocks before turning away.

Your brain had become a surveillance system you couldn't turn off. You knew that was what he wanted. That realization bothered you more than anything, because it meant you gave him power over you, and that he changed the way you moved through the world more than any crime scene did.

The next marble appeared somewhere where you could have never prepared for. Not at a crime scene, not at your apartment, not on a rooftop.

Your office.

You found it sitting on your desk when you returned from processing photographs from an unrelated homicide. Your entire body went rigid when you laid eyes on it. You looked around the room, body trembling in fear. It was empty, but the precinct was loud around you, filled with the normal sounds of phones ringing and printers running.

You picked up the marble with shaking fingers. Red. The same exact one from the rooftop, except this time, it was warm. You froze, a sickening wrenching feeling in your gut.

Someone placed this here very recently.

Naturally, once you unfroze, you looked around the precinct. You started with the obvious places. Doors, windows, exits. When you found nothing in those spots, your eyes moved to the less obvious places. You looked at the reflections on the glass and black computer screens. Anything that may show someone standing where they shouldn't be, a trick you had learned from the police sheriff years ago.

And then you saw him.

Across the floor, by the evidence lockers. Tall, blonde hair, broad shoulders, and a neutral expression with eyes that weren't looking at you. It was as if he was looking at everything BUT you, like he already knew what you had discovered.

Your eyes narrowed and he turned. For half a second, your gaze met, and something in your chest tightened.

It wasn't recognition, not quite. It was something worse than that.

Familiarity.

Like you'd subconsciously seen him before, but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't place where. And it wasn't his face or body that was familiar to you, it was his presence.

Before you could take your next breath, he looks away, just like that. There was no acknowledgment, no reaction, nothing but a shared glance that lasted for a hasty moment.

You look down at the marble in your hand, gently rolling it in your palm as you furrow your brow. When you look back up, he's already gone.

You spent the next hour trying to convince yourself you imagined it. You couldn't identify him off of his face alone, and you couldn't prove he was connected because he made your tummy feel weird. That wasn't how evidence worked. So you did the only thing you could.

You researched.

The first thing you searched was every person who had access to the precinct, all of the employees, detectives, forensics team, maintenance crew, visitors from the past week. No luck.

Then you searched something broader.

Recent incidents, unusual cases, odd patterns in the system. Your fingers slowed as one name kept appearing.

Not officially, not mentioned in reports or ever as a suspect, just mentioned briefly.

Benjamin Poindexter.

You stared at the screen. The name meant something. Not personally, but professionally. You had seen it many times before, everyone had. A man who was described differently depending on who was describing him. Sometimes he was a decorated FBI agent, other times he was a dangerous criminal. A person nobody could seem to categorize.

You lean in closer to the computer screen to look closer at his photograph, and your stomach drops. You recognized the way he looked at the camera. Empty... controlled... patient.

That evening, you didn't go home. You went back to the rooftop. You weren't sure why; your feet seemed to carry you before your mind could follow up. Maybe a deep part of you thought that maybe, if he was watching, you wanted him to know you weren't running. Not until you got answers. Maybe an even deeper part wanted to see if he would appear.

The rooftop was quiet, the twinkling lights of the city around you lighting up the night like stars. You stood where the chair had been, where he had watched.

"You wanted me to find you."

Your voice disappeared into the wind, a quiet murmur you couldn't stop yourself from saying. No answer.

You waited.

Ten seconds.

Twenty.

"Not exactly."

Your entire body went still. The voice came from behind you. Calm, low, and undeniably close. You turn slowly, heart pounding in your chest as your eyes land on him. The man from the precinct stood several feet away.

His hands are visible. Not threatening, not relaxed either. Just... there.

"Benjamin Poindexter..." You say, eyes scanning over his large form.

He's terrifying. Large, muscular, eyes fixed directly on you. You think about how if he chose to harm you, you would have no chance of defending yourself. Somehow, you aren't scared. His presence is too calm and controlled to be afraid, yet.

"You did your homework," He states with a small smile on his face, taking one step towards you.

"You made sure I would..." You respond breathlessly.

His expression changes ever so slightly. Not guilt or shame, but interest.

You stare at him for what feels like hours, the pounding in your ribcage only accelerating.

"You've been watching me..." You whisper, your voice shaky and small.

He says nothing for a while, just stands there, eyes still locked on yours. That's confirmation enough for you.

"Yes."

His response catches you off guard, and your fingers curl at your sides.

"Do you have any idea how... insane that sounds?" You say, almost laughing.

"Yes."

Now, you feel afraid. You take a step backwards, stomach churning.

"You broke into my apartment! And the places connected to the investigation!" You exclaim, emotion heating up your cheeks.

"I left things behind."

Your eyes narrow at him.

"T-that's.... That's not an explanation! That's not an answer!"

"No," his eyes drift to the edge of the roof, "It's not."

The calmness of his words scares you more than anger would. You've studied and dealt with criminals before. You knew what guilt and fear and anger looked like, especially when a person is trying to convince themselves that they aren't a villain. But he wasn't doing any of that.

"You killed... all of those people..." You say, swallowing hard as he takes another step towards you.

His eyes shift back to you, no distinct expression on his face.

"You know who I am."

You swallow hard again, trying to regain your composure.

"Benjamin Leonard Poindexter..."

He pauses.

"That's not the only name people use..."

Your stomach dropped more than you thought it could.

Bullseye.

The name carried its own weight. A man who left bodies behind him, a man who turned violence into a signature, and he was standing three feet away from you.

You instinctively back up again, legs hitting the ledge of the rooftop.

"You understand why I am afraid of you, right?" You mewl shakily.

His expression shifts again.

"I understand why people are."

You let out a breath, eyes scanning over his figure once again. His eyes flicker.

"You aren't like them."

A bitter, fearful laugh escapes you.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

He shakes his head no. You stare at him bewildered, hands clutching the edge of the ledge.

"Then why?"

The question hung between you. Why leave the marble? Why choose you? Why drag you into this? He looked toward the city beyond you again.

"I wanted to know if you would see it."

You frowned.

"See what?"

"Me."

The word landed heavier than you expected. You don't answer, instead, you allow him to continue.

"Everyone sees what they expect to see." His voice remains even, "A weapon. A monster..."

Your expression hardened.

"Because of what you've done."

A pause. The smallest crack of emotion.

"I know. I know what I am."

The wind moved between you, cold and unforgiving.

"And still, you thought leaving clues for me was a good idea?"

"No."

You looked at him.

"No?"

"No."

His eyes met yours.

"I knew it was a bad idea."

"Then why do it?"

A long silence passes.

"Because I wanted to."

***

The weeks that followed became something neither of you outwardly acknowledged. The marbles stopped appearing at crime scenes. The notes stopped being riddles. Instead, they became conversations.

Not normal ones. Not the kind built over coffee or casual text messages. Yours existed in the spaces between things, a photograph left somewhere only you would find it, a question answered days later, a conversation that lasted five minutes before he disappeared again.

You learned quickly that Benjamin Poindexter, or Dex, as he preferred for you to call him, was not easy to know.

He was precise, controlled, observant to an unsettling degree. He noticed everything. The way you bounced your leg when you were thinking, the way you stopped eating when you were stressed, the way you looked at exits whenever you entered a room.

At first, it bothered you. It felt like an unwelcome intrusion in your everyday routine. But as weeks passed, it became familiar.

You never forgot what he had done and you never let him forget either. You knew you should have exposed him, put him in jail, let the whole world know who he was, but he swore that he had reasons for killing who he killed, and that none of them were innocent. You tried to get him to explain numerous times, but he never elaborated, instead, he'd get a dark look in his eyes and go quiet.

There were arguments. There were moments when you reminded him exactly who he was and what he was capable of. There were moments when he went quiet because he didn't like hearing the truth, but he listened anyway. Each and every crime scene you went to, you knew it was his doing. It stole a piece of your soul each time.

But despite that, over the span of every interaction you had with him, directly or indirectly, you stopped seeing Bullseye more and more, until all that was left was Dex.

You knew something was wrong the second you opened your eyes. Your otherwise peaceful sleep was interrupted by the sound of gentle shuffling by your window. Your body instinctively freezes as your eyes lock onto the dark blur of the ceiling. You blink a few times tiredly, listening in to the sounds around you. You hear soft breathing, but it's not your own, coming from the other side of the bed.

Panicked, you suck in a sharp breath and lurch upwards, flipping the lamp on your bedside table on. What the light uncovers is Dex, standing at the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on you.

He's not in his typical clothing. Instead, he's in a tactical suit, adorned with weapons, and a mask covering his entire face save for his eyes. The look in his eyes was invasively calm, as if he didn't just break into your apartment. Despite the interactions you've had with him and the softness that you may have felt for him, seeing him officially as Bullseye caused a deep panic to set in your chest.

Your hand slides underneath your pillow, fingertips grazing the kitchen knife that you started keeping underneath it.

"Don't."

His voice was quiet, but stern. You freeze, and his eyes drop briefly towards the movement before returning to your face.

"You've got to be kidding me," You exclaim after a few moments of silence.

Through his mask, you see his eyes squint into a smile.

“Good morning.”

“It's two in the fucking morning.”

“I know.”

“You broke into my apartment.”

“I know.”

You scoff, clutching the blanket up to your chest and narrowing your eyes at him. You slowly pull back your hand from beneath the pillow.

“You're getting sloppy, Poindexter.”

His eyes flicked towards your hand, then back again to your face.

“No.”

The single word made something cold move through your stomach, a feeling that you were all too used to at this point.

“No?”

“I wanted you to know it was me.”

Silence passes. All those weeks you'd caught glimpses of him in your peripheral, across the street from the precinct, at the coffee shop you frequented each morning, standing beside his car when you'd left work. it began to feel like every time you had turned around, he'd been there, and every time you'd confronted him, he had somehow managed to make you question whether you had actually caught him at all. He had never denied it, not directly at least. You had assumed that was all part of his game, but now you weren't so sure.

“You wanted me to know?”

“Yes.”

Your fingers tighten around the blanket, a cold shiver running down your spine.

“Why?”

He looks at you for a moment then his gaze drifts around the bedroom. He notices your camera bag sitting on your desk and the half-empty glass of water on your nightstand. Your eyes narrow as you watch him catalogue every single detail.

“What are you looking at?”

“You leave your curtains open.”

Your blood ran cold at his observation.

“What?"

“At night,” his gaze fixes on you again. “Most nights.”

You stare at him, mouth slightly agape.

“You... keep track of that?”

“I keep track of a lot of things.”

Something about the way he said it made your skin prickle. Your thoughts begin to race in your head, and you furrow your brow.

"What are you doing here...?" You murmur quietly, debating on whether you actually want his response or not.

His expression goes blank. You'd seen this expression before, but never this close, never in a room this quiet, never with the understanding that there was absolutely nobody else between them now.

He straightens his posture and takes a step towards your side of the bed.

“You've been wondering how long I've been watching you.”

Your mouth goes dry as he takes another step

“You've been wondering if I know where you go after work.”

You say nothing.

“You've been wondering if I know which nights you stay late.”

Your pulse begins to pound.

“Dex...” You try to say as a warning, but it comes out as a shaky whimper instead.

“And you've been wondering,” he continued, almost conversationally as he steps again, much closer to you now, “whether I've ever followed you all the way home.”

Your eyes lock onto his above you. The room suddenly felt much smaller.

“You're fucking insane...”

“I know.”

His gaze doesn't leave yours.

“But you still kept looking for me.”

That silenced you, because deep down, you knew he was right. Every time you stepped outside the precinct, some part of you looked for him. Every time you parked your car, you checked the surrounding vehicles. Every time you walked home, you found yourself wondering whether you'd see that familiar silhouette somewhere ahead.

You told yourself it was vigilance, self-preservation that came with the nature of your job. But you started unintentionally looking for him even when you weren't afraid, and he knew.

You push the blanket away and swing your bare legs over the side of the bed, cold air prickling your skin. His eyes immediately dropped.

You notice. Of course you notice.

“Don't.”

This time, it was you saying it. His eyes return to yours, and something almost amused moves across his face.

“You don't like being watched?”

“Not when I'm asleep.”

“That's not what I asked.”

You freeze. He takes another slow step towards you, a heavy thud from his boots hitting your ears. You don't retreat or scramble backwards. Instead, you watch him carefully.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You've spent weeks watching me back.”

Another step.

Your heartbeat thuds harder against your chest.

“You knew I was there," he says quietly.

“Sometimes.”

“You looked for me.”

You say nothing. His voice lowers.

“You wanted me to follow you.”

Your jaw tightens.

“That's a hell of an assumption," you scoff, body stiff.

“No,” He stops a few feet away. “It's an observation.”

You hated that word coming from him, primarily because of what you did for a living. You had spent weeks treating Poindexter like a mystery you could solve on your own if you just watched closely enough. However, now you were beginning to wonder whether you'd been the subject the entire time.

“So, what happens now?” You ask softly, voice shaking. His eyes stay on yours, scanning your features intently.

“That's up to you.”

You frown, brows furrowing again.

“You broke into my bedroom. You've been following me. You've apparently memorized how I keep my fucking curtains at night.”

A beat of silence passes.

“Yes.”

“Then don't stand there and tell me this is up to me.”

His expression changes. Something dark passes behind his eyes.

“I came here because I wanted to see what you'd do when there was no way for you to pretend I'm not there.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and he steps closer again. You can practically feel the heat radiating off of his body now.

“You can't go home and convince yourself you're imagining things, or that I don't exist outside of our interactions.” His voice dropps almost to a whisper. “I'm standing right here.”

You look up at him, and suddenly, you understood. This was the next move in the game.

“Why?” Your voice comes out smaller than you mean for it to.

Dex's gaze drops to your mouth, and when he answers, his voice is almost gentle.

“Because you've been daring me to come closer.”

Your breath hitches as your heart skips a beat.

“I never said that.”

“No.” His eyes met yours again, “You didn't have to.”

A man who had been watching you for weeks had broken into your apartment while you slept. You should be reaching for your phone, should be putting distance between you. Instead, you were looking up at him, half-naked in the middle of your bedroom at two-thirty in the morning, conversing with him like you'd done too many times before.

Your eyes drifted toward the bedroom window. The curtains were in fact drawn open, and you remembered what he'd said.

Most nights.

Your attention returned to him.

“How long have you been watching me from outside my window?”

His face went completely still. You immediately knew you'd hit something.

“Dex.” You whisper.

“Long enough.” He responds quiet;y.

Your pulse quickens.

“How long is ‘long enough’?”

“Long enough to know when you fall asleep.”

You swallowed hard.

“That's... fucked up.” You whisper again.

“I know.”

“Long enough to know when I come home?”

“Yes.”

“When I leave?”

“Yes.”

“When I have company?”

His eyes change, barely, but you catch it. You almost feel a smile creep into your cheeks.

“Ah.”

He says nothing.

“You don't like that question.”

“No.”

“Why?” You ask.

“Because I don't.”

You allow yourself to smile faintly. For the first time tonight, you finally felt like you'd gotten a little piece of the upper hand back.

“So you get jealous.”

His eyes narrow at you, deep and intense.

“I didn't say that.”

“You didn't have to.”

The words were a mirror of his own. Something dangerous flickered across his face. You could see it even through the mask. You lean in closer to his face, mere inches away from it.

“You were jealous,” you tease in a low tone.

“Careful.”

The word from him is quiet, not threatening. Your smile fades slightly as your heart thuds against your ribs.

“Or what?”

Dex looks down at you.

“Don't make me tell you twice.” His eyes moved over your face rapidly and he pauses. “You're not afraid of me.”

You almost laughed at the absurdity.

“That's a bold assumption considering you woke me up by breaking into my bedroom.”

“You're afraid.”

Your smile disappears.

“But you're not afraid of me.”

You stare at him through thick lashes.

“What's the difference?”

His answer came immediately.

“You're afraid of what I might do," your breath catches in your throat, “And you're not sure you want me to stop.”

The room goes silent. All your ears pick up on is the sound of your own hammering heartbeat.

“That's arrogant,” you whisper. “And if you're wrong?”

“I'll leave.”

You search his face, taken aback by his response.

“You'd actually leave?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

He doesn't move. That is what finally unsettles you. He was giving you a choice. You could say a few words, and he'd leave. You look at his form in front of you, then at the window behind him.

“You've been watching me and waiting weeks for me to tell you to leave?”

“No.”

Your brow furrows.

“No?”

“I've been watching you because I couldn't stop myself. And I've been waiting for you to tell me to stay.”

Your breath catches again. There is no smugness in his face now, just something almost frighteningly sincere.

You whisper, “And if I do?”

His eyes lower to your mouth as he lifts his mask off of his face.

“Then I'll stay.”

You lean in closer now, lips barely a centimeter from touching each other. You don't know why you are doing this. Why aren't you scared? Why aren't you calling for help? Why aren't you grabbing the knife under your pillow and chasing him off? Why are are you doing this?

Your hand finds itself gently resting on his forearm. He doesn't touch you. The restraint is almost maddening, but he resists. You huff gently at his hesitation, scooting closer to him, and closing your eyes as your face moves a hair closer.

"Do something..." You murmur under your breath, waiting for contact that never comes.

"Tell me to..." He responds, voice lowered almost to a whisper.

You bite your lip and pause for a moment, the thoughts in your mind becoming a dull blur.

"Kiss me."

And with that, those two simple words, he does.

The kiss wasn't gentle, but it wasn't careless either. It was the culmination of weeks of 'almosts''. Almost touching, almost admitting, almost allowing themselves to cross the line they'd been circling from the beginning.

You feel his hand slide higher along your back as you pull him closer. Your fingers slid beneath the hem of the collar of his shirt, brushing the warm skin at the base of his throat. He goes completely still, opening his eyes to look at you. Then his hand slides from your spine to beneath your hair and settles against the back of your neck. His fingers spread through the locks of hair gently. The touch makes you elicit a small sound from your throat.

He notices. Of course he notices.

You shiver as his lips find yours again, kissing you more fervently this time. Heavy breaths leave both of your chests as he pushes you gently back against the bed, straddling you with his legs. His hands work meticulously through your scalp as his mouth trails down to your neck, pulling your hair slightly to angle your throat for better contact.

You gasp as his lips leave wet kisses along your nape. You instinctively arch your back against his body, and you he grunts in response.

You've had sex before. Who your age hasn't? But this was the first time it felt like more than just a quick act of stress relief. The way he was palming your hair and touching his lips to your skin... It was so much different than what you were used to. It was like he was finally able to grasp something he had spent an eternity trying not to touch.

As his lips returned to yours, they began to get more desperate, crashing against yours like a starving man. His hand finds its way underneath your shirt, slowly rising as his fingertips find your breast. He pauses for a moment, unsure if he went too far, but you groan in defiance and arch your back again, forcing the contact. You can't think of anything else but him touching you right where you want it.

He takes the peak of your nipple between his fingers, gently rubbing it. The sensation makes you tremble as the slickness in between your legs begins to rapidly build. You buck your hips against his, feeling his hardened cock through his pants. The friction makes you mewl into his mouth, and you feel something in him snap.

With one swift motion, he pulls a knife out of his holster and slices through your night shirt, leaving your torso and chest bare to the cold. You gasp at the quickness of it and the feeling of metal against your skin, barely able to process what he had done, but he grinds his hips into yours and any coherent thought you had in your brain became a numbing hum.

His lips latch onto your breast, hand leaving your hair to trace against the waistband of your panties. He sucks gently on your nipple, the warmth of his tongue sending jolts of overstimulation to your core. You couldn't think. You wanted him to touch you. You wanted him to fuck you. You wanted him to do everything to you.

His lips trail from your chest down your stomach, until he eventually crouches down beneath your legs, face to face with your soaked panties. You hear a soft chuckle leave his mouth, and his fingertip gently traces the outline of your pussy lips. You squirm, desperate for touch yet simultaneously overstimulated at the same time. He takes that as a plea, and he leans forward, licking a slow wet line over your clothed folds.

A whimper unintentionally leaves your throat and your head falls back. He does it again, then again, then again, until his saliva and your wetness soak the cloth entirely.

"Fuck..." He whispers to himself, before grabbing the same knife he used to cut your shirt and doing the same to your panties. Again, the swift movement and the cold metal on your skin makes you gasp, and again, the overwhelming arousal you feel prevents you from caring at all.

He wastes no time latching onto your clit, running his tongue in circles around it with precision. You grip your bedsheets tightly, breath staggered and uneven. You writhe naturally, hips grinding away from his mouth on instinct, but he grips your thighs tightly with a warning squeeze, signalling for you to hold still.

"Don't start running from me now..." He asserts through laps of his tongue.

His low command mixed with the sensation of his mouth makes you cry out, legs shaking against his arms. As if you thought you couldn't feel more ecstasy, you feel a gloved finger enter your hole and pump in and out with a steady rythm.

Your hand finds his hair, lacing your fingers within his short blonde strands. You grind your hips against his mouth and finger, the familiar sensation of an orgasm rapidly building in your stomach. Your vision fades and the sounds that leave you are uncontrollable. He makes sounds of his own, low groans of pure pleasure. He was quite possibly enjoying this more than you were, as impossible as that seemed.

You're almost at your breaking point, and he could tell.

"Let it out... Give it to me..." He murmurs, finger pumping more rapidly in and out of you now.

Your orgasm hits you like a wave. You see stars, your legs tremble, and your mind goes utterly blank. He works you through it and steadies your trembling legs by rubbing them gently up and down, planting kisses on your inner thighs.

When you finally regain your composure, you look down at him, breathless. His mouth and chin are covered in a sheen of wetness, and he smiles, full of pride for what he's done to you. You try to muster up words, or a sound, or anything besides labored breaths, but your mind protests.

He stands up slowly, planting a wet kiss on your forehead and hands gripping your hips. You smile through your breaths, but before you can do anything else, he flips you over onto your stomach, and your face is buried into your pillow.

You exclaim, but don't protest. Instead, you arch your back slightly and wait for his next move.

He traces a gloved finger lightly on your spine, causing goosebumps to prickle your skin. You hear him mutter to himself, but you can't make out what he says.

After what feels like hours, you finally hear movement. First, it's his holsters hitting the floor, the metal of his various knives clinking on each other. Then, it's the sound of a belt being undone. Then, it's the sound of a zipper, followed by fabric sliding down skin. You wait, anticipatory chills running down your body.

He doesn't enter you immediately like you expect him to. Instead, you feel the head of his hard cock slide up and down between your slits. Its big. He goes slowly, like he's taking photographs in his mind. He leans down, the weight of his arms sinking into the bed as he reaches your ear.

"Tell me to stop..." He says in a strained voice, his last shred of control slipping.

You lean into him.

"Please... don't..." You whisper.

That's the last thing he needed before completely letting go. With one swift movement, he pushes his mass fully inside of you. The intrusion is painful at first, due to the sheer size of him, but it doesn't take long for your walls to adjust and for that whisper of pain to turn into an avalanche of pleasure.

He pumps into you steadily, going impossibly deep. The friction against your walls builds a whole new feeling of orgasm in your core. His precision and steady movements hit every spot perfectly, and you feel a sheen of sweat start to form on your skin.

"So good... S' so good..." He groans, gripping your hips tightly.

Your cries are muffled by your pillow, and he gently pulls your head up by your hair.

"No... Let me hear you... Please..." He begs, gently through gritted teeth.

You don't hold back. You let your moans echo like a sweet song. He pumps into you harder and harder, his rhythm faltering as he nears his climax. You follow suit, finding it harder and harder to resist cumming again.

It doesn't take long for you both to reach your climaxes. He goes first, pulling out at the last second and letting his cum spill out onto your back. You follow right after, shaking and practically screaming as another orgasm racks your body.

He backs up unsteadily, chest heaving as he tries to regain his breath. You struggle with the same thing, body so overwhelmed from the pleasure that you feel like you can barely move.

Through your breaths, you hear him shuffle behind you. You assume it's so he can gather his bearings and get ready to leave.

Imagine your surprise when you hear a loud click!

You look back curiously to see Dex standing there with your camera in his hands. You raise your eyebrows in surprise and bite back a smile.

"For evidence..." He says cheekily, lowering the camera to meet your gaze.

creganed

to eat and be eaten | cregan & jace (m)

cregan x jace x ladystark!reader

summary: when the prince of dragonstone visits the north on a diplomatic mission, you begin to notice just how close he and your husband are. the last thing you expect is for him to set his sights on you, and for your husband to be content to let him see.

warnings (mostly in order of appearance): afab!reader, Mallister!reader, canon divergence (no dance, but it comes kind of close), discrimination? (reader is looked down on for not being northern), consumption of alcohol, canon typical views of gender and sexuality, sexual tension, piv sex, fingering, descriptions of m/m, implied emotional affair/leftover feelings between cregan and jace (reader isn’t super jealous and is MOSTLY into it), wet dreams, exhibitionism/voyeurism, threesomes, hot springs sex, dry humping, minor angst as a result of miscommunications (cregan is VERY emotionally repressed and has a hard time vocalizing his feelings as a result), oral sex, cucking, cunnilingus, implied gender envy (jace and reader), three way kissing (challengers style!!), m/m/f, blowjobs, sloppy seconds, perfume oil as lube, anal fingering, anal sex, cum eating, dom!cregan, switch!reader, switch!jace, top!cregan, bottom!jace

word count: 29.6k. don't ask me how.

a/n: alexa, play i want my boyfriends to kiss by ashnikko.

Matters of business and pleasure, Cregan had told you. Diplomacy.

Diplomacy was why Queen Rhaenyra was sending her eldest son to the North for a diplomatic tour on behalf of the crown. Her son, beloved in the North, by virtue of his friendship with your husband.

You had always known of the pair’s close bond. Years ago, when the continent was on the brink of war, Jacaerys had flown to Winterfell in hopes of reinforcing Cregan’s oath to his mother. He had hunted with Cregan and they had exchanged tales of boyhood. They had bonded so fiercely that they had made a blood oath. When Jace left, and the world remained right side up, so did their bond.

You had wed Cregan a year after, and came to know only of his dear Jace in the form of their correspondences and a scar across Cregan’s left palm. It was endearing, to hear your husband speak so gently of his friend.

Cregan had been made a man far too soon, in your mind. His tumultuous rise to lordship had yanked him out of being a boy straight into the world of harsh, emotionless Northern men, and had hardened him similarly. You hadn’t seen him smile–truly smile–until 3 months into your marriage.

But as Jacaerys dismounted Vermax, and strode towards the small crowd of bannermen and servants gathered to greet him, you watched your husband light up. Cregan—who usually demonstrated as much emotion as a wet woolen sock left to freeze solid in the snow—had grinned like a boy, embraced his old friend in a tight bear hug.

And then the prince turned to you.

His eyes passed you up and down, in a moment that felt both too slow for comfort and too fast to savor. His brow twitched, and then he glanced briefly at Cregan. The expression wasn’t doubt, nor critique. You wouldn’t come to understand the emotion in his gaze until later in his visit.

“Lady Stark,” He said gently, “How lovely it is to at last meet the woman who has warmed my dear friend’s frozen heart.”

He took your gloved hand in his. His gaze didn’t break from yours as he pressed a dedicated kiss to the leather.

“Prince Jacaerys,” You answered, curtsying, “I could say the same to you. You were there first, after all.”

Genuinely, there had been no jealousy in your reply. How could there be? You loved Cregan as he was, but knew few loved Cregan instead of Lord Stark of Winterfell. Anyone else who saw into the window of Cregan’s soul was a dear friend of yours, no questions asked.

“Please, my lady,” He insisted, “Call me Jace. All of my friends do.”

vetckkie

girl get off that c.ai and embrace the 'x reader'

jimmystrudel

Menstruating, halucinating only one of her dead sons, surrounded by rats, unable to sleep since that's presumably the bed her mother died in, husbuncle wants to kill her little brother who is actually just some kid, girlfriend wants a worker's revolution, 3/6 kids of her kids are dead and one of her step daughters is unaccounted for, drunken gay ex-husband's father is comparing his whoring around to her and Laenor having a sperm donor/poly situation and then throwing a tantrum in public, head of the church won't even crown her until they procure her brother's remains. Terrible day to be Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen

3racha-agustd

Every morning I open Tumblr like it's the newspaper, searching for fanfiction.

al0ethere

Want You

Rating: M | This is smut! No one under 18! Minors, DNI!

Summary: Aegon had no desire to ruin you, so he buried himself in his favorite wine and favorite whores to keep his blossoming feelings at bay. Only, his efforts seemed to work too well and he has to convince you that you’re all he needs. Warnings: No Dance AU, inaccurate use of some characters (Tyrell was an infant during this time but here he's in his early 30s), two smut scenes (Aegon is a dick in the first, much better in the second), infidelity (Aegon), Targcest (Aemond x Helaena), nice guy Criston Cole, unprotected PinV, oral (f!receiving), miscommunication. Anything else, let me know and I'll tag. Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x fem!Reader (Manderly!Reader - no features mentioned) Word Count: 22.8k (....I'm so sorry) HotD Taglist | HotD Masterlist

The Red Keep was rarely, if ever, silent.

There were moments - fleeting, few and far between - where a hush befell the Keep with only the quiet noise of servants and guards dutifully moving about to shatter the illusion of solitude. But, no matter the hour, it was rare to find a silence so unbroken that it teetered on the edge of maddening.

However, as Aegon sat in your chambers for the first time in weeks, slouched in a chair adjacent to the couch you lounged on, you found the silence drawing on long enough to surpass discomfort and edge into pain.

nanascharms

(S)cream for us (part1)

Ghostface!valarr x f!reader x ghostface!aerion

- this part contains SMUT, and the others parts as well. summary : With the end of exams at King’s Landing University comes a wave of brutal student murders, leaving the city drowning in fear and rumors. But when Tybolt Lannister throws a lavish Halloween party to distract the elite of the campus, the killers seize the perfect opportunity to turn the night into chaos — especially after setting their sights on you.

Tw : Murder, death, torture?, violence, threesome, rough sex, knife play, fingering, oral (m and f receiving), unprotected sex, p in v, spanking, reader has a tongue piercing, dark valarr, dark aerion, they are both obssesed with reader, stalking, reader is where she wants to be, dirty talk, she is a bit delusional cause she thinks she can fix them, she gets fucked on a crime scene (literally)

A/n : hii guys, the first part is finally here!! I decided to split it into two parts because it was getting too long..I’m not really satisfied with the way it came out but I just wanted it out of my drafts 🫩 comments and reblogs are appreciated 🫶🏻

It had already been a month since the first body was discovered in the Kingswood, not far from the prestigious University of King’s Landing.

A Hightower girl.

Barely nineteen.

The newspapers tried to call it a simple tragedy, while the police was still investigating and trying to solve the affair and put the murderer behind bars. But still, the kingswood were reputed for being safe so how such a thing could happened here?

The poor girl had been found butchered, left in the woods like a slaughtered animal. Police was still searching for any clues, anything that could help identify the murder.

But nothing.

Then another body turned up.

And another.

Before long, fear and panic settled over the city like a gathering storm. Parents too worried abd scared to wake up with the news that their child had been murdered, called every day. Sometimes twice a day. Students had stopped walking home alone after the night settled, the police had forbidden it. No students was allowed to wander too close to the crime scenes. Every unfamiliar face drew wary glances. Every shadow seemed to linger a little too long now..

Because the killer was still out there.

Which was precisely why Gerold Lannister’s idea had been met with equal parts excitement and disbelief.

A Halloween party.

A kind of massive one.

Hosted at the Lannister Manor, with half the university invited to the party.

Officially, it was meant to lift morale and provide a welcome distraction from the anxiety that had gripped the campus for weeks or whatever gerold had said.

Unofficially?

Everyone knew it was just an excuse for rich kids to get drunk, hook up, and spend a night pretending a serial killer wasn’t still roaming the streets of King’s Landing.

You had been studying in your room when your phone had rang loudly, startling you, when you saw the caller ID, you could not hold the sigh that left your mouth immediately.

Syra.

One of the first friends — if not the only— you had made after transferring from the prestigious University of the Vale.

Unlike you, Syra seemed physically incapable of staying stressed for more than five minutes at a time. you wandered how she managed that remained a mystery. You were honestly envious..

With the exams looming, a serial killer still stalking King’s Landing, and your future hanging on a scholarship, you couldn’t imagine going through life without constantly worrying about something.

Yet somehow, Syra made it look effortless.

anyway you answered your phone without taking your eyes off your notes.

As a scholarship student, you couldn’t afford to fall behind.

“Hello?” Your usual stern tone made the simple greeting sound far colder than you intended. Most people found you intimidating. But Syra knew that you were just like that and not being cold intentionally.

The moment Syra started babbling excitedly about the Lannister Halloween party, you knew answering the phone had been a mistake. And that you were doomed because this would only end in one way. You folding.

“Syra, you know I can’t go,” you sighed, as you were highlighting the key words that would help you memorize the subject faster before tossing your phone onto the bed and switched it to speaker in order to be able to continue to review your notes. As a scholarship student, you couldn’t afford to fail your exams. You were still considered rich, but unfortunately not enough to be considered the elite of KL.

“Oh, babe, shut up,” she groaned dramatically and you could picture the exact frown her face was proably making “You study enough for ten people.” You rolled your eyes at her words. Sometimes it annoyed you that she couldn’t understand that you didn’t had a choice.

“Come on. Just one night. It’ll be fun.. I promise! ”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, thinking about which words you would use “Isn’t it..like kind of weird?” That made her pause for three seconds before she spoke again. "Weird?” You could hear in her voice that she was genuinely perplexed.

“Yeah. With everything that’s happening right now. People are literally getting murdered, and everyone’s acting like a party is going to fix it.” You scoffed your argumebts as your brows were furrowed before you glanced down back to your notes, though your attention had long since drifted from them.

Syra only laughed.

“Babe.”

The way she said it told you immediately that she wasn’t taking your concerns seriously.

“I think these exams are seriously fucking with your brain.”

You huffed.

Of course.

“And that is exactly why you’re coming to this party with me.”

You weren’t sure whether to be annoyed or concerned. Perhaps both?

“I don’t even have a costume.”

It was your final argument. And you were praying this would work but unfortunately, Syra had already prepared for that.

“That’s why we’re going shopping tomorrow.”

You closed your eyes.

Of course she had.

“And before you ask—yes, I’m paying.”

“Syra—” she cut you before you could start your sentence.

“Love you, babe! See you tomorrow!”

The call ended before you could get another word in.

Bitch

You stared at your phone for a long moment before letting out a defeated sigh.

The next day, she picked you up in her ridiculously expensive car and proceeded to drag you across half the city.

Most of the shopping was done without your input.

According to Syra, your opinions were too “wrong.” Or too basic for this kind of party. So you just let her do and pick whatever she wanted.

Suspiciously, she refused to tell you what costumes she had chosen.

Only that the two of you were going to look iconic.

You should have known better.

Which was how, a week later, you found yourself staring at your reflection, dressed as a scandalously shortened version of Daphne Blake.

Meanwhile, Syra had chosen Velma.

Equally scandalous.

But indeed iconic.

You had considered refusing.

You really had.

But as Syra adjusted the wig perched on your head and put the finishing touches on her own makeup, you found yourself far too exhausted to argue.

After all, it was only one party.

And if you were being honest, the outfit suited you far better than you cared to admit.

“You are so getting laid tonight.”

Your head snapped toward her so quickly you nearly gave yourself whiplash.

Syra only grinned.

“Absolutely not.” You hit her gently on the shoulder where a bit of skin was showing.

“That’s what they all say.” that made you snort as you shake your head, she then grabbed your hand and tugged you toward the door.

“Come on.”

It was time to go.

When the two of you arrived, the party was already in full swing. Apparently, nobody had bothered waiting for you. Because groups of students crowded the front lawn, red plastic cups were already clutched in their hands. Some were already making out against walls or trees, completely oblivious to everything happening around them. Or worse, some were aware but it’s seems shame was not part of their vocabulary. From somewhere behind the manor came the sound of splashing water, followed by a chorus of drunken cheers from the pool area.

The moment you stepped through the front doors, you found yourself silently thanking Syra for choosing your costume.

Because she had been right.

Almost every girl there was dressed like a hooker. You were grateful you would probably not be noticed and would be left alone most of the night.

Some costumes were creative. Others were little more than expensive lingerie with a different name attached to it. Vampires mingled with angels, cheerleaders with witches, and more than a few people wore outfits you genuinely couldn’t identify and didn’t care enough to try to guess.

There were plenty of masks, too.

Some cheap enough to have come from the nearest convenience store.

Others were unsettlingly realistic.

Under different circumstances, you knew you might not have paid them any attention.

But with a serial killer still roaming King’s Landing, there was something deeply unnerving about being surrounded by dozens of strangers whose faces you couldn’t see and apparently your were the only smart enough to conclude to that.

For the first time all evening, you thought maybe this party wouldn’t be so terrible after all. You would finally get these exams out of your pretty head, have fun with your friend. But unfortunately that feeling lasted approximately thirty seconds.

Because the moment Syra spotted one of her popular friends across the room, she abandoned you without a second thought.

“I’ll be back in a minute!”

Those had been her exact words. And you knew that she would not come back.

Not at all..

One minute turned into five.

Five turned into twenty.

And eventually, you caught sight of her making out with some Tully boy near the kitchen.

that bitch

You rolled your eyes and took another sip of your drink.

Fine.

You were a grown woman and you could have fun all by yourself

You didn’t need supervision right? right?! You could survive a single party on your own. You could not drive home anyway you were too drunk now, and syra had driven you here.

The music from the speakers was loud enough to make the floor vibrate beneath your feet as you were wandering through the manor. And you could hear your heart pounding in your head. Everywhere you looked, students were drinking, laughing, dancing, or disappearing into rooms with people they would probably regret fucking with tomorrow morning.

You were debating whether to search for Syra or simply leave her to her poor decisions when your phone suddenly vibrated inside your bag.

Your brows furrowed.

Who the hell was texting you at eleven o’clock on Halloween?

You pulled out your phone and glanced at the screen.

Unknown Number.

Don’t turn around.

For a moment, you stared at the message, frozen and convinced it had to be some stupid prank or something shitty like that but then your phone buzzed again. Same number.

Unknown Number

Seriously. Don’t. Turn. Around.

A chill crawled down your spine.

What the fuck?

And what exactly did you do after receiving a message explicitly telling you not to turn around?

You turned around.

Obviously.

It took you less than fifteen seconds to spot him.

Standing in one of the darker corners of the room was a tall figure dressed as Ghostface. The mask concealed his features entirely, but the phone in his hand told you everything you needed to know.

Hot.

So it had been him.

A smirk tugged at your lips.

The alcohol buzzing pleasantly through your system was doing absolutely nothing for your decision-making skills.

Instead of reacting with the concern any reasonable person would have felt, you slipped your phone back into your bag and started making your way toward the mysterious stranger.

After all, what was the worst that could happen?

In hindsight, that was probably a terrible thought to have in the middle of a serial killer investigation.

Unfortunately, your attention was entirely focused on Ghostface.

Which meant you failed to notice the people around you.

The collision was inevitable.

Your drink splashed everywhere as you walked straight into a broad chest.

“Oh, fuck—I’m so sorry.”

You immediately looked up, already preparing yourself to apologize to whichever rich asshole’s costume you had just ruined.

Instead, your eyes landed on a face you recognized instantly.

Motherfucking Valarr Targaryen.

Shit.

Your mouth fell open slightly.

Of all the people at this party, why did it have to be a Targaryen?

You braced yourself for irritation. Maybe an insult. At the very least, a comment about watching where you were going.

Instead, he has smiled.

Actually smiled.

“Please don’t apologize,” he said warmly. “I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going either.”

For a moment, you simply stared.

Not because of what he’d said.

But because Valarr Targaryen was being nice.

Valarr Targaryen was already unfairly attractive on a normal day.

The combination was frankly devastating.

Tonight, dressed as a vampire in an expensive black suit adorned with silver details, he looked even worse for your sanity.

Or better.

Depending on how one looked at it.

His brown hair framed his face perfectly, and the fake blood painted near the corner of his mouth somehow only made him more attractive.

Which frankly felt illegal.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his expression softening with concern. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

The alcohol in your system immediately informed you that it should be considered a crime for someone to look that good.

You were still busy contemplating that very important issue when he spoke again.

“You okay?”

His hands settled lightly on your shoulders, steadying you.

“You might want to sit down.”

“No, no. I’m okay. Thanks.”

Somehow, you managed to answer without completely embarrassing yourself.

A small smile tugged at his lips.

He looked as though he was about to say something else when a voice called out from somewhere behind him.

“Valarr!”

One of his friends was waving him over.

Valarr glanced over his shoulder before looking back at you.

“I’m sorry, I’ve got to—”

But when he turned around fully, you were already gone.

Retreat was sometimes the only option left to preserve your dignity.

you had vanished back into the crowd. as if you never had interacted with him.

For a moment, Valarr simply stared at the spot where you had been.

Then a slow smirk spread across his face.

He pulled out his phone and typed something quickly.

A few seconds later, his screen lit up with a delivered notification.

Satisfied, he slipped the device back into his pocket before returning to his friends.

Though his gaze lingered on the crowd for just a moment longer.

A terrible headache from all the drinking had eventually driven you upstairs.

Technically, guests weren’t supposed to wander through the upper floors of the manor, but at this point, you desperately needed a quieter bathroom where you could splash cold water on your face and escape the pounding music for a few minutes.

The alcohol was beginning to settle unpleasantly behind your eyes.

You tried several doors.

A study.

A guest bedroom.

A storage room.

None of them were what you were looking for.

Finally, you reached another door that looked promising and placed your hand on the handle.

Then you heard it.

A noise.

Faint.

Coming from somewhere down the corridor.

You froze.

At first, you tried to ignore it.

Your headache was already bad enough without getting involved in whatever drunken nonsense was happening elsewhere in the manor.

Just use the bathroom. Mind your business. And go downstairs.

Yet the sound came again. louder. And this time, it sounded disturbingly like a sob. Your felt your stomach tightened. you slowly turned toward the door a few yards away. The corridor suddenly felt much quieter than before. The pounding music from downstairs had become muffled by thick walls and expensive carpets, reduced to a distant thrum beneath your feet. The crying came again, you could hear the desperate and broken voice pleading for someone to help.

The closer you moved, the clearer the sounds became.

A girl...

There was definitely a girl behind that door. The music downstairs was so loud that nobody else would ever hear it. you were going to ignore it and just go down when the voice came again.

“…please…”

Your pulse quickened.

“…I’ll do anything…”

Another sob followed. the sound was raw and painful to hear, it made your whole body anxious and trembling with curiosity.

“…anything… just…”

Your hand found the doorknob before you could stop yourself. What if someone was hurt? What if you could help? What if you walked away and something happened because you had decided it wasn’t your problem?

One look wouldn’t hurt right..

Right?

You finally pushed the door open. The room beyond was dark and it seems empty from your point of view.

but only at first glance.

Moonlight was spilling through the tall windows, casting pale silver across polished wooden floors and expensive furniture. A large king-sized bed dominated the room. The sheets remained untouched. No signs of a struggle. No crying girl. No one at all.

that made you frown and then your eyes landed on an old cassette player sitting atop a table near the window.

The voice must have came from it.

You froze but the confusion was quickly replaced by panic. Silence settled over the room. the atmosphere of the room was heavy and you could yourself being looked at. you didn’t like this feeling at all, but you were stuck in place, your body refusing to turn to your right and see what your brain had refused to acknowledge first when you stepped in the bedroom. Finally a mocking laugh echoed through the darkness. the guy it seems was amused by the way every muscle in your body tensed. Your head finally snapped toward the far corner.

your eyes came across the guy you had seen earlier. he was still dressed in the Ghostface costume. Still wearing the mask.

He sat comfortably in an armchair partially hidden by shadow, one leg thrown over the other as though he owned the room. He had been waiting for you.

Watching you.

The knife twirling lazily between his fingers caught the moonlight with every rotation. A cold wave washed over you.

“No one’s ever taught you not to stick your nose into other people’s business, little doe?” he spoke firmly with an arrogance that was familiar. you knew that voice, this tone, and this arrogance, the way it striked confidently. You know you had heard it before and many times. Yet your mind stubbornly refused to connect it to a face. Instinct screamed at you to leave Immediately. You proceed to took a careful step backward, The floorboards creaking beneath your feet but unfortunately You never got the chance to take a third as your back collided with a solid chest.

A startled gasp tore from your throat as you felt the strong hold on your shoulders. At the exact same moment, the unmistakable click of a lock echoed behind you.

fuck..the door.

Someone had locked the door.

“Aerion,” a familiar voice sighed. “You’re scaring her.”

You felt your heart missed two beats

Once because you finally recognized the man sitting across the room.

And a second time because you recognized the voice behind you.

Valarr.

Slowly, you turned your head.

Valarr Targaryen stood beside the door.

For a moment, all you could do was stare.

The same charming smile he had offered you downstairs still rested on his lips. The same warm expression. The same effortless charm.

Only now, you could see what you had missed before.

The darkness lurking beneath it.

The dangerous glint hidden in his violet eyes.

You weren’t stupid.

Nor were you the helpless victim they seemed to believe you were.

You knew exactly who the Targaryen cousins were.

And more importantly, you knew what kind of reputation followed them across campus.

Your gaze drifted downward to the small brass key resting between Valarr’s fingers.

He spun it once before catching it effortlessly.

Your stomach dropped.

There would be no easy escape.

Across the room, Aerion let out an impatient hiss before finally tearing the Ghostface mask from his face.

You had actually wondered where he was tonight.

For someone notorious for attending every party, starting half the drama on campus, and leaving with a different girl at his arms every other weekend, his absence had been strangely noticeable.

Now you understood why.

Your gaze lingered on him despite yourself.

Aerion Targaryen was dangerous.

Everyone knew it.

Between the two cousins, he was undoubtedly the one you would be most careful around.

Valarr hid his intentions behind smiles and charm but Aerion never bothered. His temper was infamous and so were the stories surrounding it, and unfortunately, he was also unfairly attractive.

Silver-gold hair, Sharp features, A strong jaw, and an infuriating smirk that never seemed to leave his face. Probably the reason so many girls were willing to overlook the fact that he was a complete asshole.

Even more unfortunately…

He was exactly your type and the realization irritated you.

“What is the meaning of this?” you finally demanded and you were almost surprised by how steady your voice remained despite the adrenaline surging through your veins.

Aerion merely leaned back in his chair. Not answering only watching and studying your form. His gaze moving lazily over you as though he was trying to figure something out.

Almost like a predator observing a wounded prey. As though he already knew exactly how this encounter would end. Then Valarr stepped forward making the floorboards creak beneath his weight. You looked up at him, expecting an explanation but Instead, it was Aerion who spoke.

“Why don’t you take a seat, baby?”Something about the pet name immediately irritated you. Perhaps it was the way he said it. Or perhaps it was because he had once again ignored your question.

You folded your arms across your chest and rolled your eyes. “If you answer my question, I might consider it.” A hint of alcohol still lingered in your system, making you far less patient—and considerably more bratty—than usual.

Your response earned a small smile from Valarr. Aerion only scoffed at your tone bedore drifting his eyes downward Toward the exposed skin beneath the hem of your costume. your legs.

Heat crept up your neck. For several long seconds, neither cousin seemed interested in speaking. The silence stretched. Heavy and mostly uncomfortable.

You were beginning to wonder if either of them intended to answer when you suddenly felt a cold pressure against your back making you stiffened immediately. In all the confusion, you had nearly forgotten Valarr was standing behind you. Slowly, you glanced over your shoulder.

the knife was not pressed hard enough to hurt you or draw blood, But still close enough to remind you exactly who was holding it. Valarr was watching your reaction carefully only expecting fear and panic. Perhaps even expecting you to beg.

Instead, you were rolling your eyes as if the situation was just a small inconvenience. you turned back toward him, and released an exaggerated sigh.

“Oh please, sir,” you said dramatically. “Please don’t kill me yet. I want to appear in the credits first.” your words only brought a blank, for one brief moment, neither of them spoke.

Valarr blinked, Clearly caught off guard by your reaction, your response had completely derailed whatever reaction he had been expecting.

“What?” You looked between them innocently before widening your eyes. “Oh, sorry. My bad.”

You placed a hand against your chest.

“I meant...please, Mr. Ghostface.” The smile tugging at your lips only widened. That finally teared a small laugh from Aerion.

You weren’t entirely sure whether it was the alcohol talking or your complete lack of self-preservation. Either way, the words had already left your mouth. and the boys reactions made you painfully aware. Now you were trapped in a bedroom with two dangerous Targaryens. The logic part of your brain told you that you should have been terrified.

Unfortunately, a reckless part of you was far more interested in finding out just how much fun you could have before things inevitably went wrong.

That was why you listened to the stupid voice in your head. Slowly, almost absentmindedly, you had reached for the knife.

The metal felt cool against your fingertips. Aerion’s gaze had followed the movement immediately,

Valarr’s did too.

You could feel both of them watching you, and waiting for any of your movements and what you would do next.

The realization had sent a strange thrill through you.

Instead of backing away, you carefully placed the edge of the blade between your tits, looking up through your lashes with an expression of innocent curiosity.

As if you had no idea what you were doing. As if you weren’t deliberately testing their patience.

The room seemed to grow quieter.

You didn’t even notice the blade had nicked your skin until tiny droplets of blood began to bead along the shallow cut before slowly trailing down your cleavage.

A flash of red against pale skin.

“Oops?” The word left your lips in an almost breathless murmur. You kept up the act, tilting your head slightly before reaching for Valarr’s hand.

Your fingers were brushing against his. you could feel the warm of his digits and how they were steady against yours. When he made no move to pull away, your pulse slightly quickened.

you hold his gaze as you guided the knife upward towards your mouth, slided the blade in between your teeth and removed the remaining trace of blood from the blade with your tongue without ever looking away from him.

The silence that followed felt almost tangible. the tension was heavy and charged in the air.

you noticed how Valarr’s jaw tightened ever so slightly at your action and you almost smirked at it, Because for the first time all evening, his composure seemed to falter only for a moment

Across the room, Aerion watched the entire exchange with narrowed eyes. The amusement had not left his face. If anything, it had deepened.

Then, for the first time since you’d entered the room, you heard the scrape of wood against the floor. his chair probably as you could hear the slow but deliberate footsteps of him, walking towards you.

You couldn’t remember exactly what had led to you being pressed against the bed, except for their offer not to kill you if you let them fuck your pretty cunt.

And here you were now. laying on the kingsize bed Almost naked.

The only thing still covering you was your dress, bunched up around your waist and pushed toward your chest.

Your panties had been ripped off earlier by Valarr. Without a word, he had handed them to his cousin, who had carefully tucked them away into his pocket as though they were some rare trophy meant to be treasured and kept safe.

The memory alone made heat crawl down your core.

How ridiculous.

but yet neither of them had looked like they were joking. Not even a little.

Instead, they had spent several minutes arguing over who would get to fuck you first. The discussion had become so absurd that you had almost made a joke about it.

Almost.

You had very nearly told them to keep arguing if they wanted, considering it was only making you wetter because It seemed the alcohol was turning you into a complete slut.

Eventually, they had reached an agreement.

Valarr would go first.

Being the eldest, he had claimed it was his right, Aerion had frowned at that argument but ultimately allowed it, settling beside you on the mattress while Valarr positioned himself between your thighs.

His large hands wrapped around your legs, keeping them spread apart for him.

Neither man bothered hiding their reaction at the sight before them. The anticipation alone had left you embarrassingly aroused. Enough that both cousins immediately noticed. And judging by the low groans that escaped them, neither was disappointed by the discovery.

Valarr had begun to toy with your clit using his thumb, alternating between slow circles and gentle pinches, and fuck—you were already losing it, Because the Valarr Targaryen was playing with your greedy cunt, inserting two fingers into your tight hole, while Aerion’s lips were working against the sensitive skin of your neck, clearly experienced and knowing exactly where to find a woman’s most vulnerable spots.

The combination was already too overwhelming. your humming only seemed to encourage Valarr to pump his fingers faster into your hole, and the way Aerion was sucking a particular spot on your jaw had managed to make you lose focus on the brown.

and it seems that he didn’t enjoyed loosing your attention because he withdrew his fingers, to replace them with his skilled tongue.

The change instantly got you back.

Your gaze dropped to the man settled between your thighs. and the sight was making you shake your legs incontrolably as he was devouring your pussy like a starved man deprived from food for days.

he was lapping at your folds, Savoring each sounds coming out of your mouth satisfied to know that he was the one making you feel this good.

His tongue was moving with a maddening patience and precision before becoming almost cruel in its intensity, and you were quickly dissolving into a helpless, moaning mess beneath them. you almost sounded pornographic..

One of your hands buried itself in his pale hair, encouraging him to keep going, you hips accompanying his mmovements as they rolled on their own.

Not that he seemed to need the encouragement.

Meanwhile, your neck arched instinctively, granting Aerion better access as his lips continued their work against your skin. He seemed perfectly content to leave marks wherever he pleased. his hands were wandering under your dress and most specifically under your bra as he was fiddling with your tits, giving them the treatment they deserved.

And judging by the low sounds of approval coming from between your legs, and beside your head, the cousins were equally satisfied with the position they had claimed.

“Such a greedy girl, huh?” Aerion whispered against the shell of your ear before gently nibbling at it as he talked you through it “Come on, baby. Tell him he’s doing a great job. Tell him, he’s making you feel good or we’ll stop.”

The threat nearly made you panic.

No.

No, no, no.

They couldn’t stop.

Not now. Not when you were so close to coming. You didn’t want any of it to end anytime soon.

“Feels so good—please don’t stop!” you gasped, your grip tightening in Valarr’s hair, wanting to make sure he wouldn’t even think about trying to pull away from you greedy cunt.

You were a trembling mess between them.

With Valarr’s mouth completely focused on you, every low hum of satisfaction sent vibrations through your core. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself, and the realization only made your head spin even more.

The way he worked between your thighs was enough to leave you breathless.

Meanwhile, all you could do was let helpless whimpers and broken moans spill from your lips as the pleasure continued to build.

One sensation blending into another. Aerion’s lips, Valarr’s mouth. Their hands. Their voices. Everything was becoming overwhelming.

Your fingers remained tangled in Valarr’s pale hair while your body reacted on instinct, chasing every touch and every movement.

The cousins seemed to take great satisfaction in that. Every sound you made were only encouraging them further.

And judging by the approving noises coming from both men, neither of them had any intention of stopping anytime soon.

Lucky girl

You were a trembling mess between them.

With Valarr’s mouth completely focused on you, his soft hums of satisfaction filled the space between your thighs. He was truly enjoying himself—devouring you with an intensity that made your thoughts scatter.

He had been watching you. Wanting this. Dreaming about it for so long.

And now it was finally happening.

He wasn’t planning to stop.

The vibrations of his voice and mouth sent shocks through your core, and the way he was making out with your pussy was almost enough to make you green with jealousy that his mouth wasn’t on yours instead. ridiculous right?

That his tongue wasn’t fighting yours.

Instead, all you could do was fall apart between them, helpless whimpers and broken sounds spilling from your lips as the pleasure kept building and building, pulling you further under.

You were getting dangerously close to your first orgasm when Aerion finally captured your mouth in a heated kiss, his tongue slipping past your lips to swallow the sounds threatening to escape, while his cousin continued his work between your thighs. That’s when he felt the metal ball inside your your mouth.

He broke the kiss immediately.

A low breath leaving him.

“Stick out that tongue f’me,” he ordered, tilting your chin up with firm fingers.

There was no real choice in the way he looked at you. Still, you obeyed. Slowly, you let your tongue slip out, revealing the tongue piercing you had done last year.

Aerion paused.

A flicker of surprise crossed his face before something sharper replaced it.

“Hiding this from us?” he murmured, almost amused. “such a bad girl.”

His thumb brushed your lower lip as if testing the weight of your reaction. Then he kissed you again.

A bit slower this time but more deliberate.

His tongue was tangling with yours, and the moment he felt the small metal ball against him, a quiet sound escaped his throat—barely restrained. His control slipped, just for a second. Then he deepened the kiss as if nothing had happened at all.

You hadn’t even noticed earlier that Valarr had been rutting his hips restlessly against the mattress, nor the way the tension in both men betrayed just how affected they were by your reactions.

Aerion was swallowing every moan and breathless sound that tried to escape your lips, keeping your attention locked on him as the kiss deepened as his hands clenched on your tits.

It was only when the pressure inside you finally broke that everything seemed to collapse at once.

Your body tensed, overwhelmed, your grip tightening against the sheets as your breath stuttered against Aerion’s mouth.

The kiss became something heavier—more consuming—as he worked to keep you anchored to him while everything else faded into static sensation. some of your body fluids —and perhaps valarr’s spit had damped the expensive silk of sheets under you, when you finally felt valarr emerging back from your legs, reality finally returned in fragments.

Hands still on your skin, leaning down to press small kisses on your thighs as he whispered sweet things and how you had done so good for him and what a good girl you were, in order to bring you back down from the intensity of it all.

Valarr, finally lifted his head from you, exhaling quietly.

The room felt different now.

Quieter.

Heavier.

As if neither of them were quite done with you yet.

that is when you heard it. A muffled whimper that wasn’t from the boys but could only belons to a woman’s. A desperate cry same as 20 minutes ago. Your head turned instinctively toward the sound.

And that was when you saw her.

The girl was lying behind the bed, on the carpet, hidden from view—no wonder you hadn’t noticed her when you first stepped in.

she was in a critical state, Bloodied, Trembling and Barely holding on.

Thick strips of tape covered her mouth, turning her screams into broken, suffocated sobs. Even from where you stood, you could tell she was begging.

Not them.

You.

Your stomach dropped.

You couldn’t make out her face clearly through the blood and bruising.

But you knew immediately that something was very wrong. So wrong it made your chest tighten.

Fuck.

Panic began to set in.

Until now, you had told yourself it was a game.

A twisted joke.

Some kind of roleplay gone too far when they’d made their threats.

Apparently, it wasn’t.

Aerion noticed the shift in you almost immediately. His gaze followed yours to the girl, then slowly returned to your face. He softened. Almost gently. he pressed a kiss to your cheek, before brushing a hand through your hair as if you were something fragile, something easily frightened, they needed to protect.

“Shh,” he murmured. “It’s okay, baby.”

“Valarr is going to take care of her, while I take care of you.” he barely looked at the poor girl on the floor, his attention only staying on you. only you, always you.

As if on cue, Valarr rose from the bed.

Your eyes tracked him immediately.

The knife was already in his hand.

The same one he had left nearby.

He wasn’t hesitating, as he walked steadily towards her.

The girl’s sobs spiked, more frantic now, muffled cries breaking against the tape.

Aerion stayed close behind you, lips against your skin, trying to pull your attention away from what was happening in the room.

As if he could anchor you to him.

you were supposed to scream, fear them, trying to escape,

But your mind was struggling to process it fast enough. You enjoyed being there.

Then you saw her face properly. Even through the blood. Even through the bruising.

Irina Lannister.

“Why don’t you show me how you can use that pretty tongue of yours, hm doll?” Aerion stood up from the bed, reaching to take off his belt. The movement alone was enough to pull your attention away from Irina. For a moment, everything else faded.

The room. The blood. Valarr, and The girl on the floor. Even the unease that had started to creep into your chest.

All of it blurred at the edges of your mind as you remained on your knees on the bed, watching him. Waiting like the good girl you were with your lips parting slightly as you licked them without thinking, impatience tightening in your chest. your attention was already far too gone as you were now too distracted by cock to acknowledge the macrabre scene on your right.

part 2..

Thank you for reading ! Aerion’s part is coming hehe.. we are also getting into the dark stuff even more into the next part!!

Taglist : @pancitoconjam @aerionsbelovedwife @vanillakissesworld @jordaniyaa @zaptapbam @sheshsti1299 @kiraflowersworld @magnificendragon @high-speed-r @aliceinwonderlandwnb @sagiohirako @smilefortae @rakiroad @hopelesslydevotedtoyu @somethingdummb @livewaspsblog @mayyvxc @hekxte25 @heavengirls111 @brightflameprince @targaryenstar

frey-williams

When your reading smut and it’s literally just r@pe or inc3st so you just have to stare like this

smilefortae

How I feel being the only person in this fandom who hates Targcest:

mhlily2

I'm Mahmoud, from Ga-za, Pales-tine

.A person with a compassionate and tender heart, dreaming of a better tomorrow. Imagine waking up to find yourself surrounded by ruins ,everything you once knew, gone. This is my reality and the reality of my family. The war has shattered our home, our dreams, and our hopes for the future. I’m not asking for much , only for a chance to rebuild my life, to travel, to start again, and to restore the home that once brought us warmth and safety. Your sup-port, even the smallest contribution, can he-lp me take the first step, toward a new beginning toward a life filled with hope instead of despair. He-lp me rebuild, travel, and bring life back to my home.

Vetted by G@za-education-fund

mhlily4

Why do you ignore me…

I’m going through unimaginable pain, and you might be my only hope to survive. Your kindness could be the difference between despair and safety. Please, show mercy. every don-ati-on helps. Your support can save a life.

I truly need you. Please don-ate.

thespaceloft

undercover agent!reader takes wounded dex to the only doctor they know dr. jack abbot - dex taunts abbot and the night turns into who worships reader the best

familydiala

My friends, please help 🙏💔

My child “Moamen” urgently needs two surgeries (adenoids and tonsils removal). He is struggling to breathe and his condition is getting worse. We need $865 this week for the operations. I cannot afford it alone.

🙏 Any donation, even small, can save my child🙏 Sharing this post also helps a lot

Thank you for your kindness 🤍

👇

I am Veronica Salber, a friend of Diala from Gaza. I created this campaign to ensure that donations reach her safely and with full transpare

Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #715 )✅️

nadin2003

🕊 Nadin’s Hope: A Mother, A Memory, A Future

Hello, my name is Nadin. I’m from Gaza. I’m a graphic design graduate, a wife—and now, a mother.

I finished my design studies just before the war began. I had dreams of starting a small studio, of creating art that told stories. I used to think about colors and fonts and the future.

Then, the war came. And the future became something we tried to hold onto, moment by moment.

On October 22, 2023, I learned I was pregnant when a missile destroyed my husband’s family home, killing 25 members—his mother, siblings, nieces and nephews—entire branches of our family in seconds.

We were displaced twice. Everything was gone—home, safety, routine, rest.

A few weeks later, I gave birth to our daughter. There was no crib, no celebration—not even stillness. But she arrived, quietly and beautifully. In her eyes I saw something I hadn’t felt in weeks: life that still wanted to grow.

Now, our days are shaped by decisions that could dismantle the future we are trying to build together.

Today, Israel’s government is discussing plans for a full military occupation of the Gaza Strip, including Gaza City and southern regions. The stated aim: to eliminate Hamas and later hand governing control to allied Arab forces—not Israel—but with no clear path to peace or normalcy.

The humanitarian fallout is devastating. More than 61,000 Palestinians have died in this war; hunger and malnutrition are rising sharply. Hospitals in north Gaza have shut down, and 193 people have now died of starvation, nearly half of them children.

Aid remains blocked, water is scarce, and many risk dying of hunger or disease long before future promises arrive.

We Don’t Know What Comes Next There’s no clear path forward—only uncertainty for our daughter’s life and our ability to survive another day.

My name is Nadin, and I’m a mother from Gaza.

How You Can Help I’m asking for support—not for comfort, but for survival:

Help us meet basic needs so we can breathe, heal, and preserve a world for our daughter.

Support us as I try to stand again on my own feet—even a glimmer of stability matters.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. If you can give—thank you. If you can’t—just sharing this post is a lifeline I will never forget.

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