In Name Only - Part 1

Fan Fic Masterlist

All These are of fan fics that I like

Pedro Pascal Characters

Peaky Blinders

Harry Potter

Stranger Things

Loki

House of The Dragon

Untouched

Pairing: Pero Tovar/Virgin!Reader

Work Count: 3.2k

Summary: You and Pero spend your first night together, which is your first night with anyone.

Warnings: you guys have penis in vagina sex. Some descriptions/mentions of violence, reference to painful loss of virginity, but we all know Pero’s too good to do that to you

You were a walking contradiction. Nothing was more confusing or intriguing to Pero Tovar than how you managed to exist in these times.

When he’d been introduced to you (it was generous to call it an introduction, seeing as Tovar more or less refused to acknowledge you at the time) he saw you the way he saw most everyone: an annoyance at best, a punishment from god at worst. When he glanced at you, he saw just a little thing, a girl who ought to be at home, out of her depths.

He first beheld your beauty through a veil of bloodshed. On the battlefield you had no equal. People throughout his travels often equated grace to beauty, but in observing you, Pero found that simply wasn’t so. You did not dance with the blade, like twirled silk. What you did was not akin to dancing. It was heavy and destructive, you took to you enemies with the crushing force of a mortar and pestle. You wielded the heavy and challenging kanabo, the force of which caved armor and shattered bones, man and beast alike. When you swung the heavy bat, you looked as a healer pounding medicine. The force itself was destructive, but it was delivered with the righteousness of someone who was preserving life.

You could not always use the kanabo, and you most certainly could not spar with it, for your opponents would be crippled by even a sporting blow. So Tovar sometimes saw your prowess with the sword, the staff, anything nearby. You made many an arrogant man eat their words.

Now, when he was to imagine a beautiful woman, he did not think of flowing locks and fair skin wrapped in silks. He saw sword-cut hair, an oversized tunic, the loosening laces on leather armor.

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these moments | john shelby

@ateliefloresdaprimavera wanted, and I quote: “happy,married to the love of his life John and [reader] who’s like a daughter to Polly”

hope you like it, hun!

You marched down the street, half angry, half exhausted. Groups of kids were running up and down and you cast an eye out to check whether any of yours were there. Men tipped their caps to you as you passed and you barged your shoulder into Polly’s front door, slamming it behind you.

“I got fucking fired, didn’t I?”

“Lovely to see you too, sweetheart. Sit yourself down. Kettle’s just boiled, you can explain yourself”

You huffed, yanking your scarf off and chucking it over the back of a chair.

“Thanks Pol. Where’s the kids?”

“John’s got them”

“John’s got them?”

Polly cast a look up to you as she brewed the pot and smirked when she saw your confused look.

“He was showing Katie her numbers and the rest wouldn’t let them be, you know what they’re like”

“Sorry, no, go back – John’s got the kids? By himself?”

She chuckled to herself and slid a cup over to you.

“Sit yourself down. And explain”

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Rough Day (The Mandalorian x Reader)

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 3.1K

Summary: When you woke up this morning, you didn’t really think it would be a “fixing Mando’s knife wound and then giving him a handjob” kind of day today but hey, who knew that agreeing to babysit a bounty hunter’s weird, green little child would be so full of surprises.

Warnings: Smut, language, handjobs (duh), dirty talk, Pedro Pascal (deserves his own warning), mentions of blood, spoilers for the Mandalorian.

Maker, why is this even a thing?

You don’t know his name.  You’ve never seen his face.  He barely says a word, doesn’t even move much unless he needs to.  If he didn’t have such an obvious complex about droids, you would’ve thought he could be one himself, quietly forged and hidden beneath gleaming beskar armor for an untold number of years.  You know practically nothing about him other than the few things you’ve heard about his culture—most likely either grossly exaggerated or just flat out nonsense.  Everything about him is an enigma, even down to the vaguely impersonal things, such as the technical name for his “poof gun” or what insane percentage of his body weight metal has to account for.

But that doesn’t stop you.  Nope, the fact that you’ve never even seen a strip of his skin doesn’t stop you from nursing a stupid, helpless crush on the quiet bounty hunter.  Stars, it’s ridiculous.  The modulated, low baritone, the intimidating way he carries himself, so stoic and dark and foreboding and tall—

He terrifies you.  You’re absolutely terrified of bothering him, of being too forward or inquisitive.  You sit in the cockpit with him for hours in dead silence, kid perched on your lap in the copilot’s seat to keep him from touching anything, hypnotized by the way his helmet subtly reflects the streaks of hyperspace as they race by and thinking about all the impossible things you want to know but can never ask about.  The last thing you want to do is accidentally test his patience, possibly get marooned on some backwater planet somewhere because you just couldn’t accept something so beautifully mysterious for what it is.

So you ultimately strive to be almost as quiet as he is, always helpful but never in the way.  You troubleshoot mechanical issues with the vessel when they make themselves known, take the baby in one of the secluded areas of the hull and play peekaboo for a bit when he gets too fussy, or just pick up a rag and start cleaning when there’s nothing else to occupy your time.  You sleep occasionally, curling up on the floor of the hull with a blanket to avoid taking up too much space, living out of your suitcase and making a generous ten percent of his commissions just by copiloting and keeping watch over the child while he works.  With the strict schedule he keeps, your pay is always handsome and consistent, even if it is all a bit boring.

Watching him wrestle his bounties into carbonite is admittedly the most exciting part for you, the rest of your days filled with nothing but the interior of the vessel as it either travels through hyperspace or sits stationary on a planet.  He always returns to you bruised and dirty, manhandling and shoving his bounties up the ramp and into the carbonite chamber one by one, not bothering with the fuel needed to collect payment until at least three or four have been retrieved.

You try not to constantly replay the incredibly vivid memory of one of them snarling something sexually obscene at you once and how quickly the bounty hunter whipped his fist out and broke his nose before freezing him.

“Isn’t… isn’t he still conscious in there?”  You remember asking, studying the disgustingly crooked angle of the man’s shattered silver nose, to which the Mandalorian shortly replied, “Yes,” before clambering into the cockpit and taking off.

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the sweetest taboo

pairing: frankie ‘catfish’ morales x f!reader

warnings: SMUT - oral (f receiving), somewhat rough sex, a little dirty talk

a/n: so here it is. i told y’all i would write something because this gif gave me ideas about not-so-soft frankie.

You can’t remember the last time Frankie had been this needy. His lips and teeth are on every inch of exposed skin they can find before you can close the door properly. He snatches his cap off, frustrated with it getting in the way of him getting to you.

“Frankie baby,” you sigh, running your fingers through his hair. “Let’s go upstairs…” He sucks on a particularly sensitive part of your neck and your knees buckle.

“Mm mm,” he grunts against your skin.

“What?”

“Huh?” He finally pulls away from you looking simply disheveled—pupils blown wide, hair a mess from you running your fingers through it, and breathing as if you had taken his breath away.

“What’s gotten into you?” you tease, slowly unbuttoning his shirt.

He moves in on you again, this time capturing your lips. His tongue swirls with yours expertly, reminding you of just what else he can do with it. “Want you,” he breathes.

“I can tell…” You smile at him as you pull the shirt out from where it’s tucked into his jeans—the khaki ones he loves so much. “Got any blood left in that head up there or has it already all traveled to the other?”

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Studious (Aemond Targaryen x Reader) 18+

Your marriage to the One-Eyed Prince is not as romantic as you hoped. At least he does not seem eager to perform his duty after your wedding night... Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader (second person, no use of Y/N) Warnings: SMUT, p in v sex, bad sex (these kids have no idea what they're doing) Aegon's commentary at the end is probably a warning too

Author's note: This is my first ever one-shot!!! I wrote this based on a conversation I had a few weeks ago with @valeskafics and @womprat00 about how canon Aemond would likely act in bed... and here we are. There's probably gonna be a part 2 eventually, but idk when. I mostly wrote this to try and clear my writer's block around the upcoming chapters of The Silver Dragon.

Read Part II Here - Read Part III Here - Read Part IV Here

Studious

The wedding feast had been a wonder. Hundreds of candles illuminated the Great Hall, casting golden light upon the celebration below. The wine flowed and tingled in your veins, making you feel so light you almost forgot your nerves.

You had danced with every man in attendance and even a few of the women – including your new good sister, Princess Helaena. But only once with your new husband, Prince Aemond Targaryen.

After your opening dance, he returned to the table at the head of the hall, picking halfheartedly at his food and never more than sipping at his wine.

His eye – his singular violet eye – was on you all night, watching you with some emotion you could not name.

You did not allow yourself to think on it too deeply. Instead, you let yourself be lost in the celebration. You were a princess now, the wife to a dragonrider. Your children’s cradles would be warmed by dragon eggs, and they would go on to make history.

In the face of that, what did it matter that your husband had not spoken to you since the wedding ceremony? That he seemed so hesitant to touch or even look at you?

But then the Queen called for the bedding, and it mattered so much.

Aemond stiffly took your arm, never meeting your eyes, and led you out of the Great Hall.

Your only consolation came from the Queen’s insistence on a private bedding.

-

The bedchamber was starkly different from the exuberant joy of the Great Hall. You had not yet had the chance to decide how to put your personal touch on the new apartments, so the walls and tables were bare. There was only a single candelabra lighting the empty room, and the only thing signaling that it was occupied at all was the presence of two books on the bedside table: your personal copy of The Seven-Pointed Star and your diary.

You felt the urge to hide the diary for some fear that your new husband would read it and discover your hesitancies about the marriage – about him.

But Aemond had not looked at you since you both entered the room. You looked up at him to see if he had spotted the diary, but his eye was closed, his brow furrowed. It wasn’t until you spotted the slight movement of his lips that you realized.

He was praying.

It dampened your nerves, if only slightly, to know he was just as anxious as you. And to know he was as pious as the rumors said. There, at least, you could find some commonality.

You followed his lead, as a dutiful wife should, and bowed your own head in silent prayer.

You thanked the Maiden for such a fine match, begged the Crone to grant you the wisdom to be a worthy wife, and the Smith to strengthen the bonds of your union. Finally, you asked the Mother for her blessing in making the marriage fruitful, that she would soon bless you and your husband with a son and heir.

That task was not in the hands of the Mother alone, however.

Your husband continued his own prayer for long moments after you had again opened your eyes, leaving you standing there with your head bowed and your hands clasped in front of you.

Aemond took a deep breath, drawing your eyes back to his face. It was a handsome face, you thought. When you heard of his injury, you had imagined something far more… monstrous. And while his scar, mostly covered by his eyepatch, was unsightly, you still considered yourself lucky to have him as a husband.

He was better than that Frey boy, at least.

The corners of his lips twitched, and for a moment, you thought he might smile. But he did not. His face remained mostly impassive as he looked at the braids pile atop your head.

“The pins may be uncomfortable. Do you… need help?” he asked, his voice just as soft as it had been when he swore his vows. He obviously didn’t want to deal with it himself.

So, you shook your head and stepped toward the vanity. “No,” you answered. “I can manage.”

He said nothing more as you sat on the short stool and began removing the gold and pearl pins from your hair. Every time you glanced at him in the mirror, he was standing precisely where he had been, arms crossed behind his back as he stared at the bed.

Suddenly worried that he would grow impatient, you began tearing the pins out with less care, stifling your soft whimpers when you accidentally took a few strands of hair with them. Finally, your hair was down. But you only became more nervous when you looked in the mirror.

You looked ridiculous. After being braided in so many different ways and set for so long, it stood up in several places, fell in frizzy curls in others, and lay dull and flat along the back of your head. Hardly the sight to entice a man into bedding you.

Your husband still only stared at the bed, even as you came to stand next to him, straightening the skirts of your wedding gown. Then, his eye flicked to you, and over the wild mess of your hair, before landing on your bodice.

“Lay on the bed,” he instructed.

You obeyed, resting your head on the pillows and crossing your hands over your waist. What you were meant to do with your legs, you did not know. So, you simply held them out straight, awaiting further command.

Keeping your breath steady when you heard the soft sound of leather unlacing was no easy feat. Perhaps you would not have heard it if it hadn’t been so silent. But it seemed even the crickets, which usually chirped loudly at this hour, wanted you to be wholly present for your wedding night.

Aemond made a sound then, something halfway between a groan and hiss, and you instinctively looked toward him.

You wished you hadn’t.

He stood at the end of the bed, still fully dressed save that he had pulled his trousers down just enough to expose his cock as he stroked himself impatiently.

He was big.

You had only seen a man naked once before– some drunken servant wandering through the gardens one morning who had later been whipped for exposing himself to you.

Aemond was near twice that man’s size, and with the stones to match.

You fixed your eyes on the ceiling, trying not to think about it. Your mother had warned you there would be discomfort, and perhaps some pain. After what you just saw, you knew it was going to hurt.

But it was your duty. You were expected to be a good wife. A good wife lets her husband take his pleasure, fill her with his seed, and gives him heirs.

So, though your fingers trembled, you pulled your skirts up around your waist.

Aemond muttered his thanks and climbed onto the bed next to you. Carefully, he set a hand on one of your thighs, pulling slightly. Understanding the request in the motion, you shyly spread your legs, clenching your fists at your sides to resist the urge to cover yourself with your hands.

Aemond moved between your thighs, stroking himself once more before finally looking back at your face.

You could not decipher the expression on his face. His lips were tight and pursed, his brow slightly furrowed, and his eye wide. Nor could you hide your shock when he leaned down to press his lips stiffly against yours.

Neither of you moved your lips. You would not know how; your first kiss had been with him in the Sept earlier that day. Though you had seen people kiss before, moving their lips and tongues with sensual, passionate hunger, you had no idea how to do so yourself.

Thankfully, it did not seem as though Aemond cared to. He withdrew as fast as he had leaned down, once more refusing to look at your face. Instead, he dragged his eye down your form, lingering slightly on the hint of cleavage that peeked out of your bodice before coming to rest at your sex.

The corner of his lip twitched as he reached out to run a finger through your folds, spreading you open for him to see. His touch was warm, the sensation unfamiliar, and you let out a soft cry as you instinctively pulled away from him.

“I’m sorry,” you both said at the same time.

You shyly edged yourself back down the bed toward him, silently granting him permission to continue whatever he needed to do. As you fixed your eyes back on the ceiling, you prayed again to the Mother and Maiden that this would be over before you died of embarrassment.

Aemond rubbed his hand over his thigh to try and warm his fingers before he brought them back to you. He trailed his finger slowly down your center curiously, as though you were a book he was scanning for a particular passage. Though your toes curled at the strange, almost pleasurable feeling of his touch, you kept your legs still.

Then, he withdrew his hand as though he had found whatever he was looking for. Then, he leaned back over you again, holding himself up by his left hand as his right stayed between you.

He did not move to kiss or look at you. Instead, his eye was fixed on where the tip of his cock now met your entrance.

Whatever pleasure his touch had brought you was gone the minute he began to push into you, your every sense fading to the painful stretch you felt. Your only relief came from it looking like Aemond was in as much pain as you. His jaw was tight, his teeth clenched, and his eye squeezed tightly shut.

So, you fisted the sheets in your hands, curled your toes against the pain, and shut your eyes.

You felt him push further and further in, and a soft hiss escaped his lips as his stones came to rest against you.

Gods, all of him had fit?

He stilled momentarily, bringing his other hand to your side to support him.

Then he began to move. Slowly at first, but quickly building speed. The pain remained, mixed with something entirely unfamiliar to you, something you could not decide whether you enjoyed.

Aemond stilled once again before you could decide, a guttural groan escaping him as his head fell to rest against your neck. His breath was hot against your skin, but you hardly felt it, not as you felt his cock twitching inside you, even when his hips were not moving.

Was that it?

Your breath had grown swift and heavy, and an emptiness settled in your stomach, even as Aemond was still inside you.

When he finally pulled himself from your neck, he looked back at your face. For a moment, you thought he might kiss you again. But your confusion must have been evident on your face, for he immediately looked away and pulled himself from you as he climbed off the bed.

He did not face you as he stuffed himself back in his trousers and righted his eyepatch.

Had you done something wrong?

You sat up to ask him but halted when you felt something wet between your legs. You pushed the volume of your skirts aside to find something thick and white leaking from you.

His seed. He had given you his seed, so you must not have done anything wrong.

You looked back up to find his face flushed as he swiftly turned away from you and walked toward the door.

“Good night,” he whispered.

Then he left.

He had not noticed your hand outstretched toward him, beckoning him to stay.

-

Two weeks passed, and your husband had not returned to your chambers.

Part of you was glad, for the wedding night had left you… confused, to say the least. But sometimes, your mind drifted back to his warmth as he lay atop you. To the softness of his lips on yours. To that feeling that drifted too close to pleasure before he stilled once more.

But each pleasant memory was met with an unpleasant one. The stiff way he moved. The way he so obviously did not want to look at you. How quickly he had finished and left without another glance your way.

When the other ladies of the court asked for details, whether he truly had dragonfire in his blood, you simply blushed and feigned bashfulness. Soon, they grew tired of not receiving a satisfactory answer and left you alone.

As did Aemond, it seemed. You saw him only occasionally, and mostly in an official capacity.

In the Throne Room each day, you dutifully stood beside him as his mother or grandsire held court.

At a reception held for a visiting Dornish lord, Prince, or some other thing, he only danced with you once, moving just as stiffly as he had on your wedding night.

You sat next to him at the evening meals he ate with his family every night. He would help you in and out of your chair, and even held heavy platters for you when you served yourself, but he never spoke to or looked at you for longer than necessary.

His mother did, asking you polite questions about your family and interests. Princess Helaena was very curious about the insects you saw at your family keep and occasionally muttered strange phrases you could not understand. At the first meal, Prince Aegon had made several lewd comments about the bedding, but the Queen silenced him quickly.

If Aemond listened to any of it, he gave no indication.

So, you decided to seek him out yourself. Perhaps he was shy and wanted you to take the first step in building a relationship. You donned your warmest cloak and asked a guard to show you the way to the training yard.

It was not hard to spot him amongst the guards and knights in the yard, for there was no one else in the castle with that long white hair.

He moved with such grace as he fought, entirely at odds with how he had been in your bed. His sword seemed like an extension of his arm – a deadly one. You were wholly enraptured by the sight, filled with disbelief that this was the awkward man you had married.

As the fight ended, with the tip of Aemond’s sword pressed against his opponent’s neck, you felt a hollowness in your stomach. Not quite the same emptiness you felt when he pulled out of you, but a yearning for something.

Perhaps for that pleasure you had just started to feel when he stopped thrusting into you and quickly left.

Indeed, when someone below pointed you out to him, and he looked up at you, his chest heaving with the effort of the fight, a thrill ran down your spine.

But then Aemond grimaced at the sight of you and turned away. Your heart clenched as you watched him angrily discard his weapons and stalk out of the training yard without another glance your way.

That grimace hurt more than all the looks of pity then turned your way as you ran back into the castle.

-

You did not join your husband or his family for the night’s evening meal, citing a headache. When your maids brought you chicken broth and a loaf of lightly buttered bread, you only nibbled at it before sending it away. You had no appetite. Not for anything.

Except perhaps home.

For the first time since you arrived in the capital, in the Red Keep, you wanted to go home.

Home was not as glamorous or exciting as the castle, but at least there were people there who cared for you. Who talked to you.

Here, you were entirely alone.

And alone you would stay, it seemed. It had been exactly two weeks since your wedding day, and Aemond still had not returned to you.

So, you fell into your new routine. After dismissing your maids, you settled into the plush couch by your sitting room hearth, a cup of spiced wine in one hand and a book in the other.

You no longer bothered to wear the silk and lace nightclothes your mother sent with you. There was no one to appreciate them, to be tempted by them. So instead, you donned a long nightgown made of simple, soft white cotton with long flowing sleeves that made you feel like a faerie when they trailed behind you. Atop it was a brocaded dressing gown in the colors of your house, a warm and welcome reminder of home.

Then came the knock at your door. Three soft raps in quick succession.

“Who is it?” you called, though you knew the answer. There was only one person it could be at this hour.

There was a long pause.

“Your husband,” a soft voice replied. “Prince Aemond.”

With shaking legs, you stood, setting down your wine and book, and stepped to the door. You did not look at his face as you cracked it open, not wanting to see another grimace.

“I know who you are,” you whispered. “I have only one husband.”

He did not laugh, but had you been looking, you would have seen his answering smile.

“Are you feeling well?” he asked, still standing just outside the door.

“Quite well,” you said. Then you winced, remembering that you had told the Queen you had a headache. “I mean… better. I feel better.”

Aemond’s brow furrowed, and he blinked several times before speaking again. “May I come in?”

Every muscle in your body tensed, but you stepped back and opened the door further to allow him entry. A good wife did not deny her husband, and despite everything, you were still determined to be a good wife.

He still did not look at you as he examined the room, his gaze lingering on the book you were reading. Then, once again, he stood with his back to you and his arms crossed behind him.

The silence was nearly unbearable. Perhaps if you still thought him simply shy, you could withstand it. But after the way he looked at you in the training yard…

“Is there something I can do for you, husband?” You drew your dressing robe tighter around yourself, feeling more exposed now than when he was bedding you.

Perhaps because you had finally started to make your apartments your own. You felt that with every item, every tapestry or trinket he looked at, he was seeing a piece of your soul.

You watched the curtain of his hair waver slightly as he dipped his head. “Did you really have a headache? Or did you simply not want to endure my family tonight?”

Your heart stilled, and you felt fear seep into your bones. He would not hurt you, of that, you were sure. But you still somehow dreaded disappointing or upsetting him.

“I…” you stammered, unable to form words, much less an answer.

Aemond turned back to you, an unreadable expression in that lone violet eye. “I will not be mad if you did,” he said, somehow knowing your very thoughts. “I often do the same.”

He raised a hand to gesture to his eyepatch and the scar that lay beneath it. “It is not always a lie. That it hurts.”

You blinked, unsure how to react to what he had just told you. The vulnerability of it. He all but ignores you for two weeks, and now this?

“I can leave,” he said suddenly, fixing his hands behind him again. You had not realized he had relaxed his posture until he went rigid again. “If you would prefer it.”

You shook your head weakly. “You don’t have to. I am your wife. It is your right to be here.”

His lip twitched, and he looked almost disappointed at your reply. “It has been two weeks since we were wed.”

“Yes.”

“And we have not… been together since that night.”

“No. We have not.”

Aemond looked away from you again, his breathing suddenly heavier. “We should…” he swallowed thickly. “It is our duty to produce an heir, and we have been neglecting that duty.”

When you were first told you were betrothed to a prince, an idealistic, childish part of you had expected a grand romance. Something worthy of the storybooks.

Never this.

“You are right, my prince,” you whispered, and turned immediately to the bedchamber, not waiting to see if he was following.

Discarding your robe on your armoire, you laid on the bed with your arms crossed in front of you, holding your nightgown up and your legs spread, knees bent to allow him better access. With any luck, he would be finished as quickly as before. Then, perhaps, you would have another two weeks of solitude.

This time, you would not spend it hoping for something he could not give you.

You stared at the ceiling, waiting for him to climb atop you. But he did not come.

Curious, you lifted your head slightly.

Aemond was still in the sitting room, staring at you. Finally, he looked away to undo his belt, which he laid carefully over the back of one of your chairs. Then he removed his jacket, folding it neatly before setting it on the side table. His boots were next and arranged by the hearth to keep them warm.

Only then did he walk to the bedchamber, standing in the doorway as he gazed at your exposed sex.

“Stand up,” he commanded, a rough timbre in his voice.

You were so taken aback that you obeyed immediately, smoothing your nightgown back over your legs.

Aemond followed the movement with that piercing lilac eye of his. “Come here. To me.”

You wanted to ask why, but you could not find your voice. So instead, you were the good little wife you were raised to be, and walked around the bed to stand before him.

He quirked his head as he looked at you, stepping forward to close the gap between you. Then, he reached out to cup your chin in his large, calloused hand and lifted your head to meet his gaze.

His eye flicked down to your lips. “May I kiss you?”

You made a slight, involuntary noise of shock and disbelief. “Why?”

A flash of something you would almost identify as sadness passed over his eyes.

“You are my wife.”

“I know.”

His strong brow crumpled slightly, and he whispered your name gently. “I would very much like to kiss you.”

Only an hour ago, you would never have believed him. But he had just been vulnerable with you, admitting that his eye pained him. And he had come to you to make sure you were alright…

You nodded, the movement small and almost frantic. “You may.”

Aemond did not hesitate. He dove into you eagerly, like he had been waiting for weeks – since that first night together.

His lips were just as soft as you remembered, his skin just as warm. But the kiss was not as stiff. He paused after the initial contact, then kissed you again. He raised his other hand to cradle the back of your head, his long fingers entwining in your hair as he tilted you back to kiss you again and allow him better access to you.

The slight tug on your hair had you whining softly, your lips parting. As soon as they did, you felt something wet flick against them.

Your eyes, which you had not realized you had shut, snapped open. Aemond’s eye was closed, his brow set in concentration. Then, you felt that thing again, coaxing your lips open even further.

It was his tongue, you realized. He was using his tongue to kiss you, just as you had seen true lovers do.

A shiver ran through you, and you panicked.

“Stop!” you cried, pushing away from him.

He froze, his hand still aloft where it had just been tangling in your hair. His eye was wide with that unnamed emotion again, and he whispered your name. A plea, a question.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

Aemond shook his head, not quite understanding. “Kissing you.”

You licked your lips, still tasting him on you. “Why? You did not kiss me before. So why do you need to now?”

Now you knew that look was hurt. You, your words, and your hesitancy, it had hurt him. But he did not give you time to apologize.

“I don’t need to,” he said. “If you don’t want to. We can just… you can get on the bed.”

You nodded again and moved to take up your previous position.

“Can you…” he whispered with a wince of embarrassment as you sat. “Can you take off your nightgown? Please.”

Perhaps you would have refused if you had not felt so guilty for wounding him by asking about the kissing. But you supposed this was as good as an apology and lifted the gown over your head.

You heard Aemond inhale sharply as your breasts were revealed, nipples immediately pebbling in the cold – the fire in the bedchamber had not been lit.

Resisting the urge to cover yourself was one of the hardest things you had ever done. But you gritted your teeth and took up your position.

Hands crossed over your waist, legs apart, knees bent.

At least Aemond returned the favor, removing his shirt and trousers before joining you on the bed. He hovered over you, looking deep into your eyes for a moment, perhaps hoping you would change your mind and let him kiss you again.

But you just stared at him, waiting. You had seen his cock. He was ready. So what was he waiting for?

He gazed at your breasts briefly before sitting back on his knees between your open legs. His cock twitched slightly as he brought his eye to your sex, and he blinked slowly.

Then, Aemond laid his hand on your thigh, rubbing small, slow circles on your soft skin. The tender touch surprised you, but you could not deny it felt… good. The longer his fingers were on you, the more you felt a warm feeling of desire pool in your core.

“What are you doing?” you asked as you fought to steady your breath.

The corners of his mouth lifted into an almost smile. “What I should have done before,” he explained. “You weren’t… made ready for me. I apologize for that.”

“I don’t understand,” you whimpered as his hand drew closer to your folds, which had begun to ache with something that was not quite pain.

Aemond shook his head in what you could have sworn was shame. “You will. It will be better this time, I promise.”

You wanted to say that almost anything would be better than what he had done on your wedding night, but then his fingers reached your core, and words abandoned you.

This touch was different than it had been that night. He was more confident and sure – like he knew now what he was looking for and what he was doing.

He was gentle as he circled your entrance, the movement focused but slow. Your stomach tightened as your toes curled, but you gave no other reaction. How could you when you did not know what he was doing or what he wanted?

You were sure he wanted something. Why else would he be looking at you like that?

So, you offered him a tight smile.

It seemed to encourage him. With his index finger still stroking your entrance, his thumb climbed slowly upwards, spreading the slick that had leaked from you through your folds. The sensation was similar to, albeit less intense than, his previous ministrations.

That is, until his thumb slipped under a small hood of flushed skin at the top of your sex, and lightning shot through your every nerve. Your mouth fell open, and your back arched out of your control.

Had your eyes not been so tightly shut, you would have seen a look of utter triumph come over Aemond’s face. His thumb stayed where it was, circling that spot – that bud – slowly but firmly.

This was pleasure, you realized as the lighting crackled under your skin over and over again with every swipe. Different from what you had begun to feel when he was inside you, but pleasure all the same.

Is this what all those women had laughed about when they asked you about the bedding? They wanted to know whether you had felt this?

Your legs began to shake, and it became hard to breathe. The pleasure building and building within you began to terrify you.

It couldn’t go on like this. It couldn’t just keep growing on and on. It would become too much – it already was too much.

“Stop,” you begged when you were able to gulp in a breath. “Please.”

Aemond’s fingers immediately stilled, that look of hurt once more creasing his brow. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just wanted… did I hurt you?”

You shook your head.

“Did it… feel good?”

Gods, it had felt so good. Too good. It felt almost sinful.

But you weren’t about to admit that.

You readjusted to your original position and waited until your breathing had calmed.

“Can you just…” you licked your lips, suddenly realizing they had gone dry. “Do what you need to do? I’m quite tired.”

His hand, still braced on your thigh, tightened, then relaxed and slid away. “Of course.”

“Thank you,” you whispered as you heard the soft sounds of him pumping his cock to prepare himself.

He did not lean over you this time but remained kneeling between your legs as he gently gripped your hips and pulled you towards him. It did not hurt as much when he entered you again, though the stretching was still uncomfortable.

That same low grunting sound escaped him when he was fully sheathed within you, and he stilled for a moment.

You realized for the first time that maybe he needed that moment of adjustment as much as you did.

But then he began to move. The motion wasn’t as stiff as it had been on your wedding night – not a simply thrusting in and out, but a smooth rolling of his hips.

That other feeling of pleasure you had just begun to feel that last time came to you sooner, more intensely. Then, after one particularly deep thrust, another bolt of lightning ran through you.

A gasp escaped you, and your eyes immediately snapped to Aemond’s face.

His own eye was wide, his lips parted, and jaw slack. He smiled at you like you had just given him a present with that reaction.

Your cheeks flushed, and you turned your head away and into the pillow below you.

Aemond’s movements became more stilted after that, and it was only moments after when he stilled again, and you felt him twitch within you once more. He did not make a noise this time.

He climbed out of bed and, only after dressing again, turned back to you.

It was hard to meet his gaze.

“Can I kiss you again?” he asked softly, his tone reminiscent of a scolded child. “I won’t… I will be quick, I promise.”

Guilt crept into you at the desperation in his voice, knowing you had been its cause. You moved to the edge of the bed near him and tried to smile. “You may.”

Aemond moved haltingly as he leaned down and cupped your cheek, his touch like fire on your skin. It was almost as though he expected you to shy away, to take back your permission.

But you didn’t. And he kissed you – quickly, as he had promised. There was not a hint of his tongue.

Then he thanked you and left.

As you fell back against the pillows, you tried not to think about how you almost missed the feeling of his tongue against your lips and his thumb circling that little bud between your legs.

-

“Well, did she come?” Aegon asked the next day, without pretense, manners, or shame.

Aemond bit his lip, knowing what his brother’s response would be. “No. She asked me… to stop pleasuring her and do my marital duty.”

As expected, Aegon nearly fell out of his chair with hysterical laughter. Grand Maester Orwyle and Lord Jasper Wylde – who had both been helping Aemond understand how to better please his wife – grimaced and exchanged a look Aemond did not particularly care to interpret.

“She would rather you breed her like an animal and leave her alone than come?” Aegon barked, shaking his head. “Oh, brother, you are hopeless.”

“I respected her wishes,” Aemond hissed. “Unlike some, I do not force myself on women.”

“No, you just fuck them bone-dry.”

“She wasn’t – ” Aemond swallowed, clenching his fists behind his back to keep him from throttling his brother. “Not this time.”

Sensing the conversation was teetering dangerously close to physical blows, Lord Wylde cut in. “I think, my Prince, it is important to remember that there is a… romantic element to sex. It is not simply a function of the body, but of the heart.”

Aegon groaned.

“Lord Wylde is correct, my Prince,” Orwyle added. “It may do you some good to try and woo her before taking her to bed again. A learned technique can only accomplish so much if she does not crave your touch to begin with.”

“And what would you know about it?” Aegon asked the Grand Maester. “Haven’t you taken a vow of virginity?”

Orwyle’s face remained as impassive as stone. “I have, my Prince. But stimulating arousal, and even orgasm, in women has many medicinal uses. It can have great effect in treating hysteria and melancholy, and even easing the pain of birthing labors, to name a few.”

Aegon’s eyes narrowed. “Did you… have you made Helaena come? Seven hells, have you fingered my wife, Orwyle?”

The Maester said nothing, and that was answer enough.

But before Aegon could say anything more – no one was sure whether he would be offended or impressed – Aemond stepped forward, extending his hands before him as if he could grab the answer to his question.

“I do not know how,” he gritted out.

Neither Orwyle nor Wylde had an answer for him.

Aegon examined his brother and suddenly saw how genuinely desperate he was. The tension in his every muscle leaving him practically trembling before them. The way he refused to meet any of their eyes. And the slight flush on his cheeks.

“Aemond,” he started, all amusement banished from his face. “Do you… love her?”

The One-Eyed Prince looked as though he might cry. Or snap and kill them all. It could be either. Perhaps both.

“She…” he whispered, blinking rapidly as he searched for the words, his silver tongue failing him. “She is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. She is soft, and gentle, and kind. And when I went to her chambers last night…”

He broke off and laughed slightly. Then nodded his head like he had found his answer. “She was reading my favorite book.”

The three other men glanced at each other, exchanging raised brows and wide eyes.

It was Lord Wylde who finally spoke. “You have common ground then, my Prince. That is a good place to start.”

HUMAN

“𝗙𝗼𝗿 𝗯𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮 𝗰𝗼𝗰𝗸𝘆, 𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗯𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗷𝗲𝗿𝗸…𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝘀𝘁.”

        “𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗯𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮 𝘀𝘁𝘂𝗰𝗸-𝘂𝗽, 𝗻𝗮𝗿𝗰𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗰 𝗽𝘀𝘆𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗽𝗮𝘁𝗵…𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘁𝗼𝗼 𝗯𝗮𝗱 𝗲𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿.”

      Myrah Koor was a mystery. She worked alone and she worked hard. For a while, she was the best bounty hunter the Guild had ever seen. At least, until a certain Mandalorian came along.       After a small hostage situation, the two team up to find the bounty of a lifetime… twice.       Traveling the galaxy, the unlikely pair takes down enemies, saves the day, and makes a few friends along the way.

𝗗𝗶𝗻 𝗗𝗷𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗻/𝗠𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗮𝗹𝗼𝗿𝗶𝗮𝗻 𝘅 𝗢𝗖 𝗔 (𝘀𝗼𝗿𝘁 𝗼𝗳) 𝗦𝘁𝗮𝗿 𝗪𝗮𝗿𝘀 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆

          I am not in association with Disney or Lucas Films. The only thing I have the rights to are my characters and their stories. There may be some alterations here and there, but overall, this follows the general plot to the first season of Disney’s, The Mandalorian.

          As always, I would love to hear comments and recommendations. Your guys’ opinions make my day (and my writing) better.

          Enjoy Human! :)

𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘂𝗲 | 𝗼𝗻𝗲 | 𝘁𝘄𝗼 | 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲 | 𝗳𝗼𝘂𝗿 | 𝗳𝗶𝘃𝗲 | 𝘀𝗶𝘅 | 𝘀𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻 | 𝗲𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 | 𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗲 | 𝘁𝗲𝗻 | 𝗲𝗹𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻 | 𝘁𝘄𝗲𝗹𝘃𝗲 | 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗻 | 𝗳𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗻 | 𝗳𝗶𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗻 | 𝘀𝗶𝘅𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗻 | 𝘀𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗻 | 𝗲𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗻 | 𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗻 | 𝘁𝘄𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘆 | 𝘁𝘄𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘆-𝗼𝗻𝗲 | 𝘁𝘄𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘆-𝘁𝘄𝗼 | 𝘁𝘄𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘆-𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲 | 𝘁𝘄𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘆-𝗳𝗼𝘂𝗿 | 𝘁𝘄𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘆-𝗳𝗶𝘃𝗲 | 𝘁𝘄𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘆-𝘀𝗶𝘅 | 𝘁𝘄𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘆-𝘀𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻 | 𝘁𝘄𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘆-𝗲𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 | 𝘁𝘄𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘆-𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗲 | 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗿𝘁𝘆 | 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗿𝘁𝘆-𝗼𝗻𝗲 | 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗿𝘁𝘆-𝘁𝘄𝗼 | 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗿𝘁𝘆-𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲 | 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗿𝘁𝘆-𝗳𝗼𝘂𝗿 | 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗿𝘁𝘆-𝗳𝗶𝘃𝗲 | 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗿𝘁𝘆-𝘀𝗶𝘅 |

frankie morales must learn to navigate life outside of the one he’s known for more than two decades when he moves to a small, quiet neighborhood in an attempt to assimilate into civilian life. all the familiar faces, all the structure, all the horrors he knew before – none of it exists inside the suburban, white-picket fence fantasy he’s begun to shape for himself. hours are long, days are painful, and he doesn’t think he’s ever going to be able to do it – at least, not until he sees her. her, the married woman in the home across from his, living the same white-picket fantasy he is. her, the woman who gets it. her.

warnings/tags: language, mentions of violence and drugs, smut, angst. frankie morales x female nameless oc word count: 3k+ ( ongoing )

chapter one: old habits die hard

ao3 link | taglist form | general masterlist | spotify playlist

Isthereanypossibilityofdoingaslightspankingficforoneofpedroscharactersplease?

***Sooooooo this turned into something waaaaaayyyy different than I had originally planned. I literally thought of this in my sleep last night.

Punishment

The rumors that The Red Viper had taken a wife had swirled around King’s Landing, disbelief being met with every retelling. The man was known as free love advocate. Traveled with his paramour and openly acknowledged the eight bastard daughters birthed to him with no recourse from his family. King Baratheon and his wife Cersei, dismissed the rumors as idle gossip.

Until that day when the ship that bore the glad of a red sun pierced by a golden spear docked, and Prince Oberyn lead his lady wife, Y/N Mormont, down the gangway of the ship.

“By the Gods, he did marry.” Robert Baratheon gawked as the Dornishman tucked her arm into the crook of his elbow and sauntered over to the greeting party.

The golden haired queen seethed at the beauty as they drew closer. “Probably just another one of his whores. Trying to gain favor with Dorne of all places.” She spat.

“Woman, you will hold that cursed tongue of yours.” Robert growled as he stepped forward, the thunderous look on his face fading away as he greeted the second son of House Martell with enthusiasm.

“Oberyn! I see the news of your marriage has not been mistaken. And to such a pretty lass.” He boomed, his hulking frame shaking as he came forward to embrace the Prince, clapping him on the back.

Turning to Y/N the King’s eyes flittered over her with hunger. “At one time, her father wanted me to marry her you know?” He held her hand while she curtsied and brought it to his hips for a kiss. “But Tywin convinced me that Cersei was to be the next Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Had the resources for the burgeoning army I led.”

Y/N Mormont was breathtakingly beautiful. Rich black hair tumbled down her back in loose curls. The emerald green eyes a shocking contrast. While on Bear Island, she had skin the color of fresh milk, pale and white. The sun and sand of Dorne had been good to her, making her skin honeyed and giving her a more exotic look that made the display of skin from her light dress even more tantalizing.

Cersei flushed as she gritted her teeth in anger. The insults her husband doled out just adding to the mocking smile the Prince shot her.

“Yes, well the Lannister’s always believe their golden lions made them better than everyone else.” The smooth accented voice was deadly like the spear he wielded in battle. “But gold is a cold and ridged spouse.”

Y/N’s eyes flashed in amusement as the King laughed at the veiled insult. The red mottled face of the Queen let her know that the devious woman would be seeking some sort of punishment for her perceived embarrassment.

****

Dinner was an affair that was quickly spiraling out of control. The King and Queen were very generous in the numerous cups of wine they imbibed. The sharp tongue of the woman growing more bold with every cup poured.

Y/N watched as she leaned back in her chair, newest drink her her hand as the barbs rolled off her tongue.

“Is House Mormont so destitute that you needed to trade yourself to Dorne?” She slurred slightly, her eyes narrowed in wicked glee.

Oberyn’s hand was on her knee, gently stroking the inside with his thumb. While they had retired to their rooms to freshen up, they had both agreed that Cersei would try to ignite their anger. But she didn’t understand, could never understand the bond that had formed between the pair.

“My family house is in good hands with Lady Lyanna leading it. I felt after the betrayal of my brother, my cousin would be better trusted by the throne. So it left me free to pursue other interests.” Y/N said as she picked out a plump grape from the bowl on the table before them and turned to slip it between her husband’s lips.

Cersei sneered, her lip curling viciously as she spat. “Orgies?”

Emerald green eyes snapped over to the blonde. Fire flashed in her eyes as she ignored the silent warning Oberyn gave her. Y/N was less skilled in veiling her insults, more blunt than a princess should be.

“Love. Something you would know little of. Perhaps if you did, your bed wouldn’t be cold.” Y/N shot back, aiming directly for the chink in the Queen’s armor. Everyone knew of the hushed rumors. The King having spent far more time with tavern wenches and whores than in Cersei’s bed.

Silence fell over the room as Y/N cursed herself inside. As much as she knew that Oberyn has enjoyed her barb, she had overstepped. Publicly insulting the Queen in such as brash manner had been reckless. People had lost their heads for less.

Blazing eyes turned towards the King, who sat with his mouth slightly open in surprise. “You will allow your wife, your Queen, to be treated so?” She ground out scathingly. “How far we have fallen. Soon enough there will be insults by every subject in the kingdom.”

Oberyn tensed next to Y/N. He knew what game she was playing. Even if they had not love for one another, Cersei could manipulate the vanity of the king exceedingly well. His reputation for being a leader was now being calling into question by a returned volley on an insult that had first been lobbed at his wife.

“Robert, if I may?” He interjected with an idle wave of his hand, trying to signify the menial impact of the situation. “In Dorne, we have very effective methods for dealing with a, shall we say, bratty wife.”

Dark eyes raked over her, Y/N lowering her head to stare at the hands folded in her lap. Looking for all appearances, a meek and submissive wife. Even as she chewed the inside of her lip to keep from smirking as Oberyn’s deft fingers inched higher under her dress.

A raucous laugh rang through the dining hall. “By the Gods, that’s what they are, aren’t they? Bratty wives. If they were our soldiers, we could just beat the hell out of them.” Robert thumped his hand down on the table with a loud belch. “But the Maesters say that it’s a bad example to set for the Kingdom, even if it would provide some peace from the harping.”

The dark haired prince joined in his laughter, his fingers rubbing circles on the inside of his wife’s thigh. A comfort and a message that he was playing his part. He despised everything about the ways of the North, from the way they treated people under their protection to the prudish ways they felt about love.

“What is this method you use?” Robert asked, reaching for his cup again.

He leaned back and pierced the King with a mild look. “If they wish to act like children, then our wives are treated as such. A spanking to remind them of their place in the world.” He casually threw out.

Only Y/N knew of the rigidity of his fingers, digging into the soft flesh of her skin. They were there to ease the tensions between Sunspear and King’s Landing. Robert’s reaction to Oberyn’s veiled suggestion would be the deciding factor on if those tensions increased. For she knew that The Red Viper would let no man touch what he considered his. And Y/N was most certainly his most prized possession in that regard.

The king sputtered for a moment before braying loudly. “PERFECT!” He shouted. “It’s settled. Y/N will receive her punishment and we will forget this ever-“

“Publicly.” Cersei called out, malicious glint in her eyes.

“Woman” Robert growled lowly, a warning.

Oberyn held up a hand. “But of course. After all, public humiliation requires a public punishment.”

He looked to the king, who rocked his jaw for a moment before nodding, signaling he agreed. It would shut the harpy up, and he could keep the thin shreds of his temper in check.

Y/N made a show of blushing as he pushed back his chair. The normal severe countenance of his face made the Queen believe that he was furious with his wife, but Y/N could see the humor dancing in his dark orbs. This wasn’t something that was unfamiliar to them. She acted reluctant as she dropped herself over the expanse of his thighs, feeling his arm brace across her back for stability.

The thin material of her gauzy dress slid up the back of her thighs, uncovering the swell of her rounded cheeks. Cersei scoffed at the fact that Lady Martell was bare under her dress, while her husband grunted in a reluctant amusement.

Rough hands, so familiar on her skin caressed the rounded flesh. She felt the quick squeeze, the playful grope before his stern voice rang out. “Count them out.”

A sharp crack was heard throughout the room as his palm came down against her ass.

“One!” Her surprised cry was loud.

The second blow was delivered to the opposite cheek, just as much force as the first strike. Y/N jolted on her husband’s lap.

“Two!” She sounded breathless, pained.

Strike after strike was reigned down on her sensitive skin. Her ass cheeks growing rosey and imprinted with the fingermarks of Oberyn’s large hands. Her cries made them think that she was enduring a horrible punishment, bit out with groans.

“Ten!” She whimpered.

Oberyn’s hand rested on the warm skin, while he looked to the king. Cersei was wide eyed as she saw Robert nodding in approval, a dark scowl crossing her face before she hid it behind her wine goblet.

Y/N squirmed a bit on his lap, looking uncomfortable but seeking the single finger that had slithered between her thighs to test the slickness that had grown there. She could feel his cock pulse against her stomach as the finger curled into the warmth.

Robert braced his hands on the table. “She will think twice before insulting her betters again.” He commented.

Y/N’s jaw clenched but she didn’t look up.

Her husband drew the layers of her skirts back over her ass before answering. “You are well aware of how fair ladies can be. I regret to say that we should retire so that Y/N can recover.” The lie rolled smoothly off his tongue.

Waving his hand, the King dismissed them. “Yes, I’m sure she would have trouble sitting that red little ass on the most comfortable of cushions right now.”

They stood swiftly and exited the hall. Y/N bolting for the hallway that lead to their chambers. Oberyn caught her hand to drag her back to him, pushing her up against the pillar, his mouth raking over hers lustfully.

“When we get back to our chamber, I’m going to fuck that wet cunt until Robert believes that spanking made you walk with a limp tomorrow.” He growled, biting at her lower lips harshly.

Y/N groaned as she reached between them to cup her husband’s cock. “Then hurry up so you can really punish me.”

“More like reward you for so wickedly insulting that bitch.”

She giggled as the Prince of Dorne grabbed her hand and sprinted down the hallway of the castle, bound for their chambers and a lustful night. She was already dripping wet from his spanking and now craved his cock.

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Addicted to You

Part 1: The Chain

Summary/Author’s Note: As the sister of veteran turned freelance for hire Santiago “Pope” Garcia, you grew up close to his friends and ex-military squad. Frankie Morales always had your heart, in the same way you always had his–the two of you just never seemed to get the timing right. Trying to escape the violence of a military career based family, you turned to journalism and humanitarian work in war torn countries. But three days ago your crew was ambushed and after three days without any contact, Pope is getting the guys back together for a rescue mission. (Follows Canon events very closely with added character and liberties) Thank you to @winters-buck for headcanoning with me about Frankie and getting me pumped up enough to write this.

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Pope’s sister!Reader Word Count: 4.6k (idk what happened…) Warnings/rating: (NC-17)/18+ Language, smoking, implied drug use, PTSD, sex/smut, kidnapping, blood, violence, threats, fluff and feelings

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