#Indigo wants to catch her

[fancytigercupcake]

Comic

Episode 2/?

Emma oc × Indigo

Page 16/29

English × Czech

[jadeazora]

I think Drayton is a charismatic guy and like how manipulative he is in trying to get the player to help fix the whole Kieran situation, but some of his lines make me wanna take Carmine's advice and give him that Sucker Punch 👊😠

[dearorphic]

[roosterforme]

Aim for the Sky Part 33 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley can't wait to learn if Rose is going to have a younger brother or sister. Planning for the baby means planning for the future, but Bradley can feel that you're unhappy. With help from friends, he finally figures out why.

Warnings: Angst, adult language, body image, DILF Roo, pregnancy, jealousy, vomiting

Length: 3500 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

Aim for the Sky masterlist. This was written to accompany my series Is It Working For You? along with a bunch of my one-shots and other series, but it can be read on its own! Check my masterlist for the reading order.

You'd been quiet for days, chalking it up to exhaustion from work, but Bradley was a little concerned. He was missing out on a lot of cooking and cleaning at home, as well as responsibilities with Rose. Most days, he was collapsing in bed right after you, body tired and brain overworked. But he was close to advancing a few of his pilots to the next stage in their careers, and he didn't want to let up just yet.

Truthfully, he was enjoying many aspects of his day-to-day at work. He loved making decisions that would benefit his group. When he had a compelling answer for his superior officers, it made him feel so good about himself. He didn't even mind putting in the extra hours. But it was clear that Indigo wanted to be his class pet, and he wasn't quite sure what to do about that.

She was weighing on his mind a lot, most likely because she was constantly invading his office hours. He wanted to tell her she didn't have to try so hard to be the best aviator in the bunch when she just simply was the best one. But that would be feeding her ego, which probably wasn't the smartest option right now.

"Are you ready?"

Bradley looked up from his desk to see you standing there, and he jumped to his feet. "Of course I'm ready," replied with a smile, pushing all of his paperwork to the side and logging out of his computer. "Been looking forward to this."

You smiled softly, hand resting on the slight swell of your belly as you shifted your weight from one booted foot to the other. "Me too," you whispered, and Bradley grabbed his keys, wallet and phone from his desk drawer. He reached for your hand, lacing his fingers between yours and headed out into the sunny October afternoon.

"Time for our final guesses," you said. "Do you think it's a boy or another girl?"

Bradley looked down at your face, the perfect curve of your cheek catching the sunlight. You were beautiful. Every bit as stunning as the day he first laid eyes on you in one of the classrooms he passed on a regular basis. "Sweetheart, if there's anything good or just in this world, it better be another girl. Then I'd have three of you to look at."

"Rose looks like you, Bradley!" you insisted immediately, breaking out in the biggest smile he'd seen on your face in weeks. 

"Rose looks like you. Everyone thinks so. She's adorable." He pulled you to a stop and leaned down to kiss your cheek. "And her face already has this exact curve that I'm fucking obsessed with." 

Bradley let his lips linger, loving the way your cheek warmed as you stepped all the way into his embrace. You seemed on the verge of telling him something or asking a question, your posture never quite relaxing. He'd noticed that recently. Like you couldn't let yourself completely go with him like you always did. He wanted to ask you what was going on, but he was more than willing to wait until you were ready to say something on your own.

"We'll be late if we don't get a move on," you whispered. Bradley responded by kissing along your cheek to your lips. "I'm serious, Roo," you mumbled.

"Let's go," he sighed. "Dr. Morris already thinks I'm an idiot. I better not add tardiness to her list of complaints about me."

A short drive later, and the two of you were walking into the waiting room right on time. You barely sat down before a nurse was calling you back and handing you a hospital gown.

"It's weird without Rose here," you said as you got undressed. Bradley held out the gown for you to slip into, shaking his head.

"Nah. This is just for us. She can hear all about it later after work."

He was just about to close the distance to stop you from tying the gown closed so he could get another look at you, but Dr. Morris strolled in.

"How are we all doing?" she asked, shooting Bradley a look on her way past. It wasn't like he was capable of knocking you up again, but she was looking at him like he might have.

"Fantastic," he replied at the same time you said, "Okay."

He shot you a look as you eased yourself up on the table. He wasn't sure what he could do to make you happier. A conversation was clearly necessary now, but he didn't even know how to initiate it. If finding out more about the second Nugget today wasn't enough to make you smile, he didn't know what was.

He dropped down into the chair at your side, wrapping his big hand around yours as Dr. Morris spread that warm gel across your belly and asked you an array of questions. He listened to your answers as his heart beat a little faster. He was excited about this. Soon you could talk about baby names and nursery themes. He couldn't wait to meet his second child in the spring. 

Bradley kissed your fingertips, watching intently as your doctor isolated some ultrasound images. Then she asked, "Do you want to find out the sex?"

"Fuck yes," Bradley gasped, scooting his chair a little closer. "I mean, please."

You and Dr. Morris were both wearing smirks as he squeezed your hand. He was so excited, it was hard to swallow. He didn't care if it was a boy or a girl. He felt the same way last time around, too. He just wanted a healthy kid he could dote on.

"It's a girl."

He was up out of his seat, sending the thing screeching across the floor as he hooted. Okay, so maybe he did have a bit of a preference for another daughter, but he would have been happy either way.

"Another girl!" he shouted while you smiled up at him. "Just me and my three beautiful girls."

Bradley let his lips collide with yours, kissing you until he got his fill. Dr. Morris and the rest of the ultrasound and everything else could just wait a few minutes while he soaked in this pure perfection.

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

Bradley had been inundating your text thread for days with links to various nursery themes, but meanwhile you and he hadn't even decided which room would be your second daughter's.

"A second daughter," you whispered at your desk. Your parents were excited; you got to watch your mom and dad cry over FaceTime. Rose was too young to care, but one day she might have an opinion about her sister. You, on the other hand, felt like a mixed bag of emotions.

You wanted to be happy. You really did. But it was too hard. Somehow letting your sadness ebb and flow was easier. Especially whenever you ventured too far away from your lab or your office. Indigo was always around. It was like she knew were to find you. And perhaps she did. Your name was in the directories around base. But it felt like she was mocking you. She obviously wanted your husband, and he was either oblivious or hiding something.

When you managed to let your intrusive thoughts win out, you checked his phone only to find pretty much nothing untoward. Other than ruining the surprise of what was probably supposed to be an anniversary gift, all you found was one unanswered message Indigo sent to him a while ago. It bordered on flirtatious, and you were a little concerned that he gave her his phone number, but there was really nothing there.

But she was in your face on base enough that you kept to your office as much as you could. Of course, today was the day you were absolutely starving, and you left your lunch at home. You could pop down to the cafeteria, grab a sandwich to appease yourself and the baby, and then bring it back up here to eat it. Should be a piece of cake.

Hot turkey sandwiches were on the menu, and you almost cried tears of joy as you had one packed up in a container with extra gravy and a side of mashed potatoes. It smelled so good, you couldn't wait to take a bite. 

When you were waiting for the elevator, you froze with your lunch in your hands. You could see Indigo and Spice heading out of the cafeteria, and there was hardly anyone in the lobby for you to try to hide behind. You felt absolutely ridiculous as you stood there eavesdropping.

"What kind of progress have you made?" Spice asked, voice carrying over the sound of conversation around you.

Indigo smiled and laughed, showing off her perfect teeth. "Well, I can't give you details here, but... it's no wonder he's willing to spend so much time with me after hours. Anyone with eyes can see his wife let herself go this time around." Your cheeks burned as she added, "He's more than happy to help me with absolutely anything I need."

You sucked in a deep breath, certain she was talking about Bradley. And you. When the elevator arrived you ducked inside, jamming your finger against the button for your floor. As the doors slid shut, Indigo's gaze connected with yours, and she stood there proudly with her friend like she'd actually managed to steal Bradley from you.

A sob escaped your lips, and you tripped along to your office door. You really did look awful. Your skin was broken out, and you were going to need to start wearing the maternity tent well before your third trimester. Your belly was already tender, and then the baby decided this was the perfect moment to kick hard enough you thought you were going to wet your khakis.

"She's right," you whispered, tossing your lunch onto your desk and running for the bathroom. One glance in the mirror as you ran for an empty stall left you sobbing in the ladies' room. You looked awful. It was no wonder Bradley was paying extra attention to her. The fear that looking at Indigo had already turned into touching her was eating away at you. When you flushed the toilet, you turned and gagged before emptying the meager contents of your stomach into the bowl.

When you finally made it back to your office, your stomach couldn't handle a single bite of food. You dumped it in the trash.

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

Bradley was just wrapping up a meeting with Maverick when Indigo cornered him outside his office. "Can I help you with something?" he asked, trying to keep the amusement from his voice. She was getting to be relentless.

As she shook her head slowly, she laughed. "I already told you, Sir, I can think of countless things you could help me with."

"Well why don't you run some of them past me?"

Her eyes widened as she licked her lips. "We could do that at the Hard Deck? I could still buy you that drink?"

Bradley sighed, hands planted on his hips which somehow drew her in closer. "I can't let any of you buy me drinks. Sorry, but that's not going to happen." He nodded toward his door. "But I have about fifteen minutes if there's something I can help you with."

She nodded. "Fifteen minutes would probably be more than enough, Sir."

Indigo stepped inside his office, glancing back at him over her shoulder, but Bradley saw another familiar face turn the corner in the hallway.

"Hey, there, hot shot," said Natasha, making Bradley smile. "You have a minute?"

"Actually, no," he replied, watching as his best friend looked inside to see who was waiting for him. She made a face, gaze snapping back to his. "Can it wait until later?"

Nat pressed her lips together like she was fighting off a scowl. "I wanted to see if you were free to workout with me later," she whispered. "I could stop by after dinner, and we could do some reps in your garage?"

"Absolutely," he replied. "See you around seven?"

"Yeah." 

She took one more look at Indigo before marching back the way she came, leaving Bradley with nothing to do but take a seat behind his desk.

"Do you want me to close the door?" Indigo asked, voice laced with hope as she half stood.

"Leave it," Bradley replied, once again showing no hint of favoritism. "Now, what did you want to talk about?"

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

After dinner, you excused yourself to Rose's nursery to feed her and make a phone call to your parents. Bradley kissed you on the forehead before doubling back to the bedroom to change into gym clothes. When he let you know Nat was coming over to workout in the garage, you seemed almost relieved.

He started setting up his weights and bench press when he heard the sound of a familiar engine pull up to the house. A minute later, Nat was strolling in wearing bright pink spandex with a matching gym bag. 

"I could spot you a mile away," he told her, and she chucked her bag at his chest. They both laughed when he caught it.

"You know what I can see a mile away?" she asked.

"What?"

"The word dumbass written across your forehead."

He rolled his eyes, dropping her bag onto one of the mats. Then he froze as he heard another engine pull up to a stop at his driveway. This one made him glare at Nat.

"Why is he here?" Bradley asked, and a split second later, Jake came strolling in like he owned the place. 

Nat and Jake shared a look as Jake tossed his gym bag next to hers. "I thought I might need some backup."

Now Bradley was annoyed and also confused. "Backup? For what?"

Natasha closed the distance to him, patting Bradley on the chest with a firm hand. Her dark eyes conveyed concern as she asked, "Are you fucking stupid? Or are you doing it on purpose?"

"Huh?"

"I love you, Bradley. I really do. But I still have to follow girl code."

"Nat, I have no fucking clue what you're talking about."

The clanging of Jake adding weights to the bar made Bradley want to scream as Nat shook her head in pity.

"She wants in your pants," Jake drawled.

"Who?" Bradley asked, still unsure what they were even talking about.

"Your student with the crazy blue eyes!" Nat said, smacking him hard on the chest.

"Indigo?" Bradley asked, taking a step away from her. Both Nat and Jake were nodding as Bradley's brow creased. "She's like twenty-six years old."

"So?" Nat asked, hands planted on her hips.

"So, she's not trying to get in my pants. I'm married. Everyone knows I'm married."

Bradley held up his left hand, complete with wedding band. He rarely ever took it off, especially since it got him into hot water with you when he was deployed. But as he watched the band shine under the fluorescent lights, his lips parted wordlessly, and he stood there while both Nat and Jake scrutinized him.

If Indigo had been flirting with him this whole time, he'd written her off as an overzealous young pilot trying to prove herself. Now every interaction replayed through his mind, and he rubbed his palm over his eyes as he groaned. There was no way this was happening to him. He'd been alone with her on several occasions in his office. The door always remained open, but she'd pushed for him to close it.

Bradley's cheeks burned with mortification, and he wasn't sure he could even look Nat in the face. If Indigo really was trying to get in his pants, then he was a joke. He was an absolute joke, and none of the younger pilots took him seriously in his new role. That thought made him sick, but not as sick as the idea that maybe you'd noticed something as well.

Bradley swallowed hard. "Oh, fuck." When he swallowed again, he wanted to scream.

"Okay, there's my answer," Nat whispered, wrapping her fingers gently around his wrist and pulling his hand away from his face. She pressed herself up onto her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. "Thank god you're just stupid. It would be so much worse if you were messing around with her intentionally."

"I'm not," he barked, angry at the insinuation. "I wouldn't. I've never even touched her!"

Nat's hands were on his chest, coaxing him to calm down, but he was too worked up. "Easy, Soul Sister," she said, but he was shaking his head now.

"I'm fucking married, Nat! I made wedding vows. I have a daughter, and my wife is pregnant with another girl. What the fuck would I cheat for? What's going to be better than this?"

Bradley's chest was heaving with ragged breaths as she guided him to sit on his bench. He landed hard, jostling the weights as he looked up at two sympathetic faces.

"Nothing's gonna be better than Angel," Jake drawled. "I'm still not sure if it was dumb luck or divine intervention, but she's way out of your league, Bradshaw."

"I know," Bradley snarled. "You think I don't know that? She's fucking perfect." He tilted his head back, blinking up at the lights. "Do you think she knows Indigo was trying to flirt with me?"

"Absolutely," Nat replied, and Bradley forced himself to meet her eyes.

"Yes, asshole," Jake added. "She's not stupid like you are."

"Fuck." Bradley stood and started pacing around. He felt like his job and marriage were suddenly on the line. He didn't know what to say to you that wouldn't potentially make things worse right now. If he could think of something reasonable, he'd run across the yard and back inside the house and say it to your face.

Maybe this was part of the reason you'd been so quiet? But it didn't make sense. He never talked about Indigo outside of the context of work, because there was simply nothing else to say. But after that night at the bar, you were really fucking mad at him. He thought you were mad that he got drunk, but maybe there was more to it.

"God damn it," he groaned, realizing Nat was lifting weights while Jake spotted her. "Do you think I should talk to Mav tomorrow?"

"Yes," they both replied in unison. The fact that they agreed on something was scary enough, but that let Bradley know just how fucked he was.

But he would take care of everything. He'd talk to Mav and figure it all out. What other choice did he have? 

"I'm heading inside," he murmured. "Can the two of you turn off the lights and lock up when you're done."

Bradley didn't wait for an answer. He was already walking across the backyard, craving your reassuring touch that he wasn't quite sure he deserved. When his phone vibrated in the pocket of his shorts, he pulled it out. He was met with another text from Indigo, but this time there was a photo as well. She was on the beach at sunset, the orange and pink sky somehow making her eyes look even more startlingly blue, and she was smiling at the camera. When his eyes slid down the screen to her cleavage, he almost dropped his phone. But not before he read the text.

This beach is so beautiful. Wish you were here.

Bradley couldn't decide what to do. Turn around and go back to the garage? Go inside the house? Sit down on Rose's jungle gym and cry? Smash his phone to bits? When another text appeared, he looked at it immediately.

Oops, I sent that to the wrong person. Have a good night, Sir.

Bradley squeezed his phone in his hand until he was afraid it might break. Then he opened a different text thread and pounded out a message, hitting send immediately. 

Mav, I need to talk to you about something important first thing in the morning.

When Bradley noticed movement, he looked up at the sliding glass door. You were carrying Rose around the living room, bouncing her in your arms as you yawned. Getting the Nugget ready for bed was supposed to be his job. He loved it. The bedtime stories and the snuggles were the best part. He needed to have this.

Finally he walked inside, sliding the door closed quietly behind him, trying not to panic. Rose was nearly asleep, but you let him take her into his arms. Bradley kissed her all over her sweet face before forfeiting her to her crib, then he climbed in bed with you. When he reached for your hand, you curled up against him, and he let his hand rest along your belly.

"I love you, Sweetheart," he whispered, heart aching. "I love my three girls."

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

Start getting your shit together, Bradley. Indigo has shown she's relentless. Also, I thought I was solid on the baby's name, but I might put it to a vote. Stay tuned. Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 34

@hotch-meeeeeuppppp

@solacestyles

@blog-name6996

@bcon24

@avada-kedavra-bitch-187

@katiebby04

@marantha

@averyhotchner

@abaker74

@heli991113

@k-k0129

@noz4a2

@shanimallina87

@ccbb2222

@xoxabs88xox

@thedroneranger

@cherrycola27

@fanboyswhore9

@xomrsalliej4787xo

@desert-fern

@horseslovers2016

@mattyskies

@hookslove1592

@blahehblah

@sadpetalsstuff

@local-spidey

@schoollover

@lex-winchester

@nicole01-23

@jessicab1991

@happyrebelruins

@samsgoddess

@bellaireland1981

@sagittarius-flowerchild

@mygyn

@yuckosworld

@daggerspare-standingby

@nessjo

@trickphotography2

@lyn-js

@furiousladyking

@godsfavoritebabe

@bethabear12

@halo-mystic

@sherlockstrangewolf

@theamuz

@khaylin27

@glenpowellluver

[novaursa]

The Cost of Fire

- Summary: The conclusion of the Dance. Where Gwayne and the reader married under watchful eyes of the Seven.

- Paring: targ!reader/Gwanye Hightower

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is younger sister of Rhaenyra, was bonded with Silverwing. These events happen right after Where Honor Burns. If you want to read all parts before this in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top. This is the final part of this series. That being said, it doesn't mean there will not be separate works posted that are reader/Gwayne themed.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 4 299

- Tag(s): @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @holdingforgeneralhugs @sachaa-ff

The Sept is quiet, save for the murmured prayers of Septon Eustace. The light of a dozen flickering candles dances across the stone walls, casting long shadows as you stand beside Gwayne Hightower, your hands tightly clasped together. His touch is warm and reassuring, but the gravity of the moment hangs heavily in the air. This wedding is not grand; it is far from the dreams of princesses and noble ladies. Still, for you and Gwayne, it is enough—a small sliver of peace amidst the ruins of war. The words of the Septon flow through the chapel, sanctifying a union that has been long denied, long awaited.

You chance a glance at Gwayne as Septon Eustace speaks the final vows. His eyes are on you, soft and brimming with a tenderness that you hadn’t known you longed for until now. In his gaze, there is no regret, no fear—only the promise of something different, something better than what you have known. He mouths your name softly as the Septon pronounces you husband and wife. When the time comes for him to kiss you, it is gentle, his lips lingering just a moment longer as if savoring the taste of something long forbidden and precious. For a brief instant, it is just the two of you in that small Sept, the world beyond forgotten.

But the world does not forget you.

The doors to the Sept creak open as you and Gwayne step out, hand in hand. The air is thick with tension, colder than it should be, and it prickles at your skin. Otto Hightower stands at the foot of the steps, his eyes narrow as he takes in the sight of his son beside you. There is a hardness to his gaze, a judgment that has yet to be spoken but lingers between you all. Alicent is beside him, her hands clasped in prayer as if she’s hoping the gods will deliver some miracle to mend what remains broken.

“Father,” Gwayne says, his voice cutting through the chill.

Otto’s gaze sharpens. “You’ve married a traitor who crippled your King,” he replies coolly, his words laced with venom, though his voice remains calm. “This will not save us from the bloodshed to come.”

Gwayne straightens, the steel in his tone unmistakable. “It is done. I stand by my wife and our family.”

Before Otto can retort, the blaring of horns slices through the air, causing heads to turn skyward. Your heart seizes in your chest as a shadow ripples over the courtyard. Merothrax, sleek and deadly, his wings slicing through the clouds, circles thrice above the Sept before descending. The air hums with the sound of his wings beating against the sky, a warning in every gust of wind he sends tearing through the grounds below. The dragon's indigo scales shimmer, streaks of silver catching the sunlight as he twists in the air with a grace that belies his size.

When Merothrax finally lands, the stone steps of the Sept crack beneath the weight of his claws. The ground shudders as his tail swipes across the rubble, a low growl rumbling from deep within his chest. Vaeron, your son, dismounts with the ease of one born in the saddle, his blue eyes gleaming as he surveys the scene below. The Kingsguard react immediately, swords drawn as they move to surround him.

“Hold!” Gwayne’s voice booms with authority, making even the Kingsguard hesitate. His grip tightens on your hand as he steps forward, positioning himself between you and the threat. “Any man who dares raise a blade to my son will answer to me.”

Otto’s eyes flash with anger. “That boy just desecrated the Sept with his dragon’s claws!” he snaps, his voice harsh with barely concealed fury. “Does he think himself above gods and men alike?”

Before Gwayne can respond, you step forward, your voice cold and unwavering. “He is a dragon, Lord Otto. He answers to neither gods nor men.”

The defiance in your tone sends a ripple of unease through those gathered. You see the way Otto’s eyes narrow, his jaw tightening as he weighs his next words. Alicent’s hand rises to her chest as if she might speak another prayer, but she remains silent, her eyes flicking from you to Vaeron, studying the boy—no, the young man—who now stands before her. She has not seen him since he was a babe cradled in your arms, and now he stands tall, a rider of Merothrax, with your fire in his blood and Gwayne’s resolve in his bones.

For a moment, the tension is suffocating, the silence heavy with unspoken threats. But then Alicent speaks, her voice soft yet firm. “We are not here to fight,” she says, her eyes lingering on Vaeron. “The war has taken too much already.”

Otto’s lips press into a thin line, but he swallows his anger, his eyes flicking between you, Gwayne, and Vaeron. He does not bow his head, but there is a begrudging acceptance in his gaze. “The boy has power,” he concedes quietly, though there is no warmth in his tone. “Power that may yet be of use—if he can be controlled.”

Vaeron steps forward, his gaze fixed on Otto, and the shadows seem to deepen around him as Merothrax rumbles behind him. “I am no one’s pawn,” he states firmly. The certainty in his voice leaves no room for doubt, his defiance a mirror of yours. “And neither is my mother.”

You smile faintly at the pride in your son’s words, a rare moment of victory amidst the mire of this bitter world. Gwayne’s hand finds yours once more, a silent reassurance that you will face whatever comes together. 

Otto watches the scene with thinly veiled calculation, but as he turns to walk away, you catch the barest flicker of doubt in his eyes. Whether it is fear, respect, or something else entirely, you cannot tell. But as Alicent follows him, her gaze lingers on Vaeron one last time, as if she sees a glimmer of hope—or a threat—that might one day change the course of all their schemes.

And as Merothrax’s low growl echoes through the courtyard, you know that the game has shifted, and your place within it is no longer one to be overlooked.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep is bathed in the warm glow of flickering torches. Though it lacks the splendor and grandiosity of past celebrations, tonight’s feast is still an occasion. Gwayne had insisted on it—an attempt to stitch together what remains of your family, to find a sense of normalcy, even if only for a few hours. The food is simple but well-prepared, roasted meats and seasoned vegetables set upon long tables adorned with the banners of both House Hightower and House Targaryen. The tension from the day still lingers, like the ghost of smoke clinging to the air.

You sit at Gwayne’s side, your gaze moving from your husband to your son. Vaeron, with the confidence only a dragonrider possesses, takes his place among the gathered lords and ladies, every inch the prince, despite the wary glances cast his way. His presence dominates the hall, drawing eyes even from those who once might have doubted him. He bears a regal poise, his indigo riding leathers still marked with faint streaks of ash from Merothrax’s flight. But there’s also something wild in him, a restlessness that speaks to his upbringing under Daemon’s shadow.

At the end of the table, Queen Helaena sits, her soft-spoken nature a stark contrast to the world that swirls around her. She picks at her food with delicate fingers, humming quietly to herself. Her gaze occasionally lifts to Vaeron with curiosity, though she remains distant, her thoughts known only to her. You can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for her—a queen trapped in a cage of tragedy, even as she clings to her gentle nature.

Gwayne breaks the silence between you, his voice low but filled with determination. “Vaeron,” he begins, drawing your son’s attention. There’s a pause as Gwayne studies him, as if seeing the boy for the first time—not as a distant figure raised on Dragonstone, but as his blood. “It has been far too long since I had the proper chance to know you.”

Vaeron meets his gaze, unflinching. “Perhaps that was no fault of yours, nor mine,” he replies, his words edged with the faintest hint of bitterness, though not unkind.

Gwayne inclines his head in acknowledgment. “No, perhaps not. But we can make amends for what time has stolen from us. You’re my son, Vaeron, and I would know you, as any father should.” There is sincerity in Gwayne’s voice, and it resonates through the hall, causing some of the lords to glance curiously between father and son.

Vaeron’s blue eyes search Gwayne’s face, as if weighing his words. “You wish to know me now, after years of silence? I was raised by men who saw war as a way of life. What is there in me you would recognize?”

A silence follows, tense and fraught with unspoken pain, until Otto Hightower, who has been watching the exchange from his seat with calculating eyes, leans forward. “You are our blood, Vaeron,” Otto interjects, his tone softer than usual, though still tinged with his signature sharpness. “Regardless of your upbringing, that cannot be denied. We may not share the same values as those you were raised under, but family remains.”

Vaeron’s eyes flicker to Otto, an amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Do you see family when you look at me, Lord Hand? Or do you see Daemon’s legacy?” There’s a challenge in his words, a test to see whether Otto can acknowledge what has shaped him without rejecting him outright.

Otto’s expression tightens briefly, the distaste for Daemon still apparent, but he tempers it with a measure of diplomacy. “I see both, boy. You carry traits of that man, yes, but you also carry the blood of Hightower and Targaryen, a union that could yet stabilize what remains of this realm.”

Gwayne’s eyes flash at Otto’s words. “He is more than just a symbol of peace, Father. He’s my son, and I would have him know his worth beyond whatever schemes the realm wishes to thrust upon him.”

A tense silence falls as Vaeron considers their words. He leans back in his chair, tapping a finger lightly against the table. “And what is it you wish from me then, grandsire?” Vaeron’s voice drips with the same playful mockery Daemon often wielded like a blade. “To be a well-mannered lord? A proper heir to the Hightower? Or perhaps you simply wish to mold me into something more… agreeable?”

Otto’s eyes narrow, but Alicent, who has remained quiet beside him, places a calming hand on his arm. She speaks then, her voice gentle but firm. “No one seeks to shape you into what you are not, Vaeron. But we do hope you might find a place here, among kin, where you do not have to be at war with the world.”

Vaeron’s expression softens slightly, and he glances briefly at you, his mother, before his gaze returns to Gwayne. “And what of you, father? What place do you imagine for me here?”

Gwayne’s response is steady and unwavering. “You are a prince, a dragonrider, and a son. Your place is by our side, wherever we may stand, and to be free to carve your own path—no matter what others may wish.”

A brief flicker of approval crosses Vaeron’s face at Gwayne’s words, but before he can respond, Helaena suddenly speaks up from across the table, her voice dreamy and distant. “Dragons dance in shadows… They circle in the dark… but the light cannot find them…” She trails off, her gaze unfocused as if seeing something beyond the hall. The room falls quiet, her cryptic words sending a shiver down the spines of those who know her visions often carry more weight than they first seem.

The tension lingers for a moment, but it passes as Vaeron turns back to Gwayne with a faint smirk. “It seems, father, that you and I have much to learn about each other. Perhaps we’ll begin with a flight together one day—Merothrax would not object.”

Gwayne’s smile is warm, a rare flicker of hope blooming in his eyes. “I’d like that.”

Otto watches the exchange, a look of grudging respect dawning on his face, though his eyes remain cautious. Perhaps, in this moment, he sees that his grandson is not simply a reflection of Daemon’s influence, but a man in his own right—one who bears both fire and blood, and who may yet be a force of both destruction and renewal.

As the night wears on, conversations resume, laughter and music slowly returning to the hall. The war is not forgotten, and neither are the scars left by it, but for tonight, amidst the crackling fires and shared glances, a fragile sense of family takes root.

The heavy doors of the chamber creak shut with a finality that sends a shiver down your spine. The world outside fades, leaving only you and Gwayne bathed in the warm glow of candlelight. The silence is thick with anticipation as you stand together, breaths mingling as your eyes lock. There’s a hunger in his gaze that mirrors your own—a longing that’s been denied for far too long under approval of gods. The tension that’s built throughout the day, the battles fought with words and looks, melts away in the face of something far more primal, far more honest.

Gwayne steps forward, his hands cradling your face as his lips crash into yours with a fervor that takes your breath away. You cling to him, your fingers threading through his hair as he deepens the kiss, tasting you like a man starved. The intensity of it drives all thoughts from your mind until there is nothing but the sensation of him, the heat between you both threatening to consume you whole. His hands are strong, yet gentle as they slide down your back, pulling you flush against him.

He doesn’t waste time. In a swift, fluid motion, he lifts you from the ground, making you gasp into his mouth as he carries you to a nearby table. The wood is cool against your thighs as he sets you down, but the chill is quickly forgotten as his hands begin to work on the ties of your gown, fingers deftly undoing the laces and letting the fabric slide from your shoulders. His lips follow the trail, pressing heated kisses to every inch of newly bared skin.

“Too long…” he murmurs against your collarbone, his voice thick with need. “Far too long I’ve dreamed of this, of having you like this, as my wife.”

You arch into him, your own hands growing impatient as you tug at his tunic, desperate to feel him. “Then don’t wait,” you whisper, your words a breathless plea as you finally pull the fabric over his head, revealing the hard planes of his chest.

There’s a dark chuckle that rumbles in his throat as he presses you back against the table, his hands now roaming freely across your exposed skin. “Impatient, are we?” he teases, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck. “Good… because I don’t intend to be gentle tonight.”

Your response is cut off by another searing kiss, this one more demanding, more possessive. He tugs at your skirts, hiking them up over your hips until they’re bunched around your waist. One hand grips your thigh, pulling you closer to the edge of the table, while the other makes quick work of his own breeches. The friction of his rough hands against your skin, coupled with the heat of his body pressing into yours, sends a jolt of anticipation through you.

When he finally moves into you, you both moan into the kiss, the sound swallowed by the fervor of your mouths locked together. The stretch of him inside you is everything you’d craved, the ache of it sweet and demanding as he begins to move. His thrusts are deep and deliberate, every motion designed to draw another gasp, another moan from your lips. You cling to him, nails digging into his back as you match his rhythm, each of you lost in the pleasure that’s been denied for far too long.

He leans in, forehead pressed against yours, his breath ragged as he murmurs, “Gods, you feel better every time, better than any dream.”

Your response is a broken moan as he shifts his angle, hitting that spot deep inside that has you seeing stars. “Gwayne… please…” Your words are barely coherent, more a whimper than a demand, but he understands. His pace quickens, hips driving into yours with an urgency that sends you teetering on the edge.

The table creaks beneath the weight of your movements, but neither of you care. Your world has narrowed to the slick heat between you, the rough texture of his skin against yours, and the way your bodies move in perfect, desperate sync. But it’s not enough—there’s more to be had, more to give.

With a sudden motion, he sweeps you into his arms again, carrying you the short distance to the bed. You fall onto the soft sheets, a tangle of limbs and half-discarded clothing as he settles over you. The fire in his eyes is matched by the possessive grip of his hands as they slide down your sides, pulling you closer as he thrusts into you once more. This time, the bed gives him more leverage, allowing him to push deeper, harder, each motion drawing cries from your lips that mix with his own groans of pleasure.

“Say you’re mine,” he rasps out between thrusts, his voice rough with need. “Say it.”

You gasp, your back arching as the tension coils tight in your belly, every muscle tensing as you race toward that inevitable fall. “I’m yours, Gwayne,” you manage, voice breathless and trembling. “Now and always.”

His lips crash against yours in a kiss that’s more teeth and tongue than anything else, the urgency of it matched only by the way his hips snap into yours, driving you both toward release. The world narrows, the sensations overwhelming, until finally, with a shattered cry, you come undone beneath him. The pleasure rips through you, every nerve alight as you clench around him, dragging him over the edge with you. His groan is deep and guttural as he spills into you, hips jerking with the force of his release.

For a moment, all is still—the only sounds are your ragged breaths mingling in the quiet room. He doesn’t move, holding you close as you both come down from the high, the afterglow wrapping you in a warmth that has nothing to do with the fire burning in the hearth.

When he finally does pull back, it’s only to press a tender kiss to your brow, his thumb brushing your cheek as he whispers, “My wife… my love.”

You smile softly, your fingers tracing the lines of his face, committing every detail to memory. “And you, my husband… the one thing this war could not take from me.”

He chuckles softly, rolling onto his side and pulling you with him, keeping you close. “There will be more battles to fight, but we’ll face them,” he promises, his voice laced with a quiet determination. “No matter what comes.”

You nod, nestling into the warmth of his chest, content in the knowledge that, for now, in this moment, you are together—no schemes, no politics, just the two of you bound by love, trust, and the promise of a future that is finally yours to claim.

The Chronicles of the Dance’s Aftermath: The Union of House Hightower and the Younger Targaryen Daughter

Excerpt from "Fire and Blood, Volume II: The Aftermath of the Dance" by Archmaester Eldric

The marriage of Gwayne Hightower and the princess Y/N, younger sister of Rhaenyra Targaryen, stands as one of the most pivotal yet understated unions in the years following the Dance of the Dragons. In a time marked by bloodshed, treachery, and the near-ruin of the realm, this marriage represented a fleeting hope for stability, although the shadows of war still clung to the Red Keep like a persistent mist.

The Marriage and Its Immediate Consequences

By most accounts, the wedding was a muted affair, held in the shadow of ruin and loss. Witnesses describe—like Mushroom, the court fool and chronicler—the gathering as tense, with little joy to be found. Yet, within that tension lay the seeds of reconciliation. Gwayne Hightower’s insistence on wedding the princess, despite the open enmity between the Hightowers and Targaryens during the Dance, is said to have been an act of both love and defiance—defiance not just toward the whims of his father, Otto Hightower, (who once favored this union) but against the old order that had allowed the realm to descend into madness.

One cannot overlook the presence of the princess’ son, Vaeron Targaryen, upon his sleek indigo dragon Merothrax during the ceremony. His dramatic arrival and the desecration of the Sept sparked fury in the hearts of the pious, with Otto Hightower voicing his displeasure at such an audacious display of dragon power. However, it was in this very moment that the precarious threads of diplomacy between factions began to weave together once more.

Despite his bitter memories of Daemon Targaryen, Otto Hightower reportedly made cautious attempts to accept Vaeron as his grandson and integrate him into the political future of House Hightower and the realm. Though Vaeron’s upbringing under Daemon had forged a wild and defiant streak within him, his interactions with Gwayne were marked by a mutual, albeit tentative, respect. Some suggest that this connection laid the foundation for what followed—a reluctant but necessary peace.

The Birth of Alyssane Hightower and the Strengthening of House Alliances

In the year following the marriage, Y/N bore Gwayne a daughter, named Alyssane in honor of the late Queen Alyssane Targaryen, and in memory of princess's killed dragon, Silverwing. Two figures revered by both sides of the conflict. The birth of Alyssane was seen by many as a symbol of renewal—a delicate hope that the wounds of the past might one day heal. Chroniclers note that Dowager Queen Alicent herself, despite her initial reservations, took a deep interest in the child, seeing her as a potential link to unite the divided factions within the realm.

The girl’s birth also brought greater stability to the realm in the years that followed. The delicate truce between the remaining Targaryens and Hightowers, though always on the brink of collapse, was bolstered by this new generation. Rumors circulated in the halls of Oldtown that Otto Hightower, ever the schemer, entertained thoughts of betrothing young Alyssane to his great-grandson Aegon III, a third son of King Aegon II and Queen Helaena, a political move meant to fully merge the interests of Hightower and Targaryen. But in the end, the girl was given to wed Joffrey Velaryon in attempt to stop the flames of war to spread further.

Vaeron Targaryen: The Storm Within the Peace

The presence of Vaeron Targaryen, however, was a constant reminder of the untamed fire that still smoldered beneath the surface. Now grown into a man, Vaeron’s defiant nature and his bond with Merothrax made him a figure both feared and admired. Though raised by Daemon, Vaeron had a mind of his own and wielded his dragon not as a weapon of war, but as a reminder of his lineage’s enduring power.

Eyewitness accounts describe tense interactions between Vaeron and his grandsire, Otto Hightower. The elder statesman, while outwardly diplomatic, could not fully disguise his distrust of the boy. Some whispered that Vaeron’s very existence was a reminder of Otto’s failure to fully rid the realm of Daemon’s influence. Yet, others saw in Vaeron a bridge—albeit a perilous one—between the Hightowers and Targaryens, a prince who could carry forward a legacy tempered by both fire and reason.

The Realm in the Aftermath

The years following the Dance remained fraught with hardships, but the marriage of Gwayne and Y/N is often credited with preventing further civil war in the immediate aftermath. Otto Hightower, with his grip on power loosened by the marriage, began to retreat more often to Oldtown, while Alicent sought solace in prayer. It is said that, in her later years, she spent much time with young Alyssane, seeing in the child a chance to redeem the future for her bloodline.

Vaeron, meanwhile, grew into a prince whose legacy straddled both the Hightower and Targaryen lines. He became a key player in the ongoing political intrigue of the realm, always walking a fine line between his father’s calculated diplomacy and his mother’s fierce independence. In time, he would be known as “Vaeron the Bridger,” a prince who held together two rival houses with fire in his veins and a dragon at his command.

Yet, the peace that followed was not without its cracks. Despite the alliances forged, the realm was still deeply divided. The scars of the Dance would never fully heal, and as Vaeron and Merothrax grew more influential, many feared that the young dragon would one day ignite another conflict—one that would once again send the realm spiraling into chaos.

In the end, the marriage of Gwayne and Y/N is remembered as a moment when hope and ambition, love and duty, mingled in a fragile dance, one that briefly steadied a realm teetering on the edge of ruin. Whether it truly brought peace or merely delayed the inevitable remains a question for the histories, but for a time, at least, it kept the dragons’ fire from consuming the realm whole.

[m4rv3l-girl]

Honeymoon (Bucky x Reader)

Warnings: Smut. Unprotected sex. Breeding (blink and you’ll miss it.)

The warm breeze of the Amalfi Coast kissed Y/N’s skin as she leaned against the railing of their villa’s balcony. Below, the Mediterranean waves crashed gently against the shore, their rhythmic melody blending with the distant chatter of vacationers. She exhaled a contented sigh, her gaze fixed on the golden horizon where the sun was beginning to dip into the sea.

Behind her, the sound of footsteps padded softly across the polished tile floor. She didn’t need to turn to know it was Bucky. She could feel him—the comforting weight of his presence was something she’d grown used to over their time together. A pair of strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her back into his chest.

“Enjoying the view, Doll?” Bucky’s voice was a low murmur against her ear, sending a pleasant shiver down her spine. His metal hand rested gently on her hip while his flesh one traced lazy circles on her stomach.

“It’s perfect,” she replied, leaning her head back against his shoulder. “Though I’d argue this isn’t the best view here.” She tilted her head slightly to catch his smirk, the one that made her heart flutter no matter how many times she’d seen it.

“Oh yeah?” he teased, turning her around to face him. His blue eyes sparkled with mischief, softened by a layer of tenderness he reserved just for her. “What’s better than this?”

She pretended to think for a moment, biting her lip to suppress her grin. “You. Definitely you.”

Bucky chuckled, a sound that made her chest warm. “Smooth talker,” he said, leaning down to brush his lips against hers. It was a soft kiss, the kind that made the rest of the world fade away. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers. “You hungry, Kitten? I could whip something up.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Bucky Barnes, are you trying to cook on our honeymoon?”

“Hey, I make a mean pasta,” he defended, his grin widening. “Besides, you’re supposed to be relaxing, and I want to take care of you.”

Her heart squeezed at his sincerity. “I am relaxing,” she assured him, reaching up to smooth a strand of his dark hair back from his face. “But maybe we could cook together? That way, you don’t burn the villa down.”

“Rude,” he said with mock indignation, though his lips twitched in amusement. “Alright, teamwork it is. But you’re on sauce duty. I’ll handle the noodles.”

Together, they moved to the small but well-equipped kitchen. Bucky rolled up his sleeves, revealing the scars that marked the transition between his flesh and vibranium arm. Y/N caught his hand and kissed his wrist, a silent gesture of love that still made his breath hitch. He looked at her as though she’d hung the stars in the sky, and she found herself grinning under the weight of his adoration.

They worked in easy harmony, laughing as Bucky insisted on taste-testing every ingredient and Y/N playfully smacked his hand away from the sauce pot. By the time they sat down to eat on the balcony, the sun had fully set, leaving the sky painted in deep purples and indigos. Candles flickered on the table, casting a warm glow over their faces.

“To us,” Bucky said, raising his glass of wine.

“To us,” Y/N echoed, clinking her glass against his. She took a sip, savoring the sweetness of the wine and the moment. “This feels like a dream,” she admitted, setting her glass down. “I keep thinking I’m going to wake up any second.”

Bucky reached across the table to take her hand, his thumb brushing over her wedding band. “It’s real, Doll. You and me, this life we’ve got…it’s all real. And I’m never letting it go.”

Her throat tightened with emotion, and she squeezed his hand. “You’re stuck with me now, Barnes.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said, his voice soft but full of conviction.

After dinner, they moved back inside. Bucky lit the fireplace in the living room while Y/N changed into something more comfortable: an oversized sweater that brushed against her thighs. When she reappeared, Bucky was waiting for her on the plush rug in front of the fire, two mugs of hot cocoa in hand.

“Come here,” he said, patting the spot next to him. She settled down beside him, curling into his side as he handed her a mug. The fire crackled softly, casting dancing shadows across the room.

“What’re you thinking about?” she asked after a moment, noticing the faraway look in his eyes.

Bucky glanced down at her, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “How lucky I am,” he admitted. “How someone like me ended up with someone like you.”

“Someone like you?” she repeated, setting her mug down so she could cradle his face in her hands. “Bucky, you’re everything. You’re kind, and brave, and selfless. You’ve been through so much, and you still have the biggest heart. If anyone’s lucky here, it’s me.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. “You always know what to say,” he murmured.

“That’s my job,” she teased, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Being your wife and all.”

At the word ‘wife,’ his eyes opened, a flicker of heat joining the affection in his gaze. “Say that again,” he said, his voice dipping lower.

“Wife?” she asked, a playful grin tugging at her lips.

Bucky’s response was immediate. He leaned in, capturing her mouth with his in a kiss that was anything but soft. It was heated and consuming, leaving no doubt about where the evening was heading. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer until she was straddling his lap.

“I love you,” he said against her lips, his voice rough with emotion and desire.

“I love you too,” she whispered back, her fingers tangling in his hair as the firelight painted them in hues of gold and amber.

Y/N could feel Bucky’s heart pounding in his chest, syncing with her own. Their breaths melded together, their bodies entwined in a silent declaration of forever. He stood with her still in his arms, carrying her to the bedroom, the warmth of the fireplace trailing behind them.

————-smut———smut————-smut————smut———-smut——

Gently, he laid her on the bed, the soft fabric whispering against her skin as he hovered above her. His eyes searched hers for consent, and she gave it freely with a nod, her pulse racing at the intensity of his gaze. He kissed her again, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips, asking for more, and she opened for him eagerly. His hand slid up her thigh, pushing her sweater aside, and she shivered at the contact.

“Can’t wait to fuck you as my wife,” he murmured against her skin, his teeth scraping gently along her jaw. The words sent a shockwave of desire through her, making her core tighten with anticipation. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, and the world outside their villa, outside their love, ceased to exist.

Bucky took his time exploring her body, his kisses leaving a trail of fire from her neck to her collarbone. His metal hand traced the line of her spine, sending shivers of pleasure down her back. He was so attuned to her, so gentle, that every touch felt like a declaration of love. His other hand found the hem of her sweater, lifting it over her head, and she watched the way his eyes darkened at the sight of her.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he breathed, his voice thick with need. He kissed the swells of her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her sensitive nipples. She arched into the sensation, her own hands exploring the hard planes of his chest, feeling his heart pound beneath her palms. The weight of his body pressed into hers, and she could feel the evidence of his desire against her thigh.

With a growl, Bucky reached for the button of his pants, desperate to be closer to her. She watched him, her eyes dark with desire, as he freed himself, the fabric sliding down his hips.

Their eyes met again, and she could see the hunger in his gaze—a hunger that mirrored her own. The words “my wife” resonated in his eyes, and she felt a surge of power and love. She reached for him, her hand wrapping around his length, stroking him gently. He hissed in a breath, his eyes closing in pleasure, and she felt a thrill of power knowing she could do this to him, that she was the one he wanted.

“Look at me,” she whispered, and his eyes snapped open, locking onto hers. The air in the room was charged with anticipation, their bodies speaking a language more intimate than words. Y/N slid her hand up and down him fully, her touch light yet firm, and Bucky’s eyes rolled back in his head. He groaned, the sound raw and primal, and she felt a heady sense of satisfaction knowing she could elicit such a reaction from him.

Her hand worked in a steady rhythm, and she watched as his chest rose and fell with each ragged breath. He reached for her, his metal hand gliding up the inside of her thigh, his flesh one teasing the fabric of her panties. The anticipation was almost unbearable, a delicious ache that grew with each passing second.

Y/N leaned in to kiss him again, her hand still moving in a gentle but firm grip. Bucky’s hands found the waistband of her panties and began to slide them down. She helped him, her movements seductive and deliberate. As the fabric fell away, she straddled him once more, her bare skin against his, the heat of his arousal pressing into her.

With a playful smile, she began to grind against him, her hips moving in slow circles that made his eyes widen with lust. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her, urging her to take what she wanted. The friction was exquisite, a sweet torment that had her breath coming in short gasps. She could feel herself dripping, her body begging for more of him.

Their eyes never left each other’s as she rocked against him, setting a pace that had them both on the edge. Bucky’s hands roamed her hips, memorizing every inch of her as if it were the first time, his thumbs brushing against her clit, sending shockwaves through her.

Her movements grew more urgent, and she could feel the tension building within her, a coil tightening with every stroke. Y/N’s breath caught as she felt the first tremors of her climax, her eyes fluttering closed. Bucky’s grip on her hips tightened, his own need evident in the tension of his body.

“Wanna see you, Doll,” he rasped, and she obeyed, her eyes flying open to find him watching her with a fierce intensity that sent her spiraling over the edge. She cried out his name, her orgasm rising up from her toes to her head, leaving her trembling and gasping for air.

As the last spasms of pleasure subsided, Bucky flipped them over, his body covering hers, his own need now palpable. He kissed her deeply, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of their earlier dance.

“Now, it’s my turn to show you how much I love you, my wife,” he murmured, and she could feel the tip of his cock nudging at her entrance. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, eager for the connection that would seal their bond once more.

With a groan, he entered her raw, filling her completely.

The sensation was overwhelming, a perfect blend of burning and pleasure that had her nails digging into his back.

"I want to breed you, Doll," Bucky grunted against her neck, his voice a mix of passion and primal need. "Wanna make you a mommy."

Y/N's eyes went wide with shock, but the idea didn't repel her. Instead, it sent a new wave of heat through her. She’d never considered it before, but in this moment, with Bucky’s warmth buried inside her and his love shining through his eyes, she could think of nothing she wanted more than to be filled with his children, to grow their family.

Her hips bucked up to meet his, her inner muscles tightening around him. "..oh- God…," she managed to gasp out, her voice strained. "Bucky, please."

He began to move, his thrusts slow and deep.

Y/N’s eyes remained locked on his, the love and need in them only growing stronger as he filled her completely. She could feel every inch of him, the way he stretched her and the way he fit so perfectly inside her. It was as if they were two halves of a whole coming together.

His metal hand found its way to her hair, his calloused fingertips stroking through the strands with a tenderness that seemed almost out of place with the raw passion of the moment. Yet, it was this tender touch that sent her spiraling even higher, a stark contrast to the primal need driving his hips into hers.

Their bodies moved together in a dance that was uniquely theirs, a symphony of sighs and gasps filling the air as they both chased the peak of their desire. The strokes grew faster, his metal hand never leaving her hair, his flesh one gripping her hip tightly to keep her in place as he plunged into her over and over.

With each movement, she could feel her climax building once more, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter within her. Bucky’s strokes grew more deliberate, his breaths hot and heavy against her neck. He whispered sweet nothings into her ear, his words lost to the crescendo of their love making.

Y/N’s nails dug into his back as she met each thrust, her body moving in perfect harmony with his. The hand in her hair grew more insistent, pulling slightly as he pushed into her, the hint of pain only serving to enhance the pleasure.

Their eyes remained locked, their souls bare and exposed as they shared this moment of ultimate intimacy. Y/N felt herself climbing, her body tightening around him as she approached the edge once more.

And then, with a final, deep thrust, she shattered, her orgasm ripping through her with more force than ever before. She sobbed his name, her body arching off the bed as he held her tight, his strokes never faltering as he brought her back down from the heights she’d reached.

Bucky’s own release followed swiftly, his body tensing before he spilled himself inside her, filling her with the warm gush of his cum. He groaned her name, his hips faltering against hers as he emptied himself into her.

After a moment, he collapsed onto her, his weight a comforting blanket of love and satisfaction. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, whispering sweet nothings into the crook of her shoulder as he caught his breath. His metal arm wrapped around her, pulling her closer, as if trying to meld their bodies into one.

The aftermath of their love-making was a gentle lull.

Y/N’s hand traced the scar that joined his metal arm to his shoulder, her touch feather-light, as she whispered, “You’re everything to me, Bucky.”

He chuckled softly, his breath warm against her skin. “And you’re my everything, Doll.” He kissed the ticklish spot under her jaw, his eyes shining with affection.

They layed there for a while, their hearts beating in unison. Then, Bucky propped himself up on one elbow and looked down at her, a smirk playing on his lips.

“You know, I always knew married sex was going to be amazing, but I had no idea it could be this good.” His voice was filled with a teasing lightness that made her laugh.

“You’re terrible,” she said, pushing him gently. But she couldn’t hide the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. “It’s like you’re saying dating sex wasn’t enough for you.”

“Oh, it was plenty,” he assured her, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “But married sex? It’s like going from a good cup of coffee to the best whiskey you’ve ever tasted. It’s got that something extra, that warmth that goes straight to your soul, you know?”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh at his ridiculousness. “So, I’m the whiskey in this scenario?”

“Always have been, Kitten.” He leaned down to kiss her again, a smile playing on his lips. His hand trailed down her side, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. “But now, it’s like we’ve got all the time in the world to savor it. We can say to hell with everyone else - We’re hitched.”

Her eyes searched his, the love in them making his chest tighten. “Forever and ever, Bucky.”

He nodded, the reality of the moment sinking in. “Yeah. Forever and ever…”

——————————————————————————————————

Hey everyone! Hope you enjoyed this one. Seriously, don’t we all just need a Bucky Hubby?

It was originally a request, but I managed to lose it..? 🤷‍♀️ (I don’t know.)

Anyway, I hope whoever requested it actually gets to read it! 🫶

[solbaby7]

Hi!! I have a request if you don’t mind 💜💜

Could you do a Rhys x reader where she has bought some lingerie for the first time without Rhys knowing she bought it and he catches her trying them on in their bedroom?

He’d have a hard time trying to decide on if he wants to fuck you with it on or to rip it off.

Temptress

pairing: rhysand x reader

warnings: sexual descriptions, swearing, a million different ways to say panties, possible typos

—

You’d been swayed.

Captivated by such delicate pieces that when the sweet shop owner offered you a discount on the piles of lingerie you’d been sifting through—you couldn’t refuse.

Bags hang off your arms filled to the brim with intricately detailed bustiers and corsets, thongs of varying colors and cuts with garters and thigh high tights to match. Some were riskier than others; crotchless panties or g-strings decorated in shiny chains with a custom diamond encrusted ‘R’ dangling over your ass.

A warm glow casts over your form, gaze fixed on your figure reflected in the mirror and you can’t help but admire the way each piece looks on. Velvets and silk, lace and leather that fits as if it were made specifically with your measurements in mind. Too distracted by the effects of a push-up bra, you don’t even notice your High Lord lingering in the doorway. Both arms cross at his chest, shoulder resting on the doorframe and head slightly tilted as violet eyes roam you over.

Rhysand’s perfectly silent while you move to change, bending over to slip on a silky pair of underthings with thin pearl strings that held at your hips. Teeth bite at the fat of his bottom lip as he takes in the round of your ass against the pale pink material and he fights the urge to tear it clean off.

Your hands smooth over your figure, utterly oblivious, eyes squinting in thought before flicking over to the male in the mirror. A low gasp of surprise, a blush fanning across your cheeks at the dark look looming in indigo irises. “Rhys,” It’s instinctual to cover up, arms crossing over your chest to hide parts of you he’d already memorized a million times over. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

He hums low, almost dismissively as he drinks in the feminine whine lacing your tone. “Didn’t see you much today, sweet girl.”

“I went out to the city to do some shopping,” You confess softly, slowly lowering your arms to show off the newly acquired purchase. “Pretty, right?”

The look in his eye is predatory no matter how subdued his tone is. Because while you’re referring to fine details in the lace line cups; Rhysand is fully ogling the generous lift of your breasts. “Absolutely mouthwatering,” Four steps is all it takes for him to clear the length of the room and to your surprise, he strides right past you and settles into the chair tucked by your mirror. Rhys pulls the bag into his lap, shuffling around the items until he finds one that had his cock jumping in his pants. “Try them on for me—start with this one.”

A sheer little slip dangles from two fingers, the matching thong draped over his knee and excitement swells in your belly when the door closes behind you. The lock sliding into place with nothing more than a cocky lift of his brow. A shiver runs down your spine, body wedged between his spread legs. “Help me take this off?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Rhysand takes more care with the fabric than you would’ve. You’re forced to remain still as the bra is unhooked and eased off your shoulders. A pleased hum pulls from the back of his throat, reacquainting himself with the weight of your breasts and the hardened peaks of your nipples. Goosebumps ripple against every inch of bare skin, stomach clenching when his knuckles trail a path down the soft swell of your belly. “Leave these on,” A thumb slides under the elegant pearls holding the underwear in place. “I like them.”

“Elegant enough for a High Lady?”

Rhys chuckles, settling back into the chair with low lids. “Elegance has no place in the plans I’ve made for you tonight.” The lights go dim; darkness beginning to cloak your bedchamber and Death Incarnate seems to expel a sigh of relief when allowing such subdued power to stretch free from its confinements.

Chiffon nearly slips free from your grasp, limbs quaking as the tension held this in the air. He watches your every move, a bulge steadily growing in his pants but he makes no move to touch himself. “You’re not working?”

“It’s not going anywhere.” Your brow raises, a little smirk quirking in the corner of glossy lips and his eyes are rolling before you can even throw in your two cents on how any other night his answer would be completely different. “Besides, what kind of male would I be if I chose boring documents over my mate—one who’s half naked and hot as sin.”

“You flatter me.” Thin straps snap against your shoulders, the powerful darkness casting perfect shadows against feminine curves. A blush begins on the apples of your cheeks, lashes fluttering fondly as you eat up the praise. “I’ve barely even gotten to the fun stuff yet. Should see the kinds of goodies I’ve got stuffed in that bag.”

A smile curls at his full lips, body language effortlessly regal, arms lax at his sides as his legs spread just a little wider. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Your eyes dip down without permission, catching the outline of his erection through tailored dress pants. It strains again the stitching and yet there’s no shame in sight when staring so brazenly. Desire clouds your thoughts, lust darkening your gaze as you turn slowly—providing the perfect view of ass in your underthings. Power fills the space, tainting the air with a thickness felt with each breath taken.

You don’t shy away from it though, steps holding a newfound confidence as you prance over to the bed. Legs elongate, back arching and soft hair dips messily against your cheeks in a way that sends your High Lord in a frenzy as you sink into the sheets. You make a show of getting settled, allowing the satin to shift up your thighs, bunching invitingly near your hips.

Painted toes dangle against the headboard, canopy draping tied securely at each side to leave the view of your ass exposed to him. It’s a tease; an invitation for Rhysand to waltz over with that unwavering air of entitlement and take what belonged to him. “This one might be one of my favorites,” The playful dip of your tone tugs him from his thoughts, though the look in his eye does little to hide the things conjuring up in his mind. So you feed the depraved fantasies, slowly spreading your legs and sliding a hand down the length of your body until manicured fingers collide with delicate fabric. “Easy to put on after a long day of spending all your money.”

He takes the bait, entranced by your shamless groping. “Terrible, horrible thing.”

A nail hooks into the fabric covering your sex, offering a fraction of a glimpse before it returns to place with a snap. “The worst,” You agree, engulfed in the perfect scent of you and Rhysand intermingled in the sheets. Still, you crave more; every fiber of your being begging to his touch. “How about you come teach me a lesson?”

“I will.” He undoes the bindings holding his breeches together, allowing his cock to spring free and one strong hand wraps around it; stroking the hard length up and down. “But first, I want to watch you play with it.” Darkness clasps around your ankles like chains, a cruel laugh echoing in your ears as your hand follows the command without hesitation. Your arousal is audible, squelching obscenely as a free hand keeps lace tucked to the side. “Atta girl, just like that.”

[spilledartery]

tied hands . . . ( kunikuzushi )

[ male reader, royalty ! au, angst, arranged marriage, implied sex, short. fujoshis, mlm fetishizers, dni. ]

gone are the days you two will sneak out to the palace gardens, to catch up, and enjoy each other’s presence, even if just for a few hours. gone are the days he will send you knowing stares and smirks, lingering touches and searing kisses in his study room, the library… gone are the days you’d climb up the palace walls to his room’s balcony, where you’d talk and gaze at the stars. “those stars,” you had said, “can never compare to your beauty.” then, he would blush, look down at his hands on the banisters, and bite the inside of his cheek to suppress a smile.

gone are the nights you’d spent next to each other in bed, sweaty, and naked under the covers. gone are those moments in which the two of you would bask in the afterglow of your lovemaking, his head on your chest, you holding him close to your side, just staring at nothing; comforted by the silence, but the beating of your hearts are just as loud – happy and content.

“i dream to start a family with you one day,” prince kunikuzushi had said, tracing circles upon your bare chest by his nimble fingers. “you know, just… little ones running around; i’d be papa, you’d be daddy…”

his ramblings had made you chuckle. “oh, what a dream.” you turned your head to kiss at the crown of his head. “i would love that, beloved.”

he hummed, tilting his head to look up at you to meet your lips in a passionate kiss.

it was, indeed, just a dream.

kunikuzushi, repressing all of his emotions, slowly walked down the aisle, wearing the most beautiful white attire you had said you’d love to see him in one day.

kunikuzushi is so beautiful in all aspect. his long, indigo hair was let down. but his eyes… his eyes were dim, and full of protests that went unsaid, for you are not the one at the end of the aisle.

“but… but i love you – not… not — !”

“my darling beloved,” you said, cupping his tearful cheeks delicately, “please don’t cry. i don’t deserve your tears.”

he sobbed, then. placing his hands on your chest to clench at the cheap fabric of your shirt. you could only gently place your hands on his waist to ground him. “w-why are you so unaffected by this?” asked kunikuzushi, his mind heading the wrong way. “why do you seem so calm?! i – i am to be married off, and here you are, effacing yourself!”

you had the mind to fight for him, to kneel at the queen’s feet just to wish for her son’s hand – for it to be you, instead. but you know that it would bring more trouble. the queen had already found out of kunikuzushi’s affair with a commoner; you. she didn’t approve. her son has to marry someone of the same status, of the same nobility – not some random farmer of the kingdom, no. she had higher plans for the prince.

“my love, from the start, i’ve always known that we are doomed. this is of no surprise to me,” you said, cradling his head gently as he continued to cry to your chest. “but do not, even for once, think that i do not care – that i am not affected. i love you dearly, and i would rather die than seeing you be in another’s arms, but i understand this, prince, and so should you.”

“let’s run away,” said kunikuzushi without second thoughts, looking up at you with a hopeful gaze. “w-we can escape this place, please.” his sobbing had gone uncontrollable now to the the point that he’s trembling violently in your arms because of the disapproving look you gave him. “please…”

“and risk us being hunted? i wouldn’t want to bring you in danger — ”

“fuck! just — ! just listen to me!” he sounded desperate now. “i love you… please…”

instead of replying to him, you had just leaned down and kissed his lips, which he returned fiercely and tearfully. you had spent your last night together, then. and when he wakes up in the morning due to the rapping of the maids at his door, ordering him to wake up because today is his wedding, you were gone.

that night, instead of spending his wedding night with his spouse, he stood at his room’s balcony, hoping that you’d climb up the walls; to kiss him and stargaze, like you always did.

but gone are those times.

kunikuzushi cried for the millionth time to himself, wishing that the circumstances had been different.

[musicforastylesrestaurant]

School Pick Up.

masterlist || ask me anything <3

my blurb masterlist is here !!

authors note - these photos just screamed dad!harry so enjoy ☺️

word count - 700

in which, harrys on school pick up duties for his little one, and it’s his babies favourite time of the day when he sees his best friend, his father standing at the gates.

Harry stood patiently at the school gates, the afternoon sun casting a warm glow around him. His daughter, Indigo, was finishing up her day in school any moment now, and he couldn't wait to see her.

With his signature pink phone case pressed to his ear, he listened intently to his wife, (Y/N), who was asking him to stop by the shop on the way home to get some bread.

"Hey, lovie, everything okay?" Harry greeted warmly, a smile playing on his lips as he leaned against the gate.

"Hi, H. Could you do me a favour and pick up some bread on your way home? We're fresh out, and you know how Indi loves her beans on toast after school," (Y/N) requested, her voice carrying a hint of urgency.

Ah, of course.

Since Indigo had started school back in September, each day after school either you or harry would whip her up some beans on toast, it was like her little treat for getting through the school day because god knows she hated going to that place.

Most morning you would drop her off and she would be hysterical, clinging onto you like a tearful little monkey crying out that she wanted her ‘daddy!’

"Of course, no problem. Anything else you need?" Harry replied, already mentally adding bread to his list of errands.

"No, that's it for now. If I remember anything else I’ll text you, Thanks, baby," (Y/N) said gratefully, her tone softening with appreciation.

"You're welcome, lovie. See you soon," Harry said, already looking forward to their reunion.

As the school bell rang, signalling the end of the day, Indigo's teacher led her class out of the building. Being in reception, Indigo's class was among the first year groups to come out.

The children, still buzzing with energy from the day's activities, chattered excitedly as they followed their teacher in a neat line.

Indigo, with paint smudges on her uniform and her brown hair now a tousled mess from a day of play, eagerly scanned the crowd of parents waiting at the gate.

Her heart leaped with joy when she spotted her dad, leaning against the gates. With her bag hanging off her shoulder, she couldn't contain her excitement.

"Mr Anderson, look, there's my daddy!" Indigo exclaimed, tugging at her teacher's sleeve to get her attention.

Her teacher smiled warmly and nodded, understanding Indigo's eagerness to reunite with her father. "Go on, Indigo. Have a wonderful evening."

With her teacher's permission, Indigo dashed towards Harry, her small feet barely touching the ground as she called out,

"Daddy!"

Harry's heart melted at the sight of his daughter running towards him. He pushed himself off the gate and opened his arms wide, ready to catch her.

As Indigo reached him, she threw herself into his embrace, her laughter filling the air.

"Hey, my indi girl!" Harry greeted, lifting Indigo up and spinning her around, his heart brimming with love and joy.

Harry placed her down on the floor before heleaned down to Indigo's level, a playful glint in his eyes. "How was school today, sweetheart?"

Indigo's face lit up with excitement as she recounted her day. "It was really good, Daddy! I played with my friend Tommy, and we made a castle out of blocks in the sandbox."

Harry chuckled, tousling her hair affectionately. "Tommy, huh? Sounds like y’had a blast. But y’know the rule, no boyfriends until you're thirty-five, alright?"

Indigo wrinkled her nose in mock disgust. "Ew, no, Daddy! Tommy's not my boyfriend. Boys are yucky!"

Harry couldn't help but laugh at her exaggerated reaction. "Oh, really now? Well, s’a relief. M’not ready for you to have a boyfriend just yet."

Indigo nodded vigorously, her brown hair bouncing with each movement. "Me neither, Daddy! Boys are gross!"

Harry smiled, feeling a surge of affection for his daughter's innocence. He squeezed her hand gently, grateful for these lighthearted moments together. "S’my girl. You focus on having fun and being yourself. No need to worry about boys just yet."

Indigo grinned up at him, her dimples deepening. "Okay, Daddy! I'll remember that."

"Alright, Indi, it's time to go home and see Mummy," Harry said, gently guiding his daughter away from the school gates.

Harry brushed his finger over her knuckles, “You know what that means indi girl?”

She gleamed up at him, dimples shining. Before exclaiming:

“Beans On Toast!”

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Cozened Indigo - Part Three

Pairing: Modern!Aemond Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Mentions of murder, dark themes, smut, dubious consent, allusions to no consent. Dead dove; do not eat. Dear god, please mind the tags. Word count: ~9.6k

Summary: The article goes live and a verdict is delivered.

Author's note: I have put my journalism degree to use here, to ensure as much accuracy as possible. However, as Westeros is a fictional place, I have warped certain laws and regulations regarding court reporting for the purpose of the story. Please suspend your disbelief for the sake of a fictional tale. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

“Rhaenyra has gotten wind of the fact that Aemond has spoken to the press, so now she’s doing an interview too – with White Knight Magazine.”

Larys’ words play on a loop in her mind as she sits heavily in her office chair, dread forming a pit in her stomach as anxiety flutters unbridled within her chest. Her interviews with Aegon and Helaena are set for tomorrow, she still has to do her background research on them both, alongside transcribing all of her interviews with Aemond. With just two weeks to do it all, and with Rhaenyra’s pending interview looming over it, it feels too huge an obstacle to overcome. She is being set up for failure, made all the more humiliating by the fact that the feature from the opposing side is to be featured in the publication that effectively put an end to her career. It has to be deliberate, there is no way it's a coincidence.

It’s not until she sees the droplet of moisture splatter upon her desk that she realises she’s crying. Burying her face in her hands, she draws in a shuddering breath, attempting to pull herself together.

Not here. Not in the office,

“Everything okay?”

Startled, her head snaps up to look at Royce, his features pinching into a look of concern as she sniffles and hurriedly wipes at her eyes.

“Doesn’t everyone cry at their desk occasionally?” She jokes, attempting to play it off with a watery laugh.

“Let’s step into my office,” he responds softly, not giving her a chance to reply as he turns and walks away.

She sighs, tipping her head back and uttering a quiet “fuck” before following him.

“Want to tell me what’s really going on?” Royce says, perching on the edge of his desk and folding his arms, as she closes the door behind her.

The weariness that has weighed upon her since her discovery of the upcoming Targaryen trial settles over her with a heavy finality, as she meets his gaze with exhausted resignation. 

“I can’t do this, Royce. Put me back on the Flea Bottom curfew piece.”

“What? Why?!” He narrows his eyes, leaning forward slightly.

“Rhaenyra - Aemond’s half sister - is doing an interview of her own.”

“So?”

“With White Knight Magazine.”

“Ah.”

“The deadline is too tight, I’ll never be finished in time.” She sags against the office door, wrapping her arms around herself.

“What’s the hold up?”

Exasperatedly, she drags a hand through her hair. “I have all of my interviews with Aemond to transcribe still, and that’s before I even begin writing the piece. On top of that, I now have to interview Aegon and Helaena, and I–”

“Woah”, Royce interrupts, “the brother and sister have agreed to be interviewed by you?”

“Yes, tomorrow, and I haven’t even started my background research on them yet. What am I going to do?!”

Royce reaches behind him, lifting the box of Kleenex from his desk. He gently tosses it towards her and she catches it, smiling gratefully as she plucks one out to dab at her eyes and nose.

“You’re going to go home, and do your background research, and prepare for your interviews tomorrow. You can leave your transcription with me. I’ll do it for you.”

“You?” She looks at him wide eyed with incredulity, balling the tissue up in her fist. “You didn’t even want me working on this story in the first place, why would you want to help me?”

“It’s not entirely selfless”, he says with a shrug, “this feature will be huge for The Gazette, it’s in my best interests to make sure you get it done.”

“Makes sense,” she admits with a nod. “Thank you.”

“Send me your audio files,” he instructs, pushing himself back into a standing position, “and then go home and get to work. Your runny mascara is bad for office morale.”

Face given a thorough clean with a wet wipe, a few hours later she sits curled up on her sofa, her gaze fixed intently on her laptop. Royce offering to do her transcription for her has shifted some of the burden from her, and she feels lighter as she clicks through each of the articles she finds regarding Helaena and Aegon Targaryen.

Helaena seems like an anomaly within the family, a blinding white beacon of joy within an ocean of misery. She is heavily involved in environmental conservation, an activist for animal rights and has received several awards for her charitable work. If she has anything at all positive to say about her younger brother, then it would be a huge help to the article.

Aegon, on the other hand, is not quite so impressive. There is little to no evidence that she can find which alludes to his morality or personality, though if the photographs splashed across trashy tabloids of him drunkenly falling out of nightclubs, and parading down the street with an ever changing array of women on his arm are anything to go by, then it’s not good. There’s a small article regarding his brief stint in a rehab facility, which offers a glimmer of hope, but only the interview itself will tell for certain.

As her taxi drives slowly up the expansive and seemingly never ending driveway of the Targaryen-Hightower mansion the following morning, she is momentarily stunned by the grandiosity of it all. She had known the family was rich, but this seems obscene. The property is located on a hill in the centre of King’s Landing, which overlooks the city, serving as an unnecessary physical reminder of how far above everyone else the family is, or at least considers themselves to be.

Her driver had been buzzed through the main gate via an intercom on the drive up to the house, so she is surprised to find no one is waiting for her once she steps out of the car. Standing in front of the large, forest green front door she lifts the ring pull of the bronze dragon head knocker and raps it against the wood three times.

She shuffles from foot to foot, anxiously waiting. A full minute passes and she is about to knock again, when the door swings open. A mop of disheveled, wavy, silver blonde hair and tired blue eyes greet her as she looks into the face of Aegon Targaryen.

As her gaze travels downwards she sees he is dressed in only a pair of low riding grey jogging bottoms and a dark green robe, which isn’t tied. She falters, blinking rapidly and clearing her throat, as she looks back at his face. The lazy smirk painted across his features is unnerving.

“Mr. Targaryen?”

“Aegon,” he corrects her. “You the reporter?”

She nods, shifting her bag to the opposite shoulder. “Right…Aegon. Am I too early? Larys said 11am.”

He gives a slight shrug. “I must have gotten carried away with my beauty sleep. Guess you’d better come in.”

Aegon leaves the door open, padding on bare feet through the foyer. She follows him, eyes wide as she takes in the opulence of the high ceilings and expensive art that adorns the walls.

He leads her through to the kitchen, opening the double doors of a large silver refrigerator.

“Get you a beer?” He asks, pulling a bottle out before biting the cap off with his teeth.

She winces. “Not for me, thanks, bit early.”

He takes a drink, nodding as he mulls over her response. “I’d offer you a bloody mary, but we’re out of tomato juice.”

She is about to laugh, until she sees that he’s sincere, so bites back the urge. “Honestly, I’m fine. Got a water bottle in my bag.”

“Fair enough,” he utters, leaning forward on his elbows on the kitchen island as he sets the bottle down. “So, how does this work?”

“I just want to ask a few questions about your brother, Aemond. Have you got a place you’d like to go to do that?”

“Why not right here?”

She raises her eyebrows slightly, taken aback by the informality, before nodding. He watches her intently as she rummages in her bag, taking out her dictaphone and placing it on the granite surface that separates them. “Will we not be interrupted?”

“Nah, mum’s gone with grandad to visit Aemond. That’s why Larys set up the interview for today. They’re pissed off that he’s spoken to the press, so better for you to be here when they aren’t.”

She purses her lips, pushing down her unease, before nodding towards the dictaphone. “I need to record this. That okay?”

His gaze rests upon the recording device for a moment, before he takes another long swig of his beer. “Yeah,” he finally says.

She pulls out a wooden bar stool, sitting upon it before she presses record. “We’ll start with your childhood. What was Aemond like growing up?”

“A twat,” Aegon shoots back quickly, causing the corners of her mouth to turn up into the faintest of smiles.

“Can you elaborate?”

Aegon sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “He just…took everything really seriously. He never had a sense of humour about anything.”

“So, you didn’t like him?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“What are you saying?”

“He’s my brother, I love him, we’re just very different.”

“Different how?”

“Aemond is ambitious, he’s hard working. I’m not, I just want…”

She raises an eyebrow as he trails off. “You just want..?”

“To be happy,” he mutters.

“And are you?”

He scoffs. “I thought this interview was about my brother?”

“Do you think your brother was ever happy growing up?”

“He had his eye carved out of his skull when he was ten, of course he wasn’t!”

“By your nephew, Lucerys?”

Aegon’s brow furrows with anger, his tone dark and clipped. “Little shit got what was coming to him.”

Her breath catches in her throat, her blood turning icy in her veins as she stares at him, wide eyed. Slowly, with a shaky hand she reaches forward to press the stop button on the dictaphone. 

Aegon drains the remnants of his beer, heavily setting the bottle back down and lowering his gaze as he grips the edge of the kitchen island.

When she eventually finds her voice, it comes out as a strained whisper. “Do you think Aemond killed him on purpose?”

His mouth quirks, eyes obscured slightly by the hair that has fallen into his face as he looks slowly back up at her. The air feels thick, and she realises she’s holding her breath as she waits for him to respond.

“Is this the lady that’s here to interview us?” A quiet voice comes from behind her.

She jumps, turning on her stool to look at the woman that hovers in the kitchen entryway, dressed in a white vest top and powder blue harem pants. Her hair falls in soft, loose, silver blonde waves almost to her waist, her eyes hold a faraway, dreamy quality. This must be Helaena.

Aegon nods. “Yeah, she was just interviewing me.”

“Oh…” Helaena deflates slightly, clasping her hands in front of. “I’ve interrupted.”

Her brother shakes his head, pushing away from the counter and walking from the kitchen. “No. No, you didn’t. We’d just finished, all yours.”

She watches him retreat, before turning her focus to his sister.

Well, that’s the end of that then.

“Hi,” Helaena says with a soft smile, extending her hand as she steps forward. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

She takes her hand, feeling the Targaryan woman noticeably flinch at the contact, giving it the briefest of shakes before letting go. “You must be Helaena.”

“I am,” she says nodding, clutching her hands in front of her once more. “Sorry about Aegon, he just has a hangover…he always has a hangover.”

Her gaze turns sad and she looks away. For a few seconds it seems as if she’s not even there anymore, and she wonders where she’s gone, before Helaena returns to the present and smiles once more.

“Shall we go up to my room?”

She trails after her up the stairs, looking at the antiquities that decorate the vast amount of space that makes up the house, until they reach Helaena’s bedroom. Stepping inside she is taken aback by the brightness of it, it feels like she has entered another universe separate from the darkened surrounds of the rest of the mansion.

Floral wallpaper adorns the walls, with a variation of frames containing pin mounted insects and butterflies. She turns to a shelving unit, picking up an expensive looking crystal beetle to examine it as it sparkles in the sunlight.

“This is beautiful,” she muses more to herself than Helaena.

“You like it?” She asks, causing her to look up, suddenly embarrassed at having handled a stranger’s belongings without asking.

“Sorry,” she replies, flustered, placing the beetle back on its shelf. “Never seen anything like it.”

“You can have it if you want,” Helaena quips with an easy shrug.

She blinks rapidly, unsure if she has heard her correctly. “Pardon?”

“If you like it, you should have it,” she tells her, sitting on the edge of her bed.

It’s a sweet gesture that comes from a place of childlike innocence, but is also indicative of how shockingly out of touch wealth makes people. Of course she doesn’t mind if she gives away something so expensive, not when the resource is there to easily replace it.

“That’s very kind, but I couldn’t,” she says, taking out her recorder. “I don’t want to intrude upon too much of your day. Shall we get started?”

Helaena is easier to interview than Aegon had been. She speaks kindly of Aemond, and as she listens she finds herself feeling more and more sad, not just for Aemond but for the entire family. Helaena had always wanted a sisterly relationship with Rhaenyra, but with a seventeen year age gap and Rhaenyra’s apparent resentment at no longer being an only child, it never happened. Where Aegon had often made fun of her, Aemond had been good to Helaena when they were growing up, patient and understanding of her tendency to daydream and fascination with insects.

“I don’t want my brother to go to prison,” she says sadly, “I just want us to be a family.”

“Do you think that that’s what Aemond wants too?”

“I don’t know what my brother wants anymore. I don’t think he knows himself.”

As her taxi drives her back towards home, dread settles in her stomach like a heavy stone. She can’t help but wonder what Aegon would have said if Helaena hadn’t interrupted them. There is no denying that the Targaryens are a family that are steeped in tragedy, but amidst it all something unseen and sinister lurks, looming with the sense that by the time she stumbles upon it, she’ll be too far in to back out.

“For you,” Royce says the following morning, depositing a USB drive onto her desk.

“Are those the transcriptions?” She asks, looking up at him with wide eyed wonder. “That was quick work.”

“It’s a tight deadline”, he replies with a smirk. “How did your interviews go yesterday?”

Little shit got what was coming to him.

She draws in a breath, unsure of what guides her actions. “I only interviewed Helaena in the end. Aegon was too hungover.”

“A shame, but one interview is better than nothing. Send me the audio and I’ll transcribe that for you too, so you can crack on with the writing.”

“You’re a lifesaver, thank you.”

“I know,” Royce says with a wink, before walking away.

She picks up her dictaphone, hovering over the audio file for Aegon’s interview.

Little shit got what was coming to him.

There is no way she can allow Royce to hear that, though she cannot put her finger on why. Before she has a chance to dwell on it further, she erases the recording and gets to work uploading Helaena’s to her computer, then emails it to Royce.

Over the following week, she works hard on the feature, painting a picture of the enigma that is Aemond Targaryen in his own words, as well as his sister’s. It’s a heart wrenching piece, a tale of a misfit little boy, maimed at the age of ten and left to live with the consequences of it. However, instead of collapsing into despair or falling back on a comfortable lifestyle, funded by his family’s fortune, he had studied hard and was an accomplished solicitor within his grandfather’s law firm. He had overcome his disability to train in athletic pursuits such as mixed martial arts and long distance running, and is knowledgeable in the fields of both history and philosophy. There is no denying that Aemond Targaryen is impressive, even without having to navigate the difficulties of losing an eye.

Once the article has been thoroughly vetted by Royce, it goes to print, landing on newsstands the exact same day as Rhaenyra’s interview in White Knight Magazine. Aemond cuts an imposing figure in the photograph used in the double page spread, a sinister presence in direct opposition with the content of the article. And still there is something that niggles at the back of her mind, a stone she has left unturned. Was she right to omit Aegon’s interview? She supposes it is of little consequence, it’s too late now. 

White Knight is a larger publication, so occupies a more prominent shelf space than the Duskendale Gazette. However, upon news spreading that a feature with the elusive Targaryen second son is contained within its pages, it sells out quickly, with an urgent extra print run needing to be made to supply the demand for more copies, despite additional copies having been printed in the first place, in anticipation of the article’s popularity. But they hadn’t anticipated just how popular the feature would be.

As she stands in the newsagents, looking at both publications on the shelf, she is struck by the thought that this presents itself as forcing the public to choose a side, despite neither article making mention of the murder or impending trial.

She reads Rhaenyra’s feature, and cannot help but feel sympathy for her. A young woman whose world was rocked when her best friend had married her father after her mother had died, and then made to feel displaced by the children that that relationship had produced. Already having to deal with the animosity that divides the family in the wake of her father’s death, she now must cope with the grief of losing her son.

Whose side should she choose? She wishes more than anything that Aegon had answered her question, it would doubtless make for an easier decision.

Her phone buzzing in her pocket pulls her out of her reverie and she huffs an irritated sigh as she sees Larys’ name flashing on her screen. She had assumed her dealings with him would be over once the article went to print. It appears she was wrong.

“Nice work,” he drawls into the receiver once she’s answered. “You’ve painted quite the picture.”

“Has he seen it?”

“Aemond? Yes, I ensured he received a copy this morning. He’s pleased with how it’s turned out. That’s why I’m calling, actually.”

“The article’s published, what more is there to say?”

Larys clicks his tongue, his tone dripping with condescension. “Now, now, we did you a favour in letting you run this feature. You’ll have every publication in Westeros beating down your door to commission you after today. Don’t you think a little gratitude is in order?”

“Gratitude?!” She snipes back. “Isn't it enough that I’ve painted a rosy picture of a…”

Murderer.

She can’t bring herself to say the word, there is still a seed of doubt in her mind, yet Larys knows what she means regardless.

“Alleged,” he corrects her. “All Aemond wants to do is say thank you, surely a phone call couldn’t hurt?”

“Do not give him my phone number,” she seethes.

“Very well. But you’ll be at the trial?”

“It’s a closed courtroom.”

“It is. Selected press only, to avoid it becoming a media circus, but I can get you on the list.”

“I’m not supposed to be covering the trial.”

“And you won’t be, don’t worry, I can still get you in.”

“You’ve come this far. May as well see it through to the end.”

Aemond’s words echo in her mind, and she relents with a sigh. It’s not as if she isn’t curious. “Alright, fine.”

“Excellent. See you then.”

The line goes dead.

The trial is to last three days. A day for the prosecution to deliver their testimonies, a day for the defense to present their case, and a day for the jury to deliberate and then pass their verdict, with subsequent sentencing from the judge. Rhaenyra is pushing for a murder sentence, while the other side of the family argue it was an accident.

The tightly wound knots of dread that have made their home inside of her over the last month are prominent as ever as she arrives at the courthouse on the first day. She is ushered in after giving her name, though not towards the sparsely populated press seats as she had assumed she would be.

Bile rises acridly in her throat, her eyes widening in horror as she realises she is being led towards the public gallery to sit with Aemond’s side of the family. Despite wanting to remain neutral, she is being given a side, without the option to choose, though deep down she knows she had subconsciously made her choice the moment she decided to interview Aemond. The idea makes her feel nauseated.

The entire family is tense as she takes a seat next to them. Aegon side eyes her uncomfortably, while Helaena, though she forces a smile, is fidgety and withdrawn. It’s clear she would rather be anywhere but here. Otto bristles at the sight of her, rising slightly from his seat, before Alicent places a hand on his forearm, urging him back down again.

“Aemond wants her here,” she whispers, patting her father’s hand as he sighs and turns his gaze ahead.

Despite defending her presence, the Hightower matriarch doesn’t acknowledge her, keeping her eyes fixed upon her nails, which look red raw around the edges.

An eerie silence falls over the courtroom as Aemond is led out towards the dock, accompanied by a prison officer. He is stony raised as he is seated, keeping his attention fixed on a far point towards the back of the room, though she is certain that for just a second she sees his eye flicker to her, the briefest of smirks tugging at the corners of his mouth. Her stomach somersaults and she forces herself to look away. When she looks back, he’s staring towards the back of the courtroom once more.

“All rise for the honourable Judge Wylde,” a member of staff calls out, and she stands with everyone else, watching as the judge sweeps into the courtroom, taking a seat at the bench, before they are all instructed to sit once more.

Rhaenyra’s solicitor, Erryk Cargyll, delivers the opening statement for the prosecution’s case, claiming that his client has grounds to believe that the death of her son was deliberate and premeditated.

The hours feel as though they drag by as statements are delivered by Rhaenyra, her sons, Jacaerys and Joffrey, and her husband, Laenor. Though all are clearly emotional, and still reeling from the death of Lucerys, none of them actually saw what happened. The evidence is all purely circumstantial, with nothing concrete. Rhaenyra appears visibly distressed, and her heart aches for her knowing that Larys is likely to tear her apart during his questioning.

She isn’t wrong. Larys’ questions hinge upon the fact that her dislike for her half siblings is what guides her judgements and he repeatedly asks if she saw what happened. She appears flustered, stumbling over her words, growing more emotional as the questioning grows more pointed.

Looking over at Alicent, she sees a harrowed look in her eyes, her expression solemn as she stares wide eyed at her former friend from the public gallery, gripping her father’s hand tightly. It is awful to watch, and she is desperate to leave.

Unsurprisingly, Aemond is calm and collected as he is questioned by both Larys and Erryk, keeping his answers clipped and simple. Saying that he had been eager to get away from the family gathering, and had not seen Lucerys as he’d struck him in his haste to drive off. He never falters, even under the heated cross examination from Erryk, asking if he’d been motivated by the injury sustained as a child in his killing of Lucerys. Aemond replies with a simple “no, it was an accident”,

By the time the court is adjourned for the day, she is exhausted both mentally and emotionally. She feels for Rhaenyra, it is clear to see how much she loves her son, and she just wants justice for him. Yet her case is flimsy, and she knows that Aemond’s defense will deal the killing blow tomorrow. On the other hand, Aemond could be telling the truth, in which case, horrible as it is, is it fair that he should be hauled over the coals for an accident? He’ll serve a prison sentence either way.

Despite her tiredness, sleep does not come easy for her that night, knowing she will have to do this all again tomorrow.

The following day, as she’d expected, the defence tears apart Rhaenyra’s case, especially when they call Dr. Orwyle to the witness stand. He is apparently the doctor that had treated Aemond when he initially lost his eye, and had helped him with pain management and rehabilitation in the years that followed.

The doctor’s statement deduces that Aemond’s lack of depth perception means it is not advisable for him to drive at night, due to reduced visibility, so it is entirely plausible he would not have seen Lucerys at all as he’d driven away.

Larys’ closing statement underscores it all; “so, you see your honour, my client was in such emotional distress that evening that he felt he had no choice but to leave. It was an honest accident. Is Aemond Targaryen careless? Yes. But a killer? No.”

“Fucking liar!” Rhaenyra cries out, jumping to her feet, her voice fraught with emotion.

“Order!” Judge Wylde shouts across the courtroom.

She bows her head, drawing in a withering sigh. The trial is over, it’s just the verdict and sentencing to go now.

When she looks back up, a shiver runs the length of her spine; Aemond is staring directly at her. He’s smiling.

She allows her curiosity to get the better of her, once the court is adjourned for the day, catching up to Aegon as he walks from the courtroom. He whips around as she gently grabs his arm, his brows knitting together in confusion as he looks at her.

“I’ll never hear the end of it from Mum, if she sees me talking to you,” he mutters, attempting to pull away.

“I know,” she says, stepping in front of him to block his path, “but I’ll be quick. I just need to know, when I asked you the other day if you thought Aemond had killed Luceys on purpose, what would you have said if Helaena hadn’t interrupted us?”

Aegon sighs, rolling his eyes as he steps around her. “I think you already knew the answer to that when you omitted my interview. It doesn’t matter really though, does it?” He says to her, as he begins walking away. “He’s going to prison either way.”

His words bring her little comfort, and she stands, watching with unease, as he descends the steps at the front of the building. In a sense, he is right, it doesn’t matter now, and her article is already published. She hates herself for it.

She feels sick with nerves the following day, as the final closing statements are read out, and she’s unsure why. Aemond is nothing to her, and yet she feels that she has played a part in this all the same, will somehow be responsible for whatever verdict is reached, whether it’s the right one or not.

 The faces of Rhaenyra, Laenor and Jacaerys are sullen and angry on one side of the courtroom, while Alicent and Helaena look fraught with worry. Otto and Aegon sit stony faced and impassive.

It takes the jury just one hour to reach their verdict.

The clerk of the court calls out, “Will the foreman of the jury please stand? Have you reached a verdict on which you are all agreed?”

When the foreman answers in the affirmative, the clerk continues. “On the first count in the indictment, murder in the first degree, do you find the accused guilty or not guilty?”

“Not guilty.”

Rhaenyra collapses into Laenor’s arms with a sob, as Jacaerys jumps to his feet, shouting obscenities. It’s not until Judge Wylde threatens to have him removed that order is restored in the court, and the verdict can continue.

She looks to Aemond, sitting in the dock, his gaze lowered, the silver strands of his hair obscuring his face, so she’s unable to see his reaction, but she can tell from the movement of his wrists that he’s fiddling with his fingers. Is he nervous? He has been so stoic throughout this entire process, to see him falter is unnerving. She finds herself unable to look away as the final verdict is read out.

“On the second count in the indictment, manslaughter, do you find the accused guilty or not guilty?”

“Guilty.”

Aemond looks to his mother as the verdict is read out, her brown eyes doleful and filled with tears as she gazes back at him. Rhaenyra storms from the courtroom, the heavy wooden double doors flinging wide open as she departs, quickly followed by Laenor and Jacaerys.

“He’s going to prison,” Helaena whispers sadly.

“That was always going to happen,” Aegon retorts with a heavy sigh.

When the judge passes a sentence of ten years, Alicent buries her face in her hands and sobs.

“He’ll be out in five, if he behaves himself”, Otto says quietly, in an attempt to reassure her.

“But our family is torn apart forever,” she whispers tearfully.

She has seen all she needs to see, and cannot stomach watching or hearing anymore. Rising from her seat, she hurries from the courtroom and outside to the top of the steps, sucking in steadying breaths to help calm the rising panic within her.

Her obligation to Aemond is complete, so she doesn’t understand why this has affected her the way it has. Likely the result of being trapped in such a toxic setting for the last three days, which makes her all the more determined to get away.

Pulling out her phone, she is about to open the taxi app, when Larys calls to her from the entryway of the courthouse. “He’d like to see you.”

“What?!” She asks incredulously, turning to look at him with a scowl. “What for?!”

“To say thank you, and goodbye. You rejected the offer of a phone call, perhaps you can give Aemond a few moments of your time to say his piece in person?”

“I’ve just given three days of my life watching a grieving mother be made a mockery of for his benefit, don’t you think he’s had enough from me already?”

“I can get you into the holding room for a few minutes, before his family go to see him, ahead of him being transferred back to Dragonstone. Just a few minutes, and then all of this is behind you. He has asked to see you specifically.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose exasperatedly. “You aren’t going to take no for an answer, are you?”

Aemond would look handsome in the all black, expensively tailored suit he’d worn for court, were it not for the handcuffs that bind his wrists together, reminding her that he’s a convicted criminal.

“Speak then,” she says, as she sits down opposite him.

“I just wanted to say thank you, truly, for the article you wrote. You really are a talented writer, and I’m sure great things are in store for you.”

She purses her lips, humming in acknowledgement, uncomfortable with the compliment. “That’s quite alright.”

“I really enjoyed our chats together. I’m going to miss them.”

She frowns, not at the words themselves, but the fact that they are sincere. He means what he’s saying. “It was for a professional purpose,” she insists.

He shakes his head, leaning forward against the table. “I know you enjoyed them too.”

She shifts uncomfortably in her chair. “Well, they’re over now.”

“They don’t have to be,” he says with a shrug, “ten years is a long time, plenty of time for us to chat.”

She leans back, away from him, the familiar weight of dread settling over her once more. “Aemond, I don’t think that’s a–”

He lurches forward across the table, grabbing her forearm, almost painfully so, his tone desperate and pleading. “Say you’ll come to visit me!”

She is unsure of whether it’s because there’s a part of her that secretly wants to, because she can’t bear to see the look of anguish in his eye any longer, or if she just wants him to let go of her so she can leave, but she finds herself whispering back in a trembling voice “okay, I will”.

It is not a promise she keeps.

Larys had been right, her article about Aemond is the spark that reignites her career. In the weeks following the publication of the feature, her email inbox had been inundated with offers of work from editors across a variety of different media outlets.

She had spent a long time chained to a desk at “The Wall” of the Duskendale Gazette, she did not much fancy swapping one static position for another. Eager to spread her wings, she had handed in her notice, despite Royce’s offer of a promotion. She craved freedom, and with her pick of what publications to write for, she made a successful career of freelancing. Over the next few years she had articles published in broadsheet newspapers and glossy, high end magazines alike, covering current events and interviewing high profile public figures. She made a comfortable living, until eventually she accepted the job of commissioning editor at Gold Cloak, a fashion and lifestyle magazine with a huge circulation and an even larger salary. She is almost able to put to the back of her mind the person who put her there in the first place. Almost.

In the months following Aemond’s sentencing, she had received several calls from an unknown number. On the one occasion she had picked up, it had begun with the automated message “an inmate from Dragonstone Prison is trying to reach you…” She had hung up immediately, her heart lurching, remembering she had said she would visit him, but knowing full well she couldn't. Not because of the morality of the situation, but because of how strong her desire to go actually was. That was a part of her she was eager to suppress. As the calls had continued, she had eventually opted to change her number, and after that they had stopped.

Aemond Targaryen is no more than a meager itch at the back of her mind now. It has been five years since she last spoke to him.

The sunshine warms her skin through the glass of the café window as she sits at the rounded wooden table, leaning back in her chair as her eyes scan over the article she has just had emailed to her. Deadline day is approaching for Gold Cloak, as they gear up to go to print with their next issue, and the last few stragglers are finally submitting their copy. It’s an odd sensation to be appraising the words of others, instead of writing her own, but she’s worked hard to get to this point, and it’s satisfying to be in a position where she is considered senior enough to dictate the contents of a major publication, not just contribute towards it.

Making the most of a work from home day, she has elected to visit her local coffee shop, watching the world pass by on a busy side street of King’s Landing, while the spicy aroma of her chai latte comforts her as she works.

She frowns when the sunlight she had been enjoying morphs into muted darkness. Her breath hitches, and she lets out a frightened gasp as she looks up to see Aemond standing over her.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says softly, “I saw you as I was passing and I wanted to say hello.”

His words do little to comfort her, and her eyes desperately scan the coffee shop. It’s relatively busy, with lots of people, witnesses. Good.

He smirks. “I’m not here to hurt you, don’t worry.”

She swallows thickly, shifting to sit fully upright in her seat. “What are you–”

“I only served half my sentence, I was let out on good behaviour. I’m not an escapee, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

“Right, right…” she mutters, attempting to get her thoughts in order as her heart feels like it’s set upon hammering its way out of her chest.

“Mind if I sit?” Aemond says, gesturing to the empty seat opposite hers. “Might make you feel better if I’m not looming over you.”

What can she say? She looks around the café again, deciding she doesn’t want to cause a scene. “Yeah, sure.”

He pulls out the chair, sitting opposite her. Aemond is not quite as intimidating as she remembers him, though she supposes the only time she’d ever seen him before was in prison sweats or dressed for court. Today, as the sun dapples across his pale skin, he looks softer somehow, not nearly as scary as she’d once thought. His long silver blonde hair is pulled up into a low bun, and he’s dressed casually in a black leather jacket, a dark green henley and black slacks tucked into black Doc Martens.

She closes her laptop, perching her elbows on the edge of the table and resting her chin on her hands as she looks at him.

“I’m sorry I never–”

“So what are you–”

They both pause, smiling awkwardly as they begin to talk over each other, before Aemond gestures towards her. “You first.”

She nods, leaning back again, drumming her fingers softly on the table. “I never did come to visit you. I’m sorry.”

He shrugs out of his jacket, letting it drape across the back of the chair. “It was wrong of me to ask you, to be honest,” he admits, “I’d just never opened up to anyone like that before, and though I knew the consequences of the accident, none of it really felt like it was happening until it did. I panicked.”

The accident.

She finds it odd that he refers to in such a way, but he seems so different now, less tense, and she feels herself beginning to relax. Perhaps it really was an accident?

Wrapping her hands around her cup in a bid to ground herself, she nods. “So how long have you been out?”

“A few weeks,” he tells her, his hands coming to rest upon the table as he turns a stray sugar packet around in his fingers. “It’s been a bit of an adjustment.”

“You’re looking well through,” she blurts, before she has time to stop herself.

He smirks and she feels her skin grow hot as he retorts “I could say the same about you.”

She clears her throat, eager to switch gears in the conversation. “So, are you gonna grab a coffee, or are you just passing through?”

“Well, actually, since I’ve run into you, I wondered if perhaps you’d like to join me for something stronger?”

She raises her eyebrows. She knows it’s a bad idea, the trouble is the voice telling her that is not as loud as the one screaming at her to say yes.

“What are you having?” Aemond asks as they stand at the bar of Maegor’s Holdfast.

“Glass of Rioja, please.”

Aemond nods, turning to the bartender. “Bottle of Rioja and two glasses, please.”

“A whole bottle?!” She hisses, as the bartender moves away to fetch their order.

Aemond gives an easy shrug. “We’re both having the same thing, it makes more sense to share a bottle, than two separate glasses.”

“So, what are you doing with yourself these days?” Aemond asks, as they sit in a cosy corner of the pub, sipping their wine.

“Working, mostly,” she tells him, “I’m commissioning editor for Gold Cloak Magazine.”

“Impressive,” he says, raising his glass to her. “You’ve done well for yourself.”

“Thanks to you,” she replies quietly, a heated feeling of shame feeling as though it envelopes her. She’s keen to change the subject. “So, what’s going on with you?”

“I can’t return to Red Keep Legal, I’m no longer allowed to practice law. I figured I’d study in another field, maybe history or philosophy, see where that takes me. I’m living back with my mother until I get back on my feet.”

“How’s the family?”

“Mother is okay. Fussing over me far too much now that I’m back. Grandfather has retired, he’s gone back to Oldtown, got himself a nice little cottage. It’s fairly quiet at the house, feels empty.”

“Are Helaena and Aegon not there anymore?”

Aemond shakes his head, taking a long sip of wine before speaking again. “Helaena’s currently overseas in Qarth, doing a conservation study on some sort of beetle. Aegon’s gone to Braavos, he’s decided a life by the sea suits him better now that he’s sober.”

“Aegon’s sober?!”

“Yeah, it surprised me too. Apparently his drinking got quite a lot worse after I was put away. Mother finally had enough and forced him back to rehab. It stuck this time.”

“Good for him. I’m pleased.”

“Hmm. Enough about my family, I want to know all about your new job. Tell me everything.”

Over the next few hours, they fall into effortless conversation, and as one bottle of wine turns into two, it’s easy to forget the nature of their unusual relationship, it feels as though she’s chatting with an old friend.

She tells him all about the freelance work she’s undertaken over the last few years, as well as how she found herself with a job offer from Gold Cloak. They chat about music, films, share jokes and anecdotes, though always careful to avoid mention of Aemond’s incarceration or anything related to it. Aemond is witty, oddly charming and fiercely intelligent, if she hadn't interviewed him in the wake of his nephew’s murder then she could definitely see him as someone she’d be attracted to.

As she drains her final glass of wine, the second empty bottle calling out like a beacon that it’s time to go home, she feels fuzzy headed, her eyes and limbs heavy.

Oh shit, I’m drunk.

She stumbles as she rises from her seat, and Aemond places a steadying hand on her arm, the warmth she sees in his smile as he looks down at her taking her breath away. He looks nothing like a killer, just an ordinary man.

“Come on,” he says, offering her his arm, “I’ll walk you home.”

It doesn’t occur to her to ask how he knows where she lives as he walks her back to her block of flats. Her mind feeling thick from the effects of the wine, she doesn’t resist when he leans down, his lips pressing against hers as he steps her backwards over the threshold of her front door.

He dominates the kiss, the taste of red wine upon his lips potent and sweet. He holds her tight against him, his mouth devouring hers. Their movements are needy and desperate as her hands help to push his jacket from his shoulders and it drops to the floor, along with her laptop bag, with a soft thump. It’s enough to temporarily break her out of her passionate haze and she pulls back reluctantly, her voice a shaky whisper.

“We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Hmmm, and yet it’s happening anyway,” he replies huskily, his hand coming to rest at the back of her neck as he kisses her hungrily once more, his tongue licking greedily at hers.

Every part of her mind that is screaming at her to stop is silenced by his lips, all sense and inhibitions dulled by alcohol. Having been career focused for so long, her love life has taken a backseat, she can’t remember the last time anyone touched her like this. It’s exhilarating to feel wanted, desired, and so she loses herself in the sensation, her mouth moving against his with equal enthusiasm as they stumble back towards the sofa.

He presses her into the plushness of the cushions, the pair of them hastily kicking off their shoes, before he settles on top of her. He trails hot, open mouthed kisses over her jaw and neck, before bringing a hand to the front of her blouse, a quick flick of his wrist tears it open, sending buttons clattering onto the glass top surface of the nearby coffee table.

Before she is able to protest, she is silenced once more by the feel of his mouth upon her, lavishing attention to the swell of her breasts, visible over the tops of the cups of her bra. How is he able to do that, to obliterate all of her thoughts through mere touch alone? It’s dizzying, and her breaths quicken, turning to soft pants as his path continues downwards, leaving a blazing trail in its wake as he shifts his lips to her stomach. His hands roughly tug down her leggings, as he pulls away, tossing them carelessly over his shoulder once they’re all the way off.

As he rests on his haunches over her, she is painfully aware of the imbalance; he kneels before her, fully dressed, while she is beneath him in just her underwear. She squirms slightly in embarrassment, feeling her skin grow heated.

It’s as if he’s able to read her mind, his lips twitching with the ghost of a smirk as his seeing eye stares her down, darkened with arousal. Grabbing the hem of his shirt he tugs it up over his head, allowing it to follow the same path her leggings had.

She feels her core throb with want as her gaze travels down his bare torso. Lean, lithe hardened muscle defines his chest and abdomen in a way that she has only ever seen before in Grecian statues. He descends upon her again, not giving her the opportunity to admire him for long, covering her body with his own as he captures her lips again, his teeth nipping delicately at her bottom lip.

His knee nudges its way between her legs, pushing against her through the lace of her knickers, and she whines into the kiss, her mind immediately racing back to all the times his knee had bumped hers during their interviews. Is this what he’d wanted all along? The idea makes her pulse thrum and her blood run hot. It’s sick and twisted, but she can’t find herself to care, not when the friction of his actions feels so agonisingly addictive. 

His lips pull away from hers, and his hand snakes between their bodies, taking up the space his knee had occupied until just a moment ago. He cups her mound through the fabric of her underwear, humming in satisfaction as she bucks her hips against his palm, chasing the pressure his knee had given her.

“Eager little thing,” he whispers darkly, hooking a finger into the elastic of her gusset and tugging it to one side.

It isn’t until the coolness of the air hits her bare flesh that she realises just how wet she is, and she’d feel ashamed were it not for the fact she can see Aemond’s pupil dilate at the sight of it.

He teases the pads of his fingers through her folds, spreading the stickiness of her arousal from her sensitive bud to her opening and back again. Her breath hitches at the sensation, every nerve ending in her body feeling as though it’s aflame.

“You’re soaking,” he murmurs, eye flickering up to meet hers.

She opens her mouth to respond, but before she can get the words out, he’s bringing his fingers away from her core and pushing them past her lips and into her mouth. She mewls around his digits at the tart taste of herself upon her tongue, and as he takes her hand, bringing it forward to cup the hardness of him through his trousers, she finds herself sucking on them, palming at him eagerly simultaneously.

He groans quietly, pressing himself against her touch. “Good girl.”

Withdrawing his fingers from her mouth and swatting her hand away gently, he unbuckles his belt, leaning back over her as he unbuttons and unzips his trousers, pushing them down along with his boxers just enough to free his erection.

She cannot see it, but the feel of it, heavy and leaking, pressing against her entrance is enough to have her walls clenching, eager to take him inside. The initial stretch to accommodate him as he presses forward causes them both to sigh softly in unison, his brows furrowing with exertion as he pushes all the way in to the hilt. The fullness of it makes her ache, and she rolls her hips impatiently, desperate for him to move.

“So needy,” he chastises quietly.

“Please,” is all she’s able to whimper in response.

His hand moves to the back of her head, grabbing a fistful of her hair and gripping it tightly. He holds her in place, so she has no choice but to look at him as he drags his hips back before snapping them forward again.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

She should stop this, they’ve gone too far already, but the buzz of the wine is still coursing its way through her, and with every brush of the head of his cock against the sensitive spot deep inside of her, the urge to put an end to what’s happening rapidly fades.

Her legs tangle with his, as she meets him thrust for thrust. He is slow to withdraw, but quick to slam forward again, driving him impossibly deep into her. His grip on her hair and the forced eye contact make it almost too much to bear. The intensity with which he looks at her, studies the contortions of pleasure her features morph into, is torturous, yet she never wants it to end.

Clinging to him tightly, her fingernails dig crescent moons into the flesh of his shoulder blades, his jaw beginning to slacken as with every push forward she feels him pulsate. He’s getting close, and she is too, the tell tale tensing of her thighs and quivering inside of her letting her know she’s edging closer to her peak.

She is desperate to turn her face away, not wanting to be staring directly into his eye as she falls apart, but Aemond’s grip on her hair is iron clad, she cannot move her head. With one last push forward, she tightens and spasms around him, a broken cry escaping her as she stares at him, eyes wide and brows knitted together as warm waves of pleasure ripple through her.

Something akin to a growl rumbles in Aemond’s throat, and she feels him still, knowing he’s about to reach his own end. Not wanting her own ecstasy to be short lived by him pulling out, she is quick to reassure him in a breathy whisper.

“I’m on the pill.”

“I know,” he groans, before letting go, spilling himself inside of her with a grunt. He lets go of her hair, burying his face into the crook of her neck as his body shudders, his length twitching and pulsing within her sensitive heat.

They remain tangled together for a few moments, both breathing heavily as they attempt to recover and slowly come back down to earth. As the blissful fog begins to lift, she is struck by a realisation.

I know.

“How do you know I’m on the pill?” She asks, her voice quiet and hoarse.

Aemond lays quiet for a moment, his breaths warm and moist against the flesh of her neck as they calm. When he eventually pulls back and looks at her, there’s something different in the way he looks at her. His stare is cold, almost crazed, similar to what she had seen the day they’d first met in the visitors room of Dragonstone Prison.

“I know everything about you,” he says with a soft smile, that doesn’t play upon the rest of his features.

Her heart lurches in her chest, fear turning her blood icy, the effects of the wine disappearing entirely as she’s left starkly sobered.

“What do you mean?” She asks quietly.

He hums thoughtfully, brushing her hair away from her face in a gesture that could be considered affectionate, were it not for the sudden change in atmosphere.

“I suppose there’s no point in keeping secrets, not now we know each other so…intimately,” he muses. “I enjoyed our talks together, I wanted them to continue, but when it became clear to me that that wasn’t reciprocated, I needed a way to continue to keep in touch. So I had you watched, followed, everything you did was reported back to me. It’s made the last five years more bearable still having a connection to you. It’s been better still being able to keep tabs myself over the last few weeks.”

Tears prickle her eyes, a wave of nausea sweeping over her. “You’re sick!”

“Am I?” He asks, cocking his head as he strokes her hair absentmindedly. “Or is that you? Because for me, our little tryst seems perfectly normal, an inevitability, considering my interest in you. However, for you, you barely know me. I’m someone you interviewed half a decade ago, and you opened your legs for me the very same day I happened to make you aware I was back in your life. I’d say that makes you a whore.”

“Get off!” She cries, squirming beneath him, attempting to push him off. The thought that his softening member is still nestled within her has her reeling with disgust. He is stronger than she is though, and refuses to budge, keeping her right where she is, as he grips her jaw tightly, forcing her to look at him.

“Behave,” he hisses, “you’ve seen what happens to people who anger me. You sat through an entire trial for it.”

“That was manslaughter,” she says in a trembling voice, a tear trickling down her cheek.

“That’s what I was sentenced for, yes, but I’ll tell you a secret…I saw Lucerys, and I drove my car towards him anyway.”

He laughs softly, as he gazes down at her, her eyes widened in horror, as her chest heaves. “His expression was rather similar to yours, actually, when he realised what was about to happen.”

“You’re a murderer,” she sobs, frantically trying to push him off of her.

“Oh, darling,” he soothes mockingly, “but you did such a wonderful job of portraying me as otherwise.”

“What are you going to do to me?!” She asks, panic fluttering acridly up from her chest and into her throat.

“Nothing at all, if you don’t overreact. Don’t get any funny ideas about going to the police either.”

“What?!”

“I don’t think your career could withstand such an enormous blunder, not a second time anyway. Imagine how that would look, the second time you’ve painted a criminal as a saint, and not only that but this time you’ve slept with him. That would be quite the fall from grace.”

He pins her wrists above her head, though all the fight has left her, she sags beneath him, hot tears flowing freely down her cheeks. “I can’t believe this…”

“Believe it,” he hisses. “You’ve built your career on the back of me, and I think it’s about time you repay the favour. For five years you’ve enjoyed success, all thanks to me, while I rotted in prison. You owe me.”

“What do you want from me?” She asks weakly.

“Nothing I haven’t had already,” he tells her, leaning down to run the tip of her nose against her cheek. “Be sweet to me, and I’ll be sweet to you, because if you try to take me down over this, I can guarantee you have much more to lose than I do.”

Her stomach turns, her eyes closing in defeat. There is no escape from this, she simply has to accept her fate or endure mutually assured destruction.

Aemond’s expression has softened when she opens her eyes again. His hands move from her wrists to her hands, entwining their fingers. “There she is,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “No more tears now, you’ll spoil all the fun we’re going to have together.”

This is a nightmare, This is a nightmare. Wake up.

As she feels him harden inside of her once more, the heartbreaking realisation that she’s not dreaming settles over her. This is a waking nightmare, and it’s only just beginning.

Part two || Series masterlist

[defectivevillain]

indigo

pairing: Eddie Brock/Reader/Venom Symbiote/Agony Symbiote

reader's pronouns are they/them; race and gender are ambiguous and no physical descriptors are used

summary: “You’re….” Eddie chokes out, not wanting to get his hopes up. But he recognizes the fatigue in your eyes; the tension in your shoulders; and the hidden synchronicity stringing you together. “Like you?” An alien voice growls. A deep blue mass stretches across your face, seeping through your cheekbones and down your neck. You bare your teeth and Eddie is surprised to see inhumanly long sharpened teeth and a drooling tongue. The sight is painfully familiar: it appears nearly identical to Venom, save for the color. In the blink of an eye, the mass is gone, leaving you to stare at him with a sympathetic smile. “Yes.”

word count: 4.2k | ao3 version

I did some research on the wiki and watched a few clips of the movie, but that’s the extent of my canon knowledge. As such, this won’t be canon compliant.

In this fic, the reader (you) is an experiment of the Life Foundation. Dr. Drake decides to try bonding you with a symbiote. While the union works, it ultimately backfires for him—as you manage to make your escape and go into hiding with the symbiote. Without a symbiote to bond to her, Dr. Skirth ends up living… and once Eddie escapes from the facility, she introduces the two of you.

warnings: canon-typical blood, violence, gore, cannibalism, and human experimentation; vomiting and sickness

There’s someone Dr. Skirth wants Eddie to meet. He hates meeting new people, but he owes Dora a favor, so he agrees to meet up with you in the park under the cover of night. Eddie doesn’t know anything about you, other than the fact that you’re a friend of a friend. According to Dora, you’re also tied to the Life Foundation (how that connection manifests, Eddie isn’t sure). Honestly, Eddie just hopes his meeting with you will be useful. Meanwhile, Venom is, understandably, skeptical about the meeting. They make sure to complain to him several times as he makes his way to the park, and they are only satiated with the promise that they can eat you if you somehow turn out to be a villain. 

Unfortunately for Venom, you don’t appear to be a villain. Rather, you’re wearing deceptively casual clothing: a simple sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers. Your hands are shoved in your pockets; there are dark circles under your eyes and you’re staring down at the cracks in the pavement as you stand under a flickering streetlight. There are scars marking nearly every visible part of you—stretching up your collarbone, running down your face, laced across your hands. One thing is abundantly clear to Eddie in that moment: Life Foundation has left its mark on you, too. 

If you sense him staring, you don’t comment on it. Instead, you just look up and send him a hesitant wave. “Hi,” you say, extending a hand to shake as you introduce yourself. Eddie blinks at you for a moment, before introducing himself in return. After a second, he takes your proffered hand and shakes it firmly. His eyes catch on your cracked knuckles and everything seems to fall into place. It appears you’re far more similar to Eddie than he first thought. 

“You’re….” He finds himself choking out, not wanting to get his hopes up. But he recognizes the fatigue in your eyes; the tension in your shoulders; and the hidden synchronicity stringing you together. 

“Like you?” An alien voice growls. A deep blue mass stretches across your face, seeping through your cheekbones and down your neck. You bare your teeth and Eddie is surprised to see inhumanly long sharpened teeth and a drooling tongue. The sight is painfully familiar: it appears nearly identical to Venom, save for the color. In the blink of an eye, the mass is gone, leaving you to stare at him with a sympathetic smile. “Yes.”

Eddie stares at you in disbelief, amazed by your composure. Right now, he feels as if Venom is in complete control. Yet you seem able to switch between your symbiote and your own visage at will. It’s as if the two of you are in complete agreement. “How…?” He trails off. 

Half of your face is overtaken with the alien entity. “We are Agony.” A warped voice responds, a blend of your voice and the alien’s. Slowly, the alien—Agony—drips down your face and disappears from sight. You’re staring at him with a patient expression now. “We can help you.” You state matter-of-factly. 

Eddie isn’t sure what to do with that offer. He finds himself mechanically proceeding through the rest of the conversation, just barely staying afloat amidst the realization that there may actually be someone willing to help him. A few days ago, Eddie would’ve maintained that he didn’t need help; today, he’s grateful for the offer of assistance that he knows he needs. He has no idea how to navigate this tumultuous new existence he finds himself sharing with the alien creature inside him. 

He locks eyes with you, and an unspoken understanding passes between the both of you. There is a visceral fuzzy feeling in Eddie’s chest, as he stares into the eyes of the one person who could ever truly understand his new life. You stare right back at him, evidently having similar thoughts. The two of you are tied together by fate and its cruelties; you have virtually no choice but to lean on one another, lest you both return to your loneliness. 

Eddie leaves twenty minutes later with your number in his phone and plans to meet with you the next morning. He’s fairly hopeful about it—from what he could tell, you seem like a genuinely kind person. Worn thin from the trials you’ve been forced into, but kind nonetheless. Eddie tries to puzzle out how you could still have sympathy for a world that has shown you nothing but malice. 

“Don’t trust them.” Venom growls, breaking Eddie out of his thoughts. He feels the symbiote’s restless energy humming along his skin, creating goosebumps that run down his arms as he walks home.

Whether Venom’s remark is a profession of their suspicion or a warning, Eddie isn’t sure. He sighs. “Let’s give them a chance,” Eddie maintains, shoving his hands in his pockets as he continues down the street. “If they somehow turn out to be evil, you can eat them. Okay?” 

Venom is silent for a while. “Fine.” They eventually respond, clearly not happy about it. But the renewed promise of food must be too good for them to turn down. 

Eddie nods, secretly relieved. Admittedly, he’s pretty optimistic about you: you appear healthy, sane, and most importantly, comfortable in your own body. You don’t appear to be constantly at war with yourself, which is rather similar to how Eddie feels at the current moment.

“War,” Venom remarks. There’s no telling whether they possess the same spectrum of emotions that humans do, yet they’re speaking with clear sarcasm. “Very dramatic, Eddie.” Eddie just rolls his eyes. 

The rest of his day passes without much fanfare. He eats a rather bland dinner and falls asleep earlier than normal, if only to quiet his restless thoughts. Before long, it’s the next morning—and he’s freshening up before heading out to the diner you agreed to meet at. 

You’re waiting for him in a brightly-colored booth. Eddie walks over to you, muttering a greeting as he takes the seat across from you. You slide a coffee mug over to him, which he drinks gratefully. His curiosity seems to linger in the air around both of you, until you’re relenting and telling Eddie about yourself. He told you about himself when you met last night; now, it’s your turn to tell your story. 

What Eddie hears is enough to turn his stomach and effectively rid him of his appetite. Essentially, you were one of the human captives used as experiments by the Life Foundation. You describe a constant state of numbness at war with dread and fear. You explain how you were practically left to rot behind those glass walls, until it came time for you to be the next test subject. You recount how you were exposed to the blue symbiote… and how, upon your successful union, Life Foundation planned to experiment on you further. By the time you’re describing your escape, Eddie is resisting the urge to reach out and place a hand over your shaking one—desperate to provide comfort to the one person who understands what it’s like to have a parasite living inside them. 

“Not a parasite,” Venom hisses, breaking Eddie out of his thoughts. They sound strangely offended by the remark.

“Right, they don’t like being called that,” you murmur, tapping your fingers rhythmically against the table. Eddie blinks, thrown back into reality. “Symbiote is better.” Agony interjects. You seem entirely unbothered by the interruption. 

An awkward silence descends across the space for a moment, before Eddie blurts out the first thought that comes to mind. “I’m hungry,” Eddie frowns. Indeed, his stomach aches with emptiness—despite his knowledge that he ate just before falling asleep the previous night. 

“We’re hungry.” Venom corrects him. 

You’re looking at him—them, Eddie reminds himself—with amusement. The expression is fleeting. “Right,” you then say, as if you’re just remembering. A grimace rises on your face. “Well. There are two options: chocolate… and human brains.”

Eddie stares at you warily. He didn’t think you were the type to joke about things like this, but it just sounds too far fetched to be real. He must’ve misjudged you, somehow. As if sensing his doubt, you attempt to explain further. 

“I know, I was skeptical too,” you admit, rubbing a hand over your face. While your relationship with Agony seems a lot more clearly defined than Eddie and Venom’s, there’s still a lingering exhaustion written in the lines of your face. You take a slow breath. “Their species requires different nutrients than ours: namely, phenethylamine.” 

“Human brains are better.” Agony states. 

You sigh. “It’s true. Chocolate is really only a temporary fix, because it doesn’t last nearly as long. The two of us have struck up an agreement to only eat bad people, so there’s at least a bit of morality involved...” You break off, clearly sensing Eddie’s impending dread. 

There’s no way around eating humans. It takes him several seconds to process this. Eddie doesn’t want to believe it—doesn’t want to think about the feeling of human matter stuck between his hooked teeth; doesn’t want to think about waking up in the morning, sweat-soaked and stained with the dried blood of a dead stranger. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, your brows furrowed. Eddie hates how sincere you are. And he especially hates how he takes comfort from your reassurance. It shouldn’t mean anything to him—he never cares what people think of him. But the fact that you can not only sympathize with him, but also empathize with him, is rather significant. 

“We can do this,” you promise him. Eddie finds himself oddly appreciative of your choice of wording. You chose to say “we,” as if explicitly confirming your support for him. “We’ll help you.” You repeat. 

“Okay,” he responds stiffly, not trusting himself to say anything else. The two—four—of you spend the rest of the meal in silence. Eventually, the warm sunlight trickles through the windows next to you and breakfast is over. Eddie and you leave the restaurant and stop on the sidewalk outside, turning towards one another. 

“I’ll text you,” you promise. “Let me know if you need anything.” Eddie nods quietly. As if sensing how overwhelmed he feels, your expression morphs into one oddly reminiscent of… affection. “Take care of yourself, okay?” Eddie assents and tells you to do the same, at which a smile rises on your lips. Oddly short of breath, Eddie manages to tear his eyes away and utter a goodbye—though your smile remains in his thoughts for the rest of the day. 

Eddie begins to make progress, slowly but surely. With your guidance, he learns how to communicate better with Venom; fight with their assistance; and even nourish himself better. None of it seems to be important, in the face of the realization that his life will never return back to normal. But, somehow, the satisfied smile on your face when he accomplishes something is enough for Eddie to keep pushing himself. 

Since your first meeting, Venom has warmed up to you a lot more—to the point where they have started speaking to you directly, instead of just speaking to Eddie. Agony has still remained a bit more withdrawn and silent, but their presence is keenly felt regardless. 

Eddie still has moments when he feels as if the world is caving in on him—as if the faces of passerby are contorted in disgust and fear (which was an unfortunate reality in the beginning days of his union with Venom). There are nights when he wakes with dried blood flecked across his skin, but he has grown accustomed to washing it off and forgetting it in the morning. You are a constant companion during these moments, and, sometimes, your touch is the only thing that grounds Eddie to the world around him. Safe to say, the two of you have taken to staying at each other’s apartments more often than not. 

On a few rare occasions, Eddie is the one to hold you—as you remember confinement behind cold glass walls and calculating eyes watching your every move. Eddie can’t imagine what your captivity and torture at the hands of Life Foundation was like… And he’s certain he doesn’t want to think about it, because it will only make him feel even worse. While you’ve both been bonded with symbiotes, Eddie escaped the cruel experimentation that you were subjected to. He was just visiting to get information for an article; you were bound in chains and thrown behind nearly impenetrable barriers. 

Overall, though, things are going well. At least, Eddie wants to think so. But then the universe wants to spite him, and he wakes up one morning feeling as if he was hit by a truck. He’s practically stuck to the cushions of his couch, his limbs as heavy as bricks. His throat is overwhelmingly dry; there’s a bitter taste in his mouth; and, try as he might, he can’t seem to wrench his eyes open. 

“Eddie? …Eddie? Shit.” 

Eddie wakes to a frigid cold. He shivers instinctually, blinking past a strange sheen over his eyelids. It takes his vision several moments to clarify past a swirling blur. His temple is nearly pulsating with pain; his stomach aches and his skin is coated in sweat. Eddie twitches, recognizing your blurry silhouette and realizing you must’ve dumped cold water on him to wake him up. Even now, as he’s been torn from sleep, he’s struggling to stay awake. 

“Eddie?” You ask, sounding very concerned. Eddie isn’t sure he can remember the last time someone was so worried about him. The thought saddens him. Your hands move to his shoulders and you shake him slightly, your brows furrowed. “Can you hear me?” The most Eddie can manage is a weak nod in response. 

“Doesn’t… feel right.” Venom adds. This may be the first time Eddie has ever agreed with Venom.

“Eddie’s sick,” you respond to the symbiote. 

Eddie isn’t able to register much more of your conversation with Venom—not when his ears are ringing and he feels a familiar prickling nausea at the back of his throat. Eddie slowly pushes himself up. Upon realizing that the feeling is steadily climbing up his throat, he clumsily gets to his feet and stumbles towards the bathroom, just barely making it to the toilet before vomiting. Eddie can’t quite comprehend what’s happening, other than the burning sensation assaulting his throat and the sudden feel of someone rubbing his back reassuringly. You’re crouching next to him, saying something he can’t make out. Venom responds for him. 

At some point, he stops throwing up and attempts to rest his head. You put the toilet seat down and flush it, before allowing him to do so. Eddie feels a foreign gratitude for the kindness you’re showing him, despite the monster living inside him. The cold porcelain is a welcome sensation on his sweat-soaked skin. 

“Not a monster,” Venom reminds him. Even his companion’s voice is quieter, as if accommodating the headache migrating through his temple and down into his cheekbones and jaw. Eddie doesn’t have the energy to argue. He blinks slowly, the lights of the bathroom only making his headache worse. He feels rather woozy. 

“Here, let’s get you up,” you suggest. Eddie can hardly move, yet your hands bracket his arms and you’re pulling him up as if he weighs nothing at all. (That is likely due to Agony’s help, but he doesn’t exactly have the wherewithal to recognize that). Eddie lurches to the side ominously, but Venom extends a makeshift arm and rights his balance. With Agony, Venom, and you combined, Eddie makes it back to the couch easily. You help him sit down before walking into the kitchen. You return moments later to press a glass of water into his hand. 

Eddie gulps it down greedily. Or, at least, he tries to—only for you to reach out and stop him from drinking any more. “Not too fast,” you remark, taking the glass from his hand and placing it on the adjacent coffee table. “Wait ten minutes or so, just to make sure you can keep it down.”

Eddie stares at you for a long moment, frowning. He hears himself blurting out his thoughts before he can think any better of it. “Why are you here?” Eddie croaks. He is the complete opposite of presentable at the moment; the last thing he wants is for you of all people to see him looking so pathetic. Eddie isn’t exactly sure why he wants to make such a good impression on you, but… he supposes that doesn’t matter now. He can muse on the exact nature of his feelings towards you at a later date, when he doesn’t feel so uncomfortable in his own skin. 

You blink at him for a moment, evidently contemplating the question. “Alone.” Agony responds. Eddie squints at you, watching as the symbiote’s midnight blue mass crawls up your shoulders, as if wrapping an arm around you in reassurance. You don’t even flinch at the sudden presence of your companion. Instead, you take a slow breath and look at Eddie once more. “When it happened to me, I was alone. It was… an isolating experience. I don’t want you to feel the same way.” You explain. 

You then reach down, as if to touch him, only for Venom to protrude from Eddie’s shoulder and snap at you. At least, they attempt to—only for Agony to intercept them and snap threateningly in return. Eddie watches the whole scene through hazy eyes, half-convinced that he’s having a fever dream. Eventually, Agony and Venom seem to resolve their dispute and you reach out towards Eddie again, placing your hand on his forehead to check for his temperature. Eddie can’t stop himself from sighing in relief at your cool skin. You only frown, looking more worried. “You’re burning up,” you say to him. 

“Hot.” Venom adds, clearly feeling a bit of Eddie’s own discomfort. “Like flames.” 

“He has a fever,” you respond, getting to your feet and moving to the kitchen once more. You come back moments later with a towel in hand. Eddie dazedly watches as you approach, folding the towel before placing it on his forehead. He exhales slowly as the cold fabric brings a welcome sensation of frigidity trickling down his temple, fighting off the flames licking at his skin. He’s not sure how long he sits in silence until you’re breaking through it. “Here, it’s been ten minutes. Can you sit up a bit?” You ask. 

Eddie lets out a pained whimper, practically sinking back into the cushions of the couch. Venom stretches out of his back and props him up to a sitting position. Thank you, Eddie thinks. Then the symbiote rises to grasp his forearm, guiding him to grip the glass of water and take another sip. Venom and you then help him return to a reclined position. 

Eddie’s eyelids are stinging with exhaustion. He’s desperately fighting off sleep—blinking tiredly with extra effort. “It’s okay, you can rest,” you reassure him, noticing his fatigue. “We’ll be here when you wake.” 

That comforts him far more than he’d like to admit. Before long, Eddie is slipping into sleep once more. 

“Cared for you,” Venom says days later, when Eddie has mostly recovered. They’re sharing a quiet moment in Eddie’s apartment, sitting on the couch and staring at the television on low-volume. “For us.”

Thinking about his sickness last week, Eddie can’t help but feel humiliated and weak. He’s still embarrassed that you saw him in such a state; frustrated that he needed assistance with even the simplest of tasks; and… grateful, despite it all. You stuck with him in the following few days, giving him medication when needed and ensuring he had enough to eat and drink. You were a constant presence, to the point where Eddie found you asleep on the armchair in his living room numerous times. That sight will be forever burned into his brain: the peaceful expression on your face as your chest rose and fell calmly. He had never seen you look so vulnerable before; and even in the midst of his sickness and the ensuing vulnerability he was forced to show, he felt himself wanting to protect you. It was a foolish thought: Eddie knew you were more than capable of protecting yourself. But perhaps it was just the domesticity of it all—the thought of you becoming a permanent fixture in their life. 

Venom breaks him from his thoughts with a gentle tap at his wrist. Eddie recalls their prior statement and hums. “They did care for us,” he agrees. Venom crawls down his forearm, stretching to inhabit the space between his fingers in what he assumes to be an imitation of hand-holding. There’s an unsettled energy to the symbiote’s presence. Eddie feels a frown overtake his lips. “What’s wrong?”

“It was too quiet.” Venom’s confession settles in the air around him, inhabiting every nook and cranny of his dimly-lit apartment. 

“Sorry,” Eddie eventually murmurs. He’s not sure why he’s apologizing, when the sickness wasn’t under his control. But that tone in Venom’s voice provokes guilt and remorse in him, for reasons he can’t quite elucidate. 

“Don’t do it again.” Venom commands. 

“I don’t really have control over that,” Eddie huffs, attempting to diffuse the sudden tension that settled over the space. Venom lets out a threatening growling noise and he quickly caves. “Fine, fine. I’ll try.”

“Try.” Venom repeats, equal amounts of wry amusement and frustration in their voice. Eddie just hums in response, grasping the symbiote’s tendrils with renewed vigor. Now that he thinks about it, Venom seemed uncharacteristically withdrawn during his sickness: as if they were afraid of pushing him too far past the brink of his energy.

“Sorry,” Eddie whispers again. Venom tightens their grip on his hand in response, and the two of them sit there for a long time after—hands conjoined and fates lovingly intertwined. 

Eddie doesn’t get a chance to thank you until a few days later, when he’s sure his sickness is gone and can safely dismiss the thought of getting you sick. Eddie and Venom meet Agony and you as the sun sets over the horizon, in the same spot where you first met all that time ago. 

Standing under the flickering street light in the park once more, Eddie is unspeakably thankful that he took a chance on you. He can’t imagine where he would be now, without your support. The thought dominates his mind, to the point where he finds himself uttering it aloud moments later. “I don’t know what I would do without you,” Eddie says. 

“You’d be just fine,” you remark with a smile. The way you look at him only adds more fuel to the fire of Eddie’s foolish hopes. When he sees that gleam in your eyes, he can’t help but envision a shared existence: not among two beings, but among four. The thought is misguided and horribly insistent, popping up during the most inopportune of moments. 

Eddie sighs. “I’m serious,” he maintains, trying to convey his sincerity. It seems to work, because you pause and look at him with widening eyes. “I- I couldn’t have done this alone. We couldn’t have done this alone.” Eddie corrects himself, when he can sense Venom about to object. The symbiote drags a tendril down his ribs, in an approving movement that makes his heart race. 

“I’m happy I met you,” you admit. “Selfishly speaking.” Agony crawls up your skin and pops out of your shoulder; Venom does the same, and the two have a conversation in a chittering language that Eddie and you can’t hope to understand. Meanwhile, Eddie is unable to deny your magnetic presence; he can’t help but gravitate towards you. He takes a step closer—past a socially acceptable distance—and stops, trying to study your expression and ascertain your comfort. Eventually, he surrenders and decides to just speak his thoughts.

“Can I…?” Eddie breaks off, unsure of what he’s asking for at the present moment. His thoughts are quickly cascading into a territory far past platonic companionship, but suppressing them is a lost cause. He’s spent too long denying himself the life he wants. Venom crawls up his chest and stretches across his shoulders in a reassuring gesture. Comforted by the reminder of Venom’s presence, Eddie clears his throat and summons the courage to finish his sentence. “Can I kiss you?”

You take a step closer, rendering the distance between the two of you nearly nonexistent. Your hand falls to his forearm and Eddie looks into your eyes, a nervous anticipation running through him as he sees you nod in agreement. “Yes.” You whisper, so quietly that Eddie nearly convinces himself that he imagined it. But before he can second-guess himself, you’re closing the gap between you and kissing him. 

You’re standing so close together that the two of you are practically fusing. Eddie’s hands fall to your waist; your hands cradle his jaw. Agony and Venom prickle along their partners’ shoulders, dripping down your chests and mixing together. Distantly, Eddie remembers how lost and alone he felt when Venom first fused with him. He has long grown out of the feeling, and wonders if, perhaps, that sensation was trying to tell him something. Perhaps, this entire time, existence was meant to be shared amongst three others—rather than just one. 

These philosophical thoughts quickly fade to the back of his mind, as your fingers trace his jaw and slip down to the nape of his neck. Venom rises to meet your hand, just as Agony trickles down your side and runs along Eddie’s knuckles. One realization immediately takes precedence over everything else running through Eddie’s mind: 

He’s never felt so alive.

endnotes: this is definitely the queerest fic I've ever written. and I love it.

Me: I can hardly write kissing scenes with two people. My writer’s brain, cackling: Hear me out. What about… two people and two symbiotes? Me: What. The. Fuck.

thanks for reading! <3

check out my other works, sorted by fandom.

general taglist: @its-ares @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @kingkoku @the-ultimate-librarian @gayaristocrat

friendly reminder that i don't give permission for my writing to be shared to other sites, stolen, copied, translated, or used in any way. thanks!

[aticklishpercivalwriter]

Home (is wherever I’m with you) -fic

For Artists Who See Their Art on My Fics Link to Art (chosen by Perz): credits go to @buffkagome (anby ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚) on Twitter!) Sethos/Scaramouche

Summary (by Perz): Just them being lovey dovey, ticklish boyfriends :)

Perz: Another submission by @vaporized-dimsum! This time a fic! I want to express my gratitude and deep thanks to her for this gift and allowing me to post it here for all of you to enjoy! Couldn’t stop kicking and crying at how cute this was, so aah!

Word Count: 2609

Also on AO3!

—

The Temple of Silence, as one might expect, is a quiet place. Wanderer is quick to grow fond of it compared to the racket of The Akademiya. And of course, seeing Sethos in his home and amongst his friends and family was a pleasant sight too. Not that he would ever tell him that though.

The elders adored him and were always fussing over whether he was eating enough, and the kids never seemed to leave him alone. Since Wanderer was to remain in Sethos’ presence for the duration of his stay, that meant he was fussed over and never left alone either. It was… nice.

Playing with children was like a muscle he hadn’t stretched in a long time. Still, even after centuries it felt as though it was second nature.

Sethos’ heart swelled watching Wanderer interact with the little ones. Letting them play with his hat (no, he wasn’t jealous at all), bringing him things to levitate with his Anemo Vision, chasing him as he hovered away at a slow pace. The cherry on top was the sweet sweet smile on Wanderer’s face that he managed to hide pretty well until the very end. Sethos likened it to catching a shooting star for witnessing it himself.

“What’s that look for?” He muttered when the elders called the children to them.

Ah. He’d been caught staring again. Sethos chuckled. “You’re good with kids. It’s real cute.”

“Hmph. They’re simple creatures, easily entertained. It’s not difficult to manage them.”

Sethos opened his mouth to quip but a little one had called his name. He turned and got down on one knee as they approached him. Wanderer let himself stare now that his back was turned. The intricately styled braids in his curly hair. The gold accessories and freckles. Down past his broad shoulders to his spine where his clothes parted into a tasty back wind—

Oh?

Sethos patted the child on their head as he graciously accepted the golden Sumeru roses they had gifted him. One for him, and one for their guest. He was pretty sure this little one had developed quite a puppy crush on Wanderer too. Sethos grinned watching them go. He totally knew that feeling.

“Wow, Hat Guy. You’re popular wherever you g- IIEHEHE—!”

The squeal bounced off the four walls and left a deathly silence in its wake. Both green and indigo eyes were wide with surprise, but Wanderer’s were quick to narrow deviously.

“What was that all about?” He asked with the innocence of a kitten despite his curled fingers.

Sethos cleared his throat and stood up clumsily, “A-Ah, well one of the little ones entrusted me with gifting this to you. Pretty, isn’t it?”

He shows Wanderer the gold rose and to his relief, it actually does distract him. Temporarily anyway. Enough that Sethos, against his better judgement, comes closer to tuck it behind his ear.

“It looks good on you with your dark hair.”

Wanderer feels his face grow warm, “If you say so.”

Like magnets, they draw closer to each other until their lips nearly brush.

“Was that you I heard laughing, Sethos?” Said one of the adults in passing.

The two of them broke away swiftly, cheeks burning. “U-Uh, yeah! Just me!”

The woman in the doorway chuckled, “It’s been awhile, hearing you get all giggly like that. Your grandfather loved to tickle you and cuddle you when you were small. It was so cute!”

“Really?” Wanderer echoed.

Oh no.

“Tell me more. Sounds pretty interesting.”

Sethos waved his hands wildly, “H-Haha! Okay well that’s nice! You can go now, Aunty!”

“Alright, alright, I’ll stop embarrassing our great and glorious leader.” She bowed to them and as she walked away, she looked over her shoulder, “And to our kind guest, do be gentle with him. He really never outgrew how ticklish he is.”

Sethos gawked at the absolute betrayal by one of his own people. Desert aunties didn’t mess around. Sure she probably changed his diapers and bathed him but—

But he didn’t have much time to dwell on it with Wanderer’s eyes pinned to him. “Never outgrew it, huh?”

“Yeah yeah, laugh it up. Can’t we talk about something else? Or… finish what we started?”

Wanderer’s hands instinctively tug his shirt to pull Sethos closer for the kiss he didn’t get but he stops him halfway, “Not here. We can go to my room.”

“How scandalous.”

“Well if you don’t want me to kiss you, you’re welcome to not come with me.”

Wanderer rolls his eyes and follows after him. The living quarters are like a labyrinth of hallways but Sethos navigates them with no troubles. His room is full of leathery books, a few TCG decks, colorful handmade quilts, and a blooming mini succulent garden- courtesy of his friends, no doubt. It’s a bit messy, but full of life and an irresistible coziness. Wanderer feels right at home here despite this being his first time stepping foot in it.

Sethos now tugs on his wrists and sits him on his bed before diving in to kiss him silly. Wanderer can’t get a word out about how desperate and hot and bothered he’s acting but he doesn’t mind one bit. Being caged between his arms and eaten alive has never felt so wonderful.

Wanderer laces their bodies as close together as possible, and eventually, his fingers trail down his back to that sweet patch of exposed skin and—

Sethos all but squeals in his mouth. When he breaks away with wide crescent eyes, there’s a thin string of spit connecting them.

“Oh, I’m gonna devour you.” Wanderer growls playfully, licking his lips.

He doesn’t know how but Sethos quickly finds himself hoisted onto the bed and pinned under him. He hardly gets any protest in before that awful fluttery sensation runs all over his exposed lower back. And with Wanderer seated on his legs, he’s not going anywhere anytime soon no matter how badly it tickles.

And it’s bad.

“GYAHAAHAHAH- wait- wait! Not there! Not- baahahahah!”

He muffles his laughter in his pillows and blankets. Wanderer doesn’t know if he likes that or loves it. Sethos flails his limbs uselessly when he switches from fluttering to pinching and spreading the skin along the knobs of his spine. And when he scoots down to press into what’s practically his tail bone— that gets him howling.

“AHCK- oh SHIHIHIIHIHHIT! Hat- Hat GAHAHAAHAHAAHUY! I can’t!”

“Can’t what?”

“CAHAHAHAHAAHN’T TAHAHAKE IHIHIT! PLEHEHEEHHEHEASE, IT’S BAHAHAD!! IT’S SO BAAHAD!!!”

“Is it?”

“YEHEHEHES!”

“That’s a shame. I quite like this spot. You’ll just have to deal with it, little bee.”

“Nohohoho! Ihit’s really —KYAA!! WHAT IS THAHAAHAHAHAT?!”

“A dusk bird feather that I found in this book.”

“Jeheherk! I was using thahat as a bookm- MM! Mhmhmhmhm, stohohohop ihihihit! Lehemme tahahahalk! Honeehehey!!”

The soft plume licked and curled against his back, and his giggling was sickeningly sweet when it came to feathery tickles… Wanderer scoffed, “I’m barely even touching you.”

“Bahahaharely touchihihing is still touchihing!”

“Hah. That aunty of yours was right. What would your followers think if they heard their dignified leader giggling his pretty little head off, hmm?”

Sethos whined as he pressed his face further into his pillow and hugged it tightly, shaking his head in protest. The curves of his ears were burning up.

“No point in hiding it, little bee. I’m about to make you buzz nice and loud.”

He’d hardly processed what Wanderer said, let alone how it made him feel. Actually, that happened a lot faster. Because suddenly, his fingers were scribbling viciously into his armpits and Sethos screeched.

“NAHAAHAHAHAHAHHA! OH, MERCY!! HONEY!!! MERCEEHEEHEEY!!!!”

“I’m afraid I’m not much of a merciful guy.”

“ARCHOHONS! PLEHEHEASE!! I’LL BEG- IHI’LL BEHEHEG!!!”

“Oh? I do like the sound of that. Go on then. Beg me.”

He thrashed from side to side, pinning his arms down and trapping Wanderer’s hands in that tortuous spot. No matter where he went, the sensation followed. Unbearable and so so good, although he was pretty sure whatever words he did manage to get out weren’t in any intelligible language.

For all his bucking and twisting though, Wanderer decided to sit up just enough so Sethos flopped bonelessly onto his back before he locked him in place beneath him once more. He squeaked in protest as Wanderer stole the breath right out of his lungs. His tongue against his, his teeth tugging on his bottom lip, he felt like he truly was being devoured.

And he never wanted it to stop.

If he wasn’t human, would he be able to kiss Wanderer forever too? Without needing to breathe?

Sethos weakly clutched Wanderer’s wrists as his hands cupped his face, pulling with no strength whatsoever, “Hah- Hon’- please… air. Ngh— air. Can’t bre…hah…”

Wanderer pulled away and was convinced he could get off on just the sight of him. The dizzied and delirious look on his face. Warm brown skin and teary green eyes glittering like emeralds. That stupid stupid smile, shiny and red with spit and bites. His chest heaving.

What a sight to behold.

Sethos hiccuped, “Now w-who’s the one sta-aring?”

Wanderer caressed his face gently, thumbing over his cheekbone and puffy bottom lip until Sethos swiped his tongue against his skin playfully. Then hiccuped again. Cheeky brat.

“Looks like you’ve still got some fight in you.”

Even the buzz of his words against his lips tickles. Sethos licks the seam of Wanderer’s mouth, hiccups, and grins.

“I could do this all day, honey.”

“Figured you’d say that. Now let’s do something about those hiccups.”

Wanderer’s hands slide down his face and along the rise and fall of his chest. The hills and valleys of each rib under his coasting thumbs makes Sethos chortle desperately. And when Wanderer presses into the dimples of his hips, he all but melts.

“You like this spot, little bee?” Wanderer asks playfully with his spidery scribbly touch.

“Noho-HIC —I lohove ihih—HIC- it!”

Oh it’s awful. Sethos’ hips jitter and jump the more his hands draw inward towards his crotch. There’s a pulse point on an artery there. Humans, Wanderer knew, were chock full of weak spots.

And Sethos is endearingly human.

“Aww, thahahanks, honey. Tha—HIC—t’s real sweeheet.”

Wanderer blinked, he must’ve said that last part out loud. He stills his fingers and finally lets Sethos catch his breath.

Soon enough, Sethos crawls into his lap and plops his head on his thighs like a spoiled kitty cat. He sighs so contently, like Wanderer was the comfiest spot in the whole wide world. He nearly purrs when Wanderer runs his fingers through his hair.

“Mmm… that feels so good. Keep going please.”

“Pfft. This is how you treat your guests? Shouldn’t you be spoiling me?”

“Was obliterating me not enough? You’re the spoiled one.”

Wanderer rolls his eyes, continuing to massage his scalp and caress his face. He scoots back so they’re both more comfortable and now also blanketed. The boy in his lap might as well be a sentient pile of slime condensate.

“Honey’s skin’s so smooth…” Sethos coos, “And cool to the touch, too.”

He nuzzles Wanderer’s inner thigh with his cheek before humming a pleased sigh. In an instant, the sensation makes Wanderer clip his face between his legs, making them both yelp.

“I was so comfy…” He whines, “What’s wrong?”

Before Wanderer can even answer, to his dismay, Sethos puts the pieces together all too quickly. “Wait a minute-“

“No.”

“Are you?”

“I’m not.”

He’d responded too quickly both times, telling Sethos everything he already knew.

“You are, aren’t you! You lied! I knew you were lying!!”

Wanderer backs away to the foot end of the bed but it doesn’t put much distance between them before Sethos squishes him beneath his torso. Those green eyes are sparkling with a newfound discovery and revitalized mischief.

“You lied.” He states confidently.

“Like I’ve never done that before.” Mutters Wanderer, “Get. Off. Don’t you DAHARE—“

The weight he put in his elbows topples Wanderer the moment Sethos’ hands slide under his shorts and squeeze. The tingling ripples out from his thighs like his laughter in the room.

“FUHUCK! Sehethos!! Get ohoff! No- HYAH!”

He bonks his head against the footboard and then Sethos’ head too when he wedges his way into the crook of his neck. So close to the Electro mitsudono on his nape. The raspberry Sethos planted sparked his nerves into haywire.

“You keep your secrets close to your chest, huh?” Sethos grins. “Lucky for you, I’m great at keeping secrets!”

“Pihihiss ohohoff! Get your lips ohoff of mehehehe!!”

One raspberry twines into another all along his neck. And as it turns out, that weak spot on Sethos’ hips is just another thing they both share, his fingers climbing higher and higher into his shorts to scribble at it.

“Who’s got the most kittenish little meow meow laugh? Honey does! Honey does!” Sings Sethos, blowing gentle puffs against Wanderer’s ears.

“Shuhut uhup! Stuhupid little BEEHEEHEE!! NAHAAHAHAHAHA!”

“Huh, never realized your shorts have cutouts here.”

His hands felt so nice gripping his little waist, and yet all Wanderer could do was throw his head back laughing helplessly, “SETHOS! Dohohon’t! STOHOHOP IHIHIHIT!!”

“Don’t stop it? You know I’d never deny my honey anything.”

In addition to the warm glow of his cheeks, Sethos noticed certain patterns on Wanderer’s skin began to glow as well. Up his arms and legs, converging at his chest and even twining around his neck too.

“So pretty…!” He murmured enchantedly.

His fingertip traces along the patterns of light on his skin, following them everywhere they led. They seem to shine even brighter as he did so. And Wanderer’s giggles so adorably, Sethos almost stops.

Almost.

“Cuhuhut it ohout! Whehere do youhu thihink youhu’re touchihing?”

“Just when I thought you couldn’t get any cuter!” Cooed Sethos, “Do you light up when you’re feeling something intensely?”

“Ihintehense annohoyahahance, maybeheehee!”

“Aww but you seem like you really love being touched like this. You get all giggly and kittenish.”

If Sethos didn’t know any better, he might’ve briefly thought Wanderer was glowing pink. It seemed that this was Wanderer’s fear because he was quick to wriggle just enough out of Sethos’ arms to flop onto his stomach. In his worming away though, Sethos spotted the source of all his enchantment. The mitsudono on his nape.

“Ohh, is this where all the light comes and goes from?” Ponders Sethos, “Can I touch you here?”

“Haven’t you touched me enough?” Wanderer grumbles.

He spots Sethos move his hands away from him and even begin to give him some space. So his shit eating grin makes him want to forcibly remove Sethos from his own bed when Wanderer drags his hand back to his shoulder.

His hair covers some of the mitsudono, and Wanderer shivers when Sethos gently brushes it to the side. He’d always been aware of how the mark branded him. Sometimes it even felt like hot iron pressing into his skin. So when Sethos gently pecks it, Wanderer can’t help but jolt.

“Did that hurt?” Asks Sethos worriedly.

Wanderer buries his head in Sethos’ blankets. The scent of him nearly drowns out his boyfriend’s voice. He shakes his head.

“No, it didn’t. It… felt nice.”

Sethos sighed with relief, “Oh good. I’m glad. In that case…”

Wanderer’s shoulders jump as Sethos spoons him and smushes his lips against his nape. “Mwah mwah mwah!”

He clearly has no intentions of letting him go with how tangled together their limbs are. “Quihihit it!” Wanderer scoffs, “Araharen’t youhu tired of thihis yet?”

Sethos hums happily against his skin, “Of you? Never.”

[kneelingshadowsalome]

I have an odd request… perhaps a captain price fic where the reader is much younger and edgy- likeee covered in tats and stuff,, and price isn’t rly used to that but finds it hot as hell… idk maybe they work together ?? Smut ensues …

IDK I have tatts and wonder what he’d think of that 👹👹

Just an idea 💡❤️😫

Fire it Up (John Price x F!Reader)

Word count: 7.8 k

Tags/warnings: Smut 🔞 mutual pining, flirting, swearing, older man/younger woman dynamic, forbidden love, smoking & drinking, voice kink, a tiny brat taming kink squeezed itself in here too. Reader has tattoos and works as a coder at the base. Rough ~10yrs age gap described, reader is of age I hope to god it goes without saying (Price is canonically 37) Also: no use of 'daddy' in this fic

A/N: I'm so glad for this request anon and I hope you like what I made! Also people please be gentle, this is my first Price fic 🥹 God I wish I could attach the fat scent of cigar here to give you the full experience. 

You don't know what caught your attention first.

The cigar, perhaps. Or the beard? Might be his hips, the ass that tells you this man can fuck a woman for hours.

Or maybe it's the fact that he's too old for you.

No, not too old…

Just older than you. A decade, perhaps, if you were being gentle with him and lenient with yourself.

He certainly isn't old enough to be your father, but he wasn't the type of man your eyes usually drifted on either.

He looks like someone who's supposed to be fishing in Alaska, sucking that fat cigar while taking in the view of mountains while trying to catch wild fish in some wide, free stream. 

He's supposed to come home to a remote cabin: to his little wife who pours him a scotch after he has shown her what he caught today. Make sweet love to her while stars shoot and speckle the indigo night.

He looks like someone who makes love to women.

You, on the other hand, want to ride with him to the sunset on the back of a Harley, clutch his jacket as he drives you to some bizarre highway motel. You want to watch him drink that scotch from your navel. 

You'd do all kinds of crazy shit with him, keep his head between your legs with both hands, grind all over that mustache, and see how wet it gets. You want him to pound you with those narrow hips, take you from behind while you look back with parted, swollen lips and relish the sight of what must be a grown man's hardened body, covered with hair and scars and–

"The bug's still there."

You return to reality, look at the code on your screen, and then at your colleague, a 20-something bloke who looks at you with the lethargic stare that only belongs to techies. You've just been caught daydreaming your eyes off in the middle of a lazy afternoon. Coffee doesn't do shit after 2 PM…

"Yeah I know. I'm working on it," you say. But when the dude leaves, you decide it's time for a creative break. You tell yourself it's only because the code jumps on the screen, not because you hope to catch a certain someone smoking outside. 

The leather jacket is a little too much these days, but you throw it on out of pure habit. You realize the weight of your mistake when you go outside from the ventilated building and notice the sweltering heat. Spring has finally turned into summer.

Coffee doesn’t do shit, but it’s time for another kind of wakey-wakey. And butterflies are a funny term for something that mainly feels like it’s eating your insides out of pure excitement. 

Because he's here too.

Jonathan Price, although no one calls him Jonathan. Few call him John, either. 

Mostly, he goes by the title Captain.

He's stressed; you can tell. But his eyes soften immediately when they fall on you, a brief look to the side, just to know who else comes out to have a breath of fresh air or a smoke. He looks like he's been expecting you, but that might only be a silly girl's daydream. You two share a vice, and you've never been more grateful for your bad habit before this place and him.

And you wouldn't call it necessarily a bad habit. It's simply stress relief if you do it once or twice every few weeks. It's not like you smoke two packs a day. It's not like you even smoke one cig per day. 

Although ever since you started this odd little job in this odd little place, you've smoked one or two nearly every day… And it's not because of the stress.

It's because of Price. 

John. You’d like to see his reaction to you moaning that word in his ear…

"How long have you been here?"

His eyes are still on you, mouth covered by a hand as he makes love to his cigar. And that bedroom voice always gets you. It's better than the upcoming slow drag of nicotine. You're not here for tobacco at all.

"Two weeks." You reach for your excuse and try to prevent your hands from trembling as you light the cig. Usually, you're not this shy with people. Not with men, anyway. But with him, your wits and words disappear. 

You blow the smoke through the air with a quick, lively wisp where he lets it roll out his tongue in a heavy cloud. He's still watching you as if to weigh what kind of woman you are exactly.

"How about you?" You continue the small talk with nervous ease.

He chuckles; the little smile even shows a flash of teeth as he steals a look at the clouds, calculating years with those surprisingly lively eyebrows curled up toward the sky.

"Ages."

He's not that old. Perhaps well over his thirties, might be knocking his forties. The statement is merely an underline of his stress today. You can only wonder what kind of pressure the captain of Task Force 141 is under when you get sleepless nights from a stupid source code. There are a few wrinkles around his eyes, but they only tell you that this man smiles a lot. He might be the only one in this compound who smiles a lot.

"Have you ever tried a cigar?"

There's a glint in his eyes as he offers the thick roll of tobacco to you. It's suddenly difficult to breathe, difficult to even keep your thoughts together.

"No," you shake your head as if your answer wasn't enough to tell him he's the first person ever to offer you such a thing. Then you realize the word does not precisely deliver your eagerness to try that stout cigar.

"Would love to," you hurry to add with a soft smile. "Can I have a taste?"

He walks to you slowly, and your eyes drop to those hips, which sway like he's purposely trying to seduce you.

Fu–ck…

Then your eyes sink even lower, between his legs, to his fucking junk, and it's too fucking late–

Jesus–get your shit together…

You force your eyes back to his and see the little glimmer in them gain a surprised spark – you're totally caught red-handed on checking him out.

Fuck. How can you be so stu–

"Gently then, kid."

You swallow your heart and thoughts down and take the offered cigar; of course, your first thought is how thick and heavy it is. And somehow, you decide right then and there that you will no longer be the nervous, hot-cheeked woman on the corner.

It's time to make him flustered.

So you take a hollow-cheeked, slow suck on the fat cigar. A chaste, savory taste, more like, but there's nothing chaste in the way you raise your eyes to his, putting every ounce of soft seduction in that stare.

He draws breath slowly – his face is full of expression for an allegedly cold-hearted elite soldier. You don't know how often women flirt with this hunk of a man, but he sure looks taken aback by your sudden play. Probably thinks you're too young for him – and you curse the second time you put that jacket on. You want to see his reaction to your sleeves.

"Mm. It's thicker than I thought," you weigh the cigar between your fingertips and let the smoke roll out your mouth. The man switches his weight from one foot to another, speechless, and you suppress a big beam of a smile.

"The taste," you emphasize as if innocent, as if you didn't see that shocked little shift. "Round, and… god, it's almost sweet."

You smile as you give it back, and he chuffs an approving laugh through his nose – those eyes are bear-warm playful now, his mouth curves into an easy smile.

"Nice," you look him up and down as if you're talking about the man and not the cigar.

"Beats those little sticks." 

His voice drops down a few notes; it's almost a husky growl. You barely make out the words he's saying. The tension in the air could form little balls of lightning around you, the flirt is over the roof, and there's even no roof because you're outside – and you take your jacket off, slowly, to make it clear it's summer and not spring.

His eyes fall on the ink immediately, and he blinks a few times, draws some more breath – you tweet your thanks accompanied by another smile and go back inside.

You know he's checking your ass in those black jeans as you walk away.

….....

It doesn't end there.

You see him again and again and again, and at some point you realize he has to walk almost 100 meters from the other end of the base to get to the little corner where the two of you smoke. 

He's intrigued but decent. Holds a distance, never says anything that could be taken in the wrong way – or even in the right way. But he's fucking you with his eyes. 

No… making love to you.

And it drives you crazy.

You don't want that. You don't need that. To be that little wife in the cabin. Pouring him a drink, climbing in his lap, ghosting a finger down the stubble on his chin, see how wide and proud it makes him smile to hold you like you're his and his alone...

God. When did it come to this?

You suck on his fat cigar every now and then. Look him in the eyes while you do it. Once, it makes his tongue dart out, it wets his bottom lip, and then he does that thing with his mouth... the thing where he kind of purses his lips and it makes the mustache dip, and you realize, you learn it's a sign that he's restless, he's flustered.

You make the big, burly captain of Task Force 141 flustered.

And he doesn't smell like the people inside smell. Of stale coder sweat and Joy Division and soft drinks and mommy's home-cooked meals. He smells of rich forest and fine bourbon and half-burnt gasoline. Maybe Saxon on vinyl. Definitely beats those little sticks that are your nerdy co-workers at the hacker department, as you call it.

He may have a flask somewhere; perhaps he takes a sip or two every now and then, whether at work or not. And you don't blame him. Even with those laugh lines and that brown bear benevolence, you can tell he's seen things. 

You wonder what he's like out there in the field. Brutal? Or just efficient?

He never asks about your tattoos, but he eyes them often. There's a certain admiring esteem in his stare. He's checking you out, scratches his chin, and rips his eyes off when they start to drift down. He forces his eyes to stay above your neckline no matter the cost. You mourn that you got rid of the septum a few years ago: you're pretty sure he would've liked that, too. After all, it's a piercing that screams 'warrior' the most. Break after break, you return to your desk, aroused and giddy and surrounded by the rich, masculine aroma of his cigar.

One night, he drives by when you're walking home after what was supposed to be one or two pints.

The car is a big, black pick-up, and when it slows down and starts to inch by your side, your first reaction is a silent curse of why the fuck don't you carry some pepper spray in your pocket.

"Hey, you ok?"

Your head rises from the asphalt the second you recognize that smooth, pleasant voice of a man you had compared every guy to at the pub that evening. The whole man is brimming with burnt sienna, he's hard alcohol with no ice…

You stop and turn, a little wobbly from the pint turned to two or three. Or four.

"Yeah. Had a little girl's night out."

The car rumbles softly, not two meters away, and the sound reminds you of his voice. A soft purr that can turn into a growl, even a roar if he wants to. 

He looks like he's going fishing, even without the boonie hat. The dark hair is cut short, so you won't have anything to tug if he ever ends up between your legs. But you don't really mourn that fact, because he looks so damn good.

He looks you up and down, and you notice the briefest blob of his Adam's apple before he gives you another offer.

"Want me to give you a ride?"

Would love a ride.

Would fucking love to ride you.

"Sure. That's kind of you." 

Your eyes must be sparkling like the fucking stars.

"No problem at all," he leans his elbow on the open window and waits while you round the car and get in. You try to tone down your drunken state, but your moves are a little too brash for a calm and collected coder lady this man has usually caught leaning against the wall of the workplace you two share.

"Did you have fun?"

He sounds like a dad picking up his girl from a school disco, and you purse your lips in slight distaste and amusement.

"Yeah. You know how it is when someone asks you for a pint."

He gives a short laugh and starts to drive. "That never ends well."

You smile and turn to look at him.

"Mm… This one kinda did."

You enjoy the brief look out the window, the sight of someone so formidable and robust and experienced trying to find his way out by feigning something caught his attention in the black, empty distance of a quiet city.

"Glad I could be of service," he brushes off your flirt like it's nothing more than a speckle of dust on his coat.

The rest of the ride is silent, too silent. He turns the music off in case it "bothers you," and it turns into an awkward, overly polite fight about whether to keep it on or not. 

It's a minor shock to notice he was listening to some classical. Not 80's rock, not country, not even BBC. He was just soothing his nerves.

You can't put your finger on what makes you feel so sheepish around this man – usually, you put men on a leash with a few dry jokes and a hearty laugh or two. Now, your flirting is shy and does nothing: there's a wall built up, and from behind that wall, only a few stolen looks…

The pick-up is humming, the engine is running at idle next to your place far too soon, and it's time you get off the car – but you have vehemently decided you will knock down that fucking wall even if you have to drag him to your bed. 

"You wanna come up and have a nightcap?"

Another look out the window as he raises his hand over his mouth, fiddles with his mustache, and avoids the rising heat between you two.

"Thanks, kid. But you need to sleep."

Your heart is pumping, and you feel like a harasser as you place your hand on his thigh.

He doesn't move, but you can hear the audible swallow this time. He doesn't move a single finger even when you slide your palm down that leg, then drag it over to the inner thigh, and start to drift back up slowly, slowly, to give him the time and space to stop you before you reach….

….the visible bulge between those legs, the absolutely gorgeous, ample bump pulling at those pants, something so delicious that you must fight tooth and nail not to race your hand up there and give it a fond grope.

His hand falls over yours just before you reach it.

"Kid. Let's leave it here and call it a night."

His voice is strained and tight, and he's still looking out the window. You don't move your hand away because he doesn't move it away. His warmth stays there, keeping you against him, and you feel like shit for thinking it's not a no… That it's a yes when he seems to hold your hand as a prisoner, wanting to feel your dainty little palm against him.

Your fingers curl slightly, a hopeful gesture to imagine how it would feel to curl and claw at his hips and that ass while he's fucking you.

"Listen. You're a nice girl. A very nice–"

You give a heavy, demonstrative sigh and finally draw your hand away.

"Come on Cap… You're seriously going to give me the "you're a nice girl" talk?"

Finally, he turns. His nostrils quiver as he tries to keep his breaths calm. Your lips part like it's a whole caress he just gave you – and his gaze drops to your mouth instantly. You start to see where the problem is.

You're too young. 

You're forbidden.

"I offered you a nightcap," you tilt your head slightly. "You can come up or you can go home."

You wet your lips, give the bottom lip a tiny little bite, and offer him the last, inviting, soft smile. It must hold an equal amount of sorrow because you can't drown the bitter feeling of rejection, no matter how many drinks you've had that night. No matter how much he seems to want you, it doesn't change the fact that he's apparently decided to stay strong and keep his hands off the cookie jar.

You turn and get out of the car, lean on the door for the final fucking time...

"Didn't know I'd only get to suck your cigar... You're all smoke and no fire, Price."

The door flies closed with a louder slam than you originally meant. 

Now that was a little bit passive-aggressive, you have to admit. But you're drunk, and he's being a pain in the ass, calling you a kid, looking at you like that, having a fucking hard-on and giving you nothing.

…But it does the trick. 

You smile like an idiot when you walk to your place and hear the purr of the engine stop. Another car door opens, then closes, wide footsteps follow you…

A nightcap it is, then.

He looks even bigger when inside a place with walls and a roof. He stands inside your apartment tall and wide as if he's waiting to call attention. Those large hands are over his crotch, concealing the swell of erection you already saw in the car. 

You know the tank top you wear reveals even more skin covered in tats as you throw your jacket away and go get him that drink. The glasses glide on your table, slide nearly to the floor, and the bottle of Jim Beam meets the counter with a devastating clank. You look at the excuse to get him into your place and sigh. 

"You know what… Fuck this."

Offering cheap bourbon to someone like him seems a bit ridiculous. So you offer him something he might actually like. Something he actually came here for. 

You walk to him and throw your hands around him – he stiffens from the middle but looks down at you with a heated glimmer in those eyes. You could've sworn they were charred brown, the same color as his cigar, but up close you see they're actually molten iron. Mercurial.

"You sure about this?" He asks softly.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

He unclasps those hands from over his groin, and the warmest weight falls to rest on your waist, even steals a caress to your hip. You want to hurl yourself at him, press yourself against his crotch and grind until you bleed from just that tiny touch he finally gives you.

"You've had one too many, love."

Love…

Shit.

The warmth spreads from his eyes, from that hand, from the word that rolls out of his mouth like a beautiful puff of smoke. It unfurls inside your heart, swells inside your throat, plummets to your groin, and you switch the weight to your other leg to feel how that hand gains more weight as it gets pressed more firmly against you.

"Doesn't change the fact that I want you."

Your voice is nothing short of a purr. When have you ever purred like that to a man? You sound like a housecat, tame and adoring, waiting for a gourmet meal.

"You really want an old man?"

He still has that reserve in his eyes, decent and distant, but underneath, you sense a terrible heat, like the glow of a cigar lit in darkness, an adamant smolder that never dies out.

"You're not that old." 

Your purr turns into a deprived meow. You dangle from his neck, and the smoke, the fire that surrounds him, blends into the gentle scent of a man, the musk of a mature beast. You know he's hairy under those clothes; he fucking has to be. The vision of how his cock must look, surrounded by untame, coarse fur, has tormented you night after night.

And now he's finally here. In your apartment.

You skate your hands over his chest while slowly dropping into a squat, then languidly kneeling in front of his crotch.

He doesn't stop you, not even when you open his belt and the zipper and crawl your fingers down the waistband of his underwear. You have to stifle a delighted gasp upon seeing how his cock springs free and stands proud in front of you in all its glory. And fuck yes he's hairy – the hairiest man you've ever had. 

Cigars feel like tiny little sticks when you wrap one hand around him and lick the weeping slit like it's your favorite ice cream. The groan that follows is a husky eruption above you and gets stuck in his throat as you take him in your mouth.

"Fucking hell, kid…"

He's thick, broad, and the musk fills your nostrils, but what he just said makes you pull back and whisper on the bulbous tip–

"Don't call me a kid," you breathe on his cock, swirl your tongue around him, and his thighs bunch. "Old man."

You finally manage to push some buttons.

The back of his hand brushes your cheek, then slides over to your throat. He's gentle but firm as he forces a thumb under your chin, curls fingers around your neck as if you're a cat who's about to be force-fed some medicine that's only good for her.

"Is that how you wanna play it?"

His thumb brushes down the ridge of your throat. Tentative, promising.

"Perhaps," your lips quiver with anticipation as you smile; your voice is a pitched vibrato before it drops, just to give him a reason to put you in your place... "Old gum–"

The hand pulls up, the grip tightens just enough to guide you back to your feet and up to meet his face.

"Didn't know you asked me here to tame a brat."

Fuck…

You almost moan. 

The hand doesn't choke you; it makes love to you. Claims you as his. 

"Really…?" You sigh. Flash him a filthy, guiltless smile.

The fire surges forth and nearly buckles your knees. His eyes flash in rhythm with your grin, like a sudden flicker of a campfire in the middle of a dark, parched forest.

"This what you want? Hmm?"

The rumble reminds you of the engine of a Harley roaring to life. His throat is burned from the fire of his cigars, the hand on your throat is used to squeezing dead metal and pulling pins from frigid grenades. But even they can't stand a chance against his woodland fire and sycamore smoke. He could bring a cold, inanimate rock back to life with all that fire.

"Yes. I want it. John."

His name on your tongue is a cat's meow. It has the exact effect you hoped for.

"Let's get the brat tamed, then."

"Hah," you finally moan. "Promises, prom–"

The fingers around your throat pull you to his mouth with a python strength. His lips spread yours with soft devouring as he coats you in fire. The coarse beard smells of sweet tobacco – nothing like a pungent cigarette. It's like an old memory: safe and sturdy and strong. Male.

You moan in his mouth – god, what will it be like when he's inside you? – and he capes both arms around you and crushes you against him. Broad shoulders envelop you like a shroud of thick smoke, the cock gets trapped between you like a hot spear, and you mewl like a slut.

Your pussy clenches, just from his warm mouth, the rich velvet of his lips. He takes everything with that kiss, and you're weak in his arms as he bends and molds you against him just the way he wants, opens your mouth with his own and breathes you, samples you like those puffs of smoke he sucks from his cigar.

Your brain short-circuits, you barely notice how your top slides up as his hands go under it. It's dragged up, up, over your breasts and then over your head as he detaches just enough to rip that piece of clothing away. 

You look at him like he's Christmas, then reach for your bra while he opens his pants more to get them down. Your jeans are accursedly tight, and he's breathless, too: the whole room is dark and filled with heavy breathing and rustle of clothes as you claw your socks off, slide your strings down and away, watch him get out of his shirt and throw it on the floor too, all propriety gone.

And then…

Jesusfuck–

He picks you up, lifts you from the ground like you're nothing but a leaf, and strides with you in his lap until your back meets a wall.

The barrel-like chest presses the air out of your lungs while your back travels up – you don't know if his arms or chest do the lifting, but you're being positioned for his cock to enter. Your hands try to grasp something solid before it's too late – his back and neck – your legs wrap around him, feet hooking over his ass as the thick of his tip pokes your soaked folds, and after a few seconds of probing, slides in. 

"F–uck…" you gasp, sounding so needy that it could be a voiceline from a bad porno movie. His lips find the place between your ear and neck immediately.

"Be good for me now," he gruffs, dark and round like the sweetest bourbon, although you know he's the finest single malt in the world. "Be good…"

"Ah–John…"

I'll be good… 

Just for you, I'll be so, so good.

He pants heavy on your neck, grunts as he starts to fuck you against that wall. You knew he might be intense, but apparently, you had no idea. The man is needy as fuck, and has concealed it up until this point. 

You could cry, scream from joy from the thickness that spreads you, fills you with every fat glide of a thrust. The sex borders on rough but is so incredibly tender too, so needy it makes your heart collapse, compress into a taut knot in your chest. It's the softest rocking, the gentlest fucking as he retreats, then ruts into you again and again with sharp, rusty moans. You're in a slow but steady rodeo with this man, your breasts pressed against a solid chest covered with hair, and it tickles, even if his pecs threaten to crush your ribcage.

"You're one hell of a girl," he gruffs in your ear, beard grazing up and down your neck. "Taking me so– Fucking hell, look at you…"

His eyes are embers as they sweep over you: your abundant ink, the helpless, adoring look in your eyes, the little mouth that opens with a gasp, the trickle of sweat that forms between your breasts and meets the hair on his chest. 

He doesn't have to look down to see how greedy your cunt is for him. He can feel it.

"This is what you wanted the whole time? Huh?"

He's all smoke. All fire.

"Yes…"

"Wanted me to take you against a fucking wall? Eh?"

"Yes…just, just take me," you moan and purr some more, giving him everything he wants. "Fuh–fuck me good…"

"Ahh shit..."

You know you're a drug to certain decent men. But to him, you're a forbidden fruit in all its aspects. 

A calm, collected captain who enjoys wide respect, eyeing an edgy, younger woman from the tech department? That's not how this was supposed to go. Thirsting for someone who did what they wanted, looked just the way they wanted, walked this earth like a dark fairy – that's not his usual go, surely. He was supposed to settle down with a proper lady. If he were to settle down at all.

"I've dreamed of this," you whisper in his ear, lips moving just enough to deliver your secret to him.

"Yeah..? Me too," he gives your throat more love with a velvet growl. "Know I shouldn't, but–"

"Shh. Don't–don't…" You grip him tighter, taste the spruce and salt as you breathe his neck. "It's good. It's all good."

He rumbles in approval. Your skin is raw from his beard; even the coarse hair dusting his thighs feels too rough on your skin. And your skin is used to being needled, shot full of ink right inside the dermis. But this… This is branding.

You're silk in his rough embrace, and plundered with no remorse. You sigh and moan, hug him... And then he dares to stop, panting and throbbing inside you.

"Darlin'. Where's the bed?"

The soft question makes you panic. If you go to bed and let him push inside you while you're lying on your back, if you brave a look into those eyes while he takes you, you'll develop more than just a horrid lust for this man. If he collapses on top of you, spent and spoiled while you're at your most vulnerable, you'll tie a string from your heart to his, and you can't, you just can't allow that to happen.

Because he's untamed too. He's not a man who settles down, he's not up for domestication; he's a wandering fire.

"No–no bed," you pant on his muscles, the shoulder that keeps you safely pinned on the wall. "John…? Please."

He's breathing wild too, disguises his surprise well.

"Alright."

He sounds disappointed, and it's not because he doesn't have the strength to maul you against that wall. The rejection stings him too. It makes you want to offer a truce, a little something. When he rocks you again, you graze your fingers up the back of his neck, knowing he will feel ripples across his scalp from your caress.

"We can smoke a cigar after," you propose, not knowing why your voice still comes out as an airy whisper. "Together. I'll pour you that drink…"

His chest swells with a deep breath, he huffs fire on the hollow trench between your collarbones.

"Fuck, woman…" 

It's dense syrup that surrounds you much like those shoulders and arms, that coarse hair, that bold male want.

"And after that I want you to…" You catch your breath and sound like a mouse with your next shy question. "Would you go down on me, John?"

It's like you're under a bear attack, but he stills; his head tilts a little to the side and meets your temple. 

"You wouldn't tease a man like this," he says. A soft warning, brimstone coated in velour, but the core of it is despair. So much need, so much forbidden, distant want… 

"Right? No more teasing."

He's still thinking that you're teasing him… That it's some kind of a joke that you want him.

"I'm serious... I want your mouth on me. I need your–"

"I'll put my mouth on you as soon as we're done here, love."

You have to bite your lips, suck them between your teeth to prevent another deprived moan from escaping.

"Want you to fuck me all night," you continue to whisper on his neck. You should shut the fuck up because it doesn't take a bed to tie that string from your heart to his. After all, they're right there, beating against each other through bone and skin and chest.

"Yeah? That's what you want?"

"Want you to… F-fuck me slow and good from behind and–"

You sniff. Whimper.

You should be ashamed: mewling for more when he's already buried inside you. What kind of a brat are you, wrapping your thighs around that narrow waist like you never want him to pull out?

And you're not crying. 

It's just that the cock inside you is throbbing against your walls as if he's making a home there, his hands dig into your ass cheeks like you're his already, the breath upon your sweat and skin feels far too affectionate. When exactly did a raw wall-fuck turn into such an affectionate, gentle taste of love?

And it's not enough. You want to climb on top of him every morning, ride him slowly and watch him unravel as the sun climbs the sky and coats that fur in gold.

"Could you do that? Please… John, please," you whimper and whine, beg like you're tame already. 

"I'll fuck you all night if that's what you want. Fill this pretty, tight cunt up every way you like."

It's coarse smoke. It caresses you until your legs start to shake. He adjusts his grip, drags the pull-outs like he drags those pulls from his tobacco. Keeps you nicely in place for him to drive back in–

"I'll fuck you 'till you cry, love. Yeah?"

He punctuates that promise with another good, fat thrust. You moan all tame now – a rippling stream, laughing and crying in his molten hold.

His cock fills you while your thighs quiver and tremble in his hands. Your pussy throbs; it sucks him already, the orgasm is seconds away, and your fingertips search for support but only slip over sweaty, hard muscle.

John. John.

"Fuh-…"

He spreads you a little. Those arms are pure iron as they mold you for him to plow. You know he can feel the waves, the way your cunt grips him with longer, deeper pulls as you start to sound downright pathetic.

"Just like that, just like… hah…"

"M-hm. Yeah," he bends the vowels, daubs them with smoke. "That's it. You're doing good. Doing so well my love."

He huffs between the thrusts that have turned into slow, intense love-making. He's making love to you – god, why does he have to be like this…

"Cum for me. Nice and pretty, yeah? Come on."

He encourages you with words, but you can't hear them anymore.

Heat coils in the pit of your core just before you burst with a heady scream.

The spasm is so sudden you almost hit your head on the wall. He's at your throat the minute it's exposed, and your scream turns into a weak wail when his tongue grazes your skin. It's blazing, and dips into the hollow between your collarbones like it's a shot glass full of scotch. Next thing you feel is fire, even some teeth on your neck.

And you thought Price might, just might be intense…

Your head drops as the blunt of the orgasm leaves you. Your feet unclasp, and next up would be some soft waves, but the man continues to fuck your shattered cunt and marshmallow soul with a good, intense pace. The words that pour out of your mouth are those of a brainless person.

"Ah–hah, God–"

"Where's that cheek now, mm..? Pretty little thing."

"John–h…"

The thrusts rub you against that wall like he wants to staple you there.

"So nice and good for me now, ain't ya? Cummin' on command…" An amused chuff right on your poor, chafed skin… "Begging for my mouth and cock."

You travel up and down in a limp heap, trying to hold on to him with weak limbs as he drives into you with a tight series of half-thrusts. Your legs hang loosely on the side, but he has no trouble carrying the full weight of you.

"Slow–slowly, Cap…" 

"Ahh fuck–"

He swears on your ink, right on the trotting pulse on your neck. Through the vapor of man sweat and rich smoke and a whiff of cedar trees bending in the wind, you feel him tense and thicken.

"The fucking things you do to me…" he pants with a low growl, hushed but intense. Your pussy answers with a good, demanding pull. 

"Fuck… fuck–!"

You're a limp doll between him and the wall when he comes. Pressed between a rock and a hard place, literally. His chest being the rock, an entire boulder that whips the oxygen from your lungs as he drives deep, his balls giving a few taut pulls against your ass as he empties himself into you with a satisfied, dry moan. A dark, ripe blossom, shooting straight to your core while you're sealed tight around him.

The world goes still after that; the only thing that moves is your breath and his, a refreshing hot breeze coursing through the stale air. The darkness of the room isn't half as snug as the safety of his arms.

Your fingers find his neck, the short-cut hair and the skin pounding with a rush of blood. He lets you go reluctantly, bends a little to set your feet back to the solid ground. He doesn't pull out, keeps huffing all over you even when you're returned back to the earth. 

And you never want to come back. Your cunt still throbs around him and cries a tiny, thick stream down your thigh. His upper body still pins you against that wall, his breaths still mist your skin, caress the red burns of his beard.

He feels so good. Too good…

When he pulls out, he does so with intense care. He gives you some space to catch your breath, and you finally notice he has fucked your legs into splinters.

"I'm…" You break the hush of heavy breathing with a soft laugh. More viscous load pushes out of you with it. "I don't think I can stand."

"Yeah? Tried to take you to bed," he muses softly, sounding annoyingly content with his achievements.

"Gotta admit it was a good idea."

"As was the nightcap," he rasps, voice drenched in soft smoke.

"We'll get there eventually."

"I have no doubt about that."

You give him a soft, warm chuckle as you cast your eyes between the crest of his pecs. Rough, tight muscle meets your soft breasts with heaving breaths, and teases your nipples to taut little points. The wet hair on his chest looks good paired with your inked, smooth skin… You two look so goddamn fine together.

"I hope I didn't make you deaf with that scream."

He stands at his full height, but tilts his head down and slightly to the side as if you were a new, interesting species he's just found on his travels.

"Wouldn't complain, love," he says. More wet syrup, just for you. He weighs you with his stare, curious and appeased, and you feel shy. For fuck's sake, you still feel shy even though this man was inside you just a moment ago. 

"The bed. Now be a good girl and tell me where it is."

"Down the…hallway." 

A delicate little whisper, again.

It's laughable, how the veteran of Task Force 141 turns you into something so dainty and meek. Captain John Price takes you against a wall like you're nothing but a doll, makes you purr and beg, reassembles you into a weak-willed woman who gets carried to bed. 

This is not how it was supposed to go...

He lifts you back in his lap while you continue to hold onto him like he's your prince Charming. A laugh spills on your lips when he tries to lay you gently on the bed and you manage to pull him down with you. You end up tumbling there in a sweaty, messy heap. 

"Knew you were trouble," he's smiling too as he settles beside you. You curl and wrap yourself around him, your bodies mold and curve together like they're made for each other.

He's so solid, so warm, the kind of man you'd love to fall asleep on every night. No more cold sides of the pillow, no more tossing and turning and trying to get the code out of your head. Just… this chest, those ember eyes burning in the night. Some soft breathing, a roaring engine standing still, waiting for you, just for you…

"I hope this wasn't a one time only occasion," you test the waters.

"No." He shifts a little, disentangles from you slightly. "Unless you–"

"No."

You bend in his arms like a young willow, cut his doubts off with a kiss. It's passionate, and so sloppy it threatens to make the same sounds as your cunt and his cock a while ago.

The hand on your hip tows you closer, then steals its way down your leg. You hike your thigh up, perfectly willing. You're a sticky mess, but so is he: his rock-hard thigh meets your still soaked pussy like these two have always belonged together. And this man's full fire has escaped you until now. There are so many hidden, wild things in him too. 

He would look so good on a Harley… He would look good on a motel bed after riding for days and days with you attached to him like an eloped dark bride. The nights would be smeared with hot sex and cinder and smoke, a dash of scotch on top, he could drink it from your lips. You would serve it to him from your mouth, round the taste a bit so that it wouldn't burn so much…

"Have you ever been to Alaska?" 

The liquor is leaving you, but you don't feel any more sober. The lava in your veins has only been replaced by another kind of fire.

"No."

"Would you like to go?"

"What'ya mean," he murmurs on your tongue, and you know he's hard again just from the thick lust coating his voice. "What kind of question is that?"

"I was just thinking."

"What were you thinkin', kid..?"

"Don't… call me that," you laugh. In truth, you're growing quite fond of it. It reminds you of old movies. "Here's looking at you, kid" and all that.

His laugh is a charred roll in his chest. To him, you're a brat – an unruly kitten – no matter what you say. 

"Kid. Why Alaska?"

He's curious. Borderline hooked. You steal a peek into those vulcan eyes. 

"You'd look good in Alaska. Old man."

"Really," he rumbles a soft purr against your heart. 

Another soft kiss follows. Affectionate… He plays time, but he's also a probing, scanning. You bloom in his embrace, unfurl on his lips like he just wrenched you wide. He could haul you to the cabin right now and you would only cook him dinner.

It's too late, even if you try to shift after such a kiss. Escape to press your cheek against that place between his pecs, the spot where the hair is darkest and thickest. You want to lick that valley where his heart meets his musk. That scent must be born from a good, stout heart.

"Would you take me with you…? If you ever decide to go."

It's a fragile question. A baring of the heart. It holds so much more than an inquiry about whether he would whisk you away on a secret leave. It's strings, pulling from your heart to his, taking root.

"Sure. But you're quite a handful, love."

"Is that so…?" 

You crawl over him as gracefully as you can. He allows you to straddle him, and of course he does. You're no threat; you're only a one woman show. The only thing he's probably missing right now is a glass of scotch and a thick roll of tobacco. 

He takes in the view with hunger: not satiated by that pent-up fuck, just like you're not... 

But then his hands come to rest on your thighs to check if they're still shaking. The touch bleeds possessiveness: it's a thoroughly absent-minded, instinctual attempt to reach for you. It tells you you're exactly where you belong. 

"You seem like the kind of woman who's not for the faint of heart," he says like you didn't just mewl in his arms like the tamest fucking housecat.

And perhaps that's what intrigues him. Contrasts. And even more than that, the odd place where black fuses into white, the gray area where everything is possible. The split-second moment when the skin accepts the ink and traps it in. 

Everyone always says you get buried with your tattoos. That you should think twice before staining your skin with such permanent hookups.

But the thing is, you get addicted to it. It's like standing on the edge of a cliff before a bungee jump. You know you'll never be the same person after you jump, and you know you can't leave that cliff without jumping. It's a stalemate until you clear your mind of doubt and just plunge.

And you don't want to leave this earth without getting stained and sweaty, without dipping your soul into the full experience. You're supposed to get a little dirty. This is Earth, after all.

Your fingers disappear somewhere in his slick fur. Sunrise is hours away, but his eyes spark aflame. They're always, always smoldering like the butt of his cigar. He's a man who causes wildfires at the end of the world – he's a reckoning, a flicker in the dark forest, roaring into a bonfire as soon as the wind passes through the trees.

And you've always loved fire. Wild, and free. The only thing that competes with such freedom is a wide, wild stream. 

"But you can handle me. Right?" Your fingers curl softly around the hair surrounding his navel. "Tame me and everything?" 

It's an offering that causes even fire to tilt its head in curiosity. In the end, you're not sure who tamed who.

"Someone has to," he grabs your hips with rich promise. 

You'll pour him that drink. Light him a cigar after his mouth is full of your taste, see how well it pairs with fire and smoke. You'll toast to the Harley, the crazy motel… 

And Alaska. 

[thef1diary]

Royally Fucked | Seven

— Heated Fantasies 18+

series masterlist

wc: 5.3k

not putting specific chapter warnings yet, because I don’t want to spoil the fun, but minors dni

© thef1diary 2024. all rights reserved. Do not copy, steal, translate, or repost any of my work

─────────── ♛ ───────────

The silent indigo night stretched across the sky like a velvet blanket, dotted with speckles of stars that twinkled faintly in the vast expanse. The secluded safe house, hidden deep within a lush forest clearing, felt worlds away from the pressures of her life, cocooned in quiet and shadow. Above the tallest trees, the night sky unfolded, clear and endless, the celestial display spilling its faint light through the sheer curtains of Juliette’s bedroom, casting delicate patterns across the floor.

Inside, the stillness was thick, almost suffocating, with only the soft rustle of sheets breaking the silence. The spacious king-size bed welcomed her into its cocoon of soft sheets, their gentle embrace warming her skin. She had assured Daniel that she would be fine to sleep alone, comforted by the knowledge that he was just down the hall. Yet, as her eyes flicked to the empty chair in the corner—the one he had occupied just days ago—she found herself longing for his proximity in ways she hadn’t dared to acknowledge.

The chair was a shadowed reminder of his absence, yet in her mind, he was still there, a phantom presence watching over her with those intense honey-brown eyes. Her breath hitched as the memory of his broad shoulders and the quiet strength he radiated seeped into her thoughts. She could almost feel the weight of his gaze, the way it had lingered on her everyday, protective yet simmering with something unspoken.

Juliette’s hand slipped beneath the sheets covering her, fingertips trailing over her bare skin with a languid, deliberate touch. The coolness of the silk contrasted with the heat building inside her, a fire that had been smouldering for days, now ready to burst into flames. Her mind conjured him up, Daniel as he would be if he were here—the sharp cut of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the way his casual clothes made it easier to forget the formal roles they played. In the darkness, it was easier to pretend that the boundaries between them didn’t exist, that he was hers for the taking.

She imagined him leaning over her, his body pressing close—just as it had days before—his scent enveloping her like a potent drug. Rich and inviting, it carried the earthy notes of sandalwood and cedar, intertwined with the faint spice of amber and a crisp hint of something fresh, like mountain air. The warm, masculine blend lingered softly, and as Juliette burrowed deeper into her pillow and blanket, she could catch the remnants of his scent clinging to the fabric, almost convincing her that he was there beside her.

The thought alone sent a shiver down her spine, her fingers moving with more purpose now, tracing a path down her stomach, teasing herself in a way she knew he would if he was here. She imagined his hands—rough and commanding, yet tender, knowing just how to make her yield. He would touch her with a confidence born from knowing that she, a princess who held power over everyone else, would gladly give it all up for him. Only for him.

In her mind, his lips found her neck, warm and insistent, tasting her skin with a languid hunger that made her arch into him. Her breath quickened, soft gasps escaping her lips as her hand moved lower, her touch growing bolder, mimicking the way she wished he would touch her, She could almost feel his mouth trailing down, finding the sensitive spot just below her ear, his breath hot against her skin as he whispered her name in that deep, accented voice that sent thrills coursing through her.

Her fingers dipped down to her pussy, finding the wetness that had been building since the moment she first thought of him. It wasn’t just a fleeting fantasy—Daniel had become a constant presence in her mind, haunting her every thought as the days passed. Each morning, she awoke to the memory of his warm smile, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he joked with her, only to be replaced by the tension that crackled between them. She found herself replaying their moments together, unable to shake the way his touch had lingered a little too long on her arm, the way his gaze had dropped to her lips when they’d spoken, how his scent clung to the clothes she borrowed to tease him, yet ended up wanting him even more.

The tension from that day on the sofa had never truly dissipated; it had merely been restricted, a dam holding back the flood of emotions that threatened to break free every time they were alone together. She had felt it in the way his hands had brushed against her skin, in the way his breath had hitched when she’d leaned in a little too close. It was as if they were both teetering on the edge of something forbidden, something dangerous, yet undeniably tempting. Every time she caught his eye, the tension returned, tightening around her chest, leaving her breathless with the sheer weight of it.

Now, as her fingers slid over her slick folds, she couldn’t escape the heat that spread through her body, the deep ache that only he could satisfy. She imagined his rough, calloused hands taking the place of her own, his touch possessive and tender, making her tremble with the need that had been building for days. The thought of him, of how easily he could unravel her, made her hips lift off the bed, seeking more of that imagined pleasure, her body moving instinctively to the rhythm of her desire for him.

She could see him above her, his eyes dark with desire, his body taut with restraint as he held back, waiting for her to beg for more, to turn her from a regal princess to a moaning, begging mess. All for him. The thought of it, of him hovering over her, so close yet so far, made her ache with need. Her hand moved faster, matching the rhythm she imagined he would set, the pace that would drive her to the edge and beyond. Her thumb circled her clit, sending jolts of pleasure through her as she pictured his mouth there, devouring her with the same hunger that burned in her own veins.

The fantasy unraveled her, the line between reality and desire blurring until there was nothing but him—his hands, his mouth, his words, his body pressing her into the mattress, taking her apart and putting her back together in the most delicious ways. She could almost hear his voice, rough with want, telling her how good she felt around him, how much he needed her, how he had been holding back for so long but couldn’t spend another minute without having her under him.

Her body tightened, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she chased the release that was so close, so close she could taste it. The tension coiled tighter and tighter until it snapped, pleasure crashing over her in waves that left her trembling, her head turned to the side to muffle the cries against the pillow as her body convulsed with the intensity of it. She rode out her orgasm with her fingers still working in her pussy and on her clit, milking every last bit until she was spent, her limbs heavy and her mind floating in the blissful aftermath.

As she laid there, her body still humming with the echoes of her release, her thoughts remained on Daniel. Even though he’d been in the next room over, he had been barely inches away in the deepest, most secret part of her imagination. The reality that she could never truly have him, not in the way she wanted, did little to quell the craving that grew with each passing day. The more she tried to resist, the more she longed for him, the man who was always just out of reach, yet so deeply embedded in her desires.

The room was still, the soft hum of the night barely audible beyond the walls, but the silence inside her mind was overwhelming. The weight of what she had just done sank in slowly, a tangle of satisfaction and guilt tightening in her chest. She had imagined Daniel—her bodyguard—so vividly that his touch seemed almost real, like a phantom lingering on her skin. The intensity of the fantasy had left her breathless, caught between the exhilarating high of her release and the creeping shame that followed.

Now, as the warmth of her climax faded, the harsh reality set in, replacing the euphoria with a heavy awareness of the line she had crossed, even if only in her mind. What began as a fleeting thought had grown into something dangerous, impossible to dismiss. Her heart still raced, not from pleasure, but from the clarity of the aftermath—a realization that she had let herself go too far. She shifted beneath the sheets, feeling the dampness that clung to her skin, the evidence of her desire mingling with the growing discomfort gnawing at her conscience. The echoes of Daniel’s imagined voice still lingered in her ears, making it impossible to ignore how much she had wanted him, how much she still did. Yet, the thrill of it all was now tinged with a bitter edge.

The fantasy that had felt so right moments ago now left her feeling exposed and vulnerable, her hidden desires clashing with the role she was meant to uphold. Juliette, who always prided herself on control, had lost her grip tonight, and now, the fleeting bliss was gone, replaced by the undeniable truth of her forbidden longing.

Unable to shake the icky feeling of indulging in such a forbidden fantasy, Juliette slipped out of bed, the cool night air brushing against her flushed skin as she made her way to the bathroom. Sunrise was still hours away, darkness wrapping around her as she made her way to the bathroom.

The tiles were cold beneath her feet, grounding her as she reached into the shower to turn on the water. The guilt clung to her, heavy and suffocating, as she stepped under the warm spray, letting it cascade over her. The heat of the water was soothing, washing away the sweat and remnants of her pleasure, but it couldn’t cleanse the thoughts that lingered.

As the water poured down her body, the guilt began to ebb away, replaced by the persistent, unbidden thoughts of him. Even now, she couldn’t stop herself from picturing Daniel—how he would look under the dim bathroom light, his skin glistening with moisture, the way the water would run down his strong, defined chest, his muscles flexing as he moved closer to her. The ache returned, a throbbing need that pulsed between her legs, growing more insistent the longer she stood there.

Her gaze dropped to the showerhead, the stream of water suddenly holding a different allure. The thought was daring, wicked, but she was already past the point of holding back. With a shaky breath, she reached up, detaching the showerhead from its holder. The water sprayed in a gentle mist, but she adjusted it, narrowing the stream until it was a focused jet, one that sent shivers down her spine as she imagined what it could do.

Juliette leaned back against the cool tiles, the sensation of the chilled surface contrasting sharply with the heat of the water cascading down her body. She spread her legs just enough to position herself under the stream, her breath catching as the water's initial touch sent shivers through her. The showerhead’s steady pulse hit her clit with intense precision, each pulse a jolt of pleasure that made her gasp and arch her back.

As her mind wandered, she imagined Daniel standing behind her, his presence both commanding and soothing. She could almost feel the cold tiles turning into the heat of his body against her back, his breath warm and heavy on her neck. In her fantasy, Daniel’s hands were unwavering, one firmly holding the showerhead in place, ensuring the pressure was relentless and perfect.

His other hand, strong and deliberate, moved to her folds, spreading them apart with a gentle but unyielding grip. He exposed her completely to the force of the water, his touch making sure she couldn’t hide from the sensation.

Juliette’s breath quickened into ragged, desperate gasps as the powerful stream of water and the vividness of her fantasy drove her closer to the edge. Her hips bucked involuntarily, matching the rhythm of the relentless pressure.

Her free hand slid up her body with a trembling anticipation, fingers trailing a path of heated desire across her skin. As she reached her chest, her fingertips brushed over her hardened nipples, the touch sending sharp jolts of pleasure through her. She circled them gently, teasing the sensitive peaks until she couldn’t hold back any longer. Her fingers squeezed and pinched them with a tender yet urgent pressure, each touch sending waves of heightened sensation through her.

Every caress of her fingers on her nipples, every shift of her hips under the water’s pressure, and every moan that escaped her lips drew her closer to the edge. The symphony of sensations—his imagined touch, the water’s relentless pressure, and her own feverish touch—melded into a crescendo of bliss that made her body writhe and shudder, consumed by the overwhelming need for release.

In her mind, Daniel’s voice was a low, throaty murmur, his words filled with unspoken command and desire. He encouraged her to let go, to surrender completely to the relentless pulse of the water, his touch a constant, teasing reminder of how easily he could unravel her. His presence was palpable, his touch imprinted on her skin even though he was not physically there.

The culmination of her fantasy hit her with an explosive force, her body trembling uncontrollably as she came apart under the relentless spray. Her cries of pleasure were muffled by the sound of the shower, her entire being consumed by the intense, imagined connection with Daniel. As the waves of her orgasm subsided, she leaned heavily against the tiles, her mind still whirling with the echoes of the fantasy that had so thoroughly captivated her.

With a trembling hand, she moved the showerhead, redirecting the spray to her now-sensitive nipples. The sharp, direct touch of the water sent jolts of pleasure through her, teasing her peaks with a brief, intense burst. She let out a soft moan, her body arching slightly as she tried to chase the lingering traces of ecstasy. But as the sensation became almost too much, she adjusted the showerhead again, turning it to a mistier spray.

The water’s gentler touch offered a soothing contrast, a cooling balm to the heat that had consumed her moments before. She scrubbed at her skin with a loofah, attempting to wash away the remnants of her fantasies and the lingering heat of her release.

Wrapped in a fluffy white towel, Juliette moved with a casual grace, the softness of the fabric offering a comforting embrace against her still-warm skin. She stepped closer to the mirror in her bedroom, studying her reflection as she ran her fingers through her damp hair, trying to shake off the remnants of her indulgent fantasy. Yet, no matter how much she tried to focus on the mundane task of brushing out the tangles, the memory of her climax refused to fade, clinging stubbornly to the edges of her thoughts.

Her reflection betrayed her attempts to appear collected, the flush of her cheeks still evident against her fair skin. Her normally composed features were tinged with a rosy hue, a testament to the intensity of what she had just experienced. Even as she smoothed down the towel around her chest, securing it more tightly, the warmth in her cheeks lingered, refusing to be scrubbed away like the water droplets on her skin.

As she reached for the bottle of lotion, she couldn’t help but notice the tremble in her fingers, a subtle but telling sign that her body was still reeling from the aftermath of her fantasy. She squeezed a small amount of the cream into her palm and began to apply it to her arms, the cool lotion a welcome distraction as she tried to ground herself in the present moment.

But, just as she began to regain a sense of normalcy, a soft knock sounded at the door. Juliette’s heart skipped a beat, the sudden interruption pulling her back to reality with a jolt. She hesitated for a moment as she stared at the door, knowing the person behind it was the star of her fantasies.

“Come in,” she called out, her voice steady despite the rush of adrenaline that coursed through her veins.

The door creaked open, and Daniel stepped into the room, his presence commanding the space in a way that made Juliette’s breath hitch. His gaze swept over her with a practiced calm, but beneath the surface, she could see the spark of something darker smouldering in his eyes.

Daniel’s eyes met hers for a brief moment, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. But then, almost imperceptibly, his gaze began to wander, tracing the lines of her form with a deliberate slowness that sent a shiver down her spine. He took in the curve of her bare shoulders, the soft swell of her collarbone, and the way the towel clung to her damp skin, revealing more than it hid. His eyes lingered on the exposed skin of her legs, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as if he knew exactly what had transpired before he arrived.

“Did you have a good shower?” Daniel asked, his voice low and smooth, but there was a knowing edge to it, a subtle challenge hidden beneath the polite inquiry.

Juliette’s pulse quickened, her fingers tightening around the bottle of lotion that she grabbed again as she struggled to maintain her composure. She could feel his eyes on her, burning into her like a brand, and it was impossible to ignore the way he seemed to drink in every detail of her appearance—the flushed cheeks, the slightly tousled hair, the faint sheen of sweat that still clung to her skin. It was as if he could see right through her, as if he knew exactly what she had been doing in the shower.

“Yes, it was… refreshing,” Juliette replied, her voice betraying a slight tremor. She could see the amusement in his eyes, the way his smirk deepened at her words, as if he was savoring the subtle tension that hung in the air between them.

Daniel didn’t respond immediately, his eyes roaming lower, following the path of her hands as she continued to apply the lotion to her arms. His gaze was heavy, intense, and she could feel it like a physical touch, making her skin tingle with anticipation.

Juliette’s breath caught as she felt his gaze drop lower still, lingering on the swell of her chest where the towel dipped just enough to offer a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken desire, until she could no longer bear it. Without thinking, she turned slightly, exposing the curve of her covered back to him, her voice dropping to a soft, almost pleading whisper as she turned her head to look at him.

“Daniel,” she murmured, the word slipping from her lips like a prayer, “could you help me with something?”

His eyes snapped to hers, the darkening gaze telling her that he understood the implications of her request. But there was a pause, a fleeting moment where he seemed to consider the consequences, weighing his options. Juliette could see the tension in his jaw, the way he swallowed hard as if trying to rein in the impulses that threatened to consume him.

“Help you with what?” he asked, his voice rougher now, edged with a dangerous curiosity.

Juliette shifted the towel slightly, loosening it enough for it to slip down her back, revealing the expanse of smooth, bare skin while her hands held the fabric against her chest, keeping that covered. Her heart pounded in her chest as she held his gaze, her lips curving into a faint, provocative smile.

“I need you to put some lotion on my back,” she replied, the words laced with a subtle challenge.

Daniel’s breath hitched as he took in the sight before him. Juliette had already turned, her back now fully exposed to him, the towel draped low on her waist, teasing the curve of her ass. The smooth expanse of her bare skin gleamed softly in the dim light of her bedroom, each delicate ridge and valley of her spine drawing his gaze downward. She was offering herself up to him, vulnerable yet impossibly confident, her every movement deliberate, challenging him to make the next move.

The room felt charged, the air thick with the unspoken tension that hung between them. Daniel swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry as he took a cautious step forward, his eyes fixated on the way the towel clung to her waist, barely holding on. The curve of her hips, the softness of her skin—everything about her called to him, pulling him closer, even as his better judgment screamed for him to keep his distance.

But he couldn’t resist. Not with her standing there like that, her head slightly turned, her lips curved up into that faint, knowing smile. He could see the subtle rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathed, and could feel the heat radiating from her body as he closed the distance between them.

Daniel took the bottle of lotion from Juliette’s hands, the brief brush of their fingers sending a jolt through him. He squeezed a generous amount into his palm, rubbing his hands together to warm the cream before placing them on her shoulders. The first touch of his fingers on her bare skin sent a shiver through Juliette, her breath hitching slightly as she felt the coolness of the lotion against her heated flesh.

He started slowly, his hands gliding over her shoulders, spreading the lotion with deliberate care. His touch was firm but gentle, a careful balance that had Juliette relaxing into him even as the tension between them mounted. His fingers traced the curve of her neck, skimming the delicate line of her collarbone before moving lower, pressing into the soft flesh of her upper back.

As Daniel’s hands moved down her spine, he allowed his fingers to dip dangerously close to the hem of the towel. His gaze followed the path of his hands, lingering on the smooth expanse of her back, the way the towel hung right below her hips. When his fingers grazed the curve of her ass, just below the edge of the towel, Juliette couldn’t suppress the sharp intake of breath that escaped her lips. His touch was light, teasing, as if testing the boundaries between them, daring her to respond.

“Is this what you wanted, Juliette?” he murmured, his voice low and rough in her ear. There was a note of dark amusement in his tone, a hint of challenge as he let his hands roam lower, skimming the sides of her waist before sliding dangerously close to the dip of her hips. “Or were you hoping for something more?”

Juliette’s pulse quickened at his words, her skin tingling beneath his touch. She met his gaze in the mirror, her eyes heavy with desire. “Maybe I was,” she whispered, her voice breathless, laced with need. The challenge was clear, and Daniel responded in kind, a smirk playing on his lips as he dipped his head lower, pressing his chin to her shoulder.

“Is that so?” Daniel’s breath was hot against her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. “Then watch.” His voice was commanding as he forced her to look at their reflections in the mirror.

His fingers brushed against the curve of her ass again, this time dipping just beneath the towel, teasing the soft flesh beneath. Juliette gasped, her body arching slightly at the sensation, but Daniel didn’t stop. He trailed his fingers back up, his touch firm as he pulled her closer by his grip on her hips, letting her feel the solidness of his chest, the taut muscles beneath his cotton shirt.

Juliette’s breath hitched as her back pressed against him, the heat of his body seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. But what stole her breath was the unmistakable hardness she felt through his pants, pressing against her lower back. The realization sent a wave of desire crashing through her, her body responding instinctively, her hips pressing back against him in search of more contact.

Daniel’s lips brushed against her neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin there. Juliette tilted her head back, giving him better access, her eyes fluttering shut as she lost herself in the sensation. The kisses grew more intense, his lips sucking at the delicate skin, drawing out a soft moan from her as he nipped gently, leaving a darkening bruise in his wake. The sensation was intoxicating, each kiss a promise of something more, something forbidden.

His hands roamed over her body, mapping every inch of bare skin exposed to him, lingering where he knew it would drive her wild. Juliette’s grip tightened on the towel, holding it close to her chest, desperately clinging to the last shred of modesty. But deep down, she wanted nothing more than to let it fall, to let him see all of her, to let him touch all of her. Every nerve in her body screamed for more, for the release that only his touch could bring.

But then, just as she was on the edge of surrendering completely, Daniel pulled back. His hands left her skin, his lips trailed away from her neck, leaving a cool emptiness in their wake. The sudden loss of contact was like a slap of reality, jarring her from the haze of desire, leaving her breathless and aching. A protest caught in her throat, but before she could voice it, Daniel spoke.

“All done,” Daniel said, speaking of the task she gave him, his voice still tinged with desire. He stepped back, putting distance between them, though his eyes never left hers. There was a smirk on his lips, one that spoke of wicked intentions, of restraint barely held in check.

Juliette’s chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath, her mind racing to process what had just happened. The tension between them was electric, the air crackling with the unspoken promises that hung between them.

She looked him over, her gaze drifting downwards, lingering on the prominent bulge straining against the fabric of Daniel’s pants. A flicker of boldness ignited within her, and she met his gaze with a smirk.

Her voice, low and sultry, held a teasing edge as she asked, “are you sure you don’t need any help with… that?”

Daniel’s smirk widened into something darker, something lustful. He took a step closer, closing the distance between them until she could feel the heat radiating off his body. His eyes, filled with raw desire, locked onto hers as he leaned in, inches away from her face.

“I appreciate the offer, Juliette,” he murmured, his voice dripping with sinful intent. “But I won’t let you touch me until I’ve had my fill of you first.”

His hand slid down to grip her hip, while the other teased the gap of the towel by her legs. “The thing is,” he continued, “I’d want to take my time with you, find out just how many orgasms I can pull out of you. I want to make you beg for more, make you scream my name until you’re shaking from pleasure.”

His hand trailed up the gap, parting the towel with his fingers. “And once you’re completely ruined for anyone else, then maybe I’ll let you take care of me.”

The words sent a shiver down Juliette’s spine, her breath hitching at the vivid image he painted. The idea of being at his mercy, of him drawing out every ounce of pleasure until she was begging, made her knees weak. But before she could respond, he pulled back slightly, his smirk still firmly in place.

“Until then,” he added, his voice dark and velvety. “I’ll just have to make do with my hand. Like I’ve been doing almost every night since we arrived here.”

Juliette’s breath hitched at the thought of him lying awake in the next room, touching himself, thinking about her. A rush of heat flooded her cheeks, but she couldn’t suppress the soft whine that escaped her lips. “But I want you,” she whispered, her voice laced with desperation, her body thrumming with need.

Daniel’s eyes sparkled with amusement, though his desire was no less intense. “Oh, do you now?” he teased, leaning in closer, his lips hovering just above hers. “You’re going to have to be more specific, Juliette. Just saying you want me isn’t enough. I want to hear you beg for it. Whine for it. You’ll have to tell me exactly what you want, or you’re not getting anything from me.”

His words were a tantalizing taunt, each one igniting the fire burning inside her. Juliette felt her heart race, her pulse thundering in her ears as she tried to muster the words. But before she could, Daniel tutted softly, shaking his head. “I can’t read your mind, Juliette,” he murmured, his voice like molten honey. “And even if I could, I’d still want to hear you say it out loud.”

Her frustration mounted, her body screaming for more than just words. But Daniel was relentless, his restraint ironclad as he waited for her to cave. He knew exactly what he was doing, knew how to keep her on the edge of madness, teetering between pleasure and frustration.

Finally, with a small sigh, Daniel took a step back, the intensity in his eyes dimming slightly as he switched gears. “And as much as I enjoy our little games, I actually came here to tell you something important.” His tone was more serious now, though the desire still lingered beneath the surface.

Juliette’s expression faltered, the weight of his words settling over her like a dampened veil. The flicker of playfulness in her eyes faded away, replaced by a more guarded look as reality crept back in. She nodded, her eyes reflecting the mix of desire and restraint that now stood between them.

“We’re clear to leave tomorrow morning,” he said, his voice firm but gentle.

The words hit her like a splash of cold water. The safe house had been a bubble, a world apart from the pressures of the palace, a place where they could indulge in the fantasy of what could be. But now, with the prospect of returning to their roles, the walls between them threatened to rebuild themselves.

Juliette nodded slowly, her heart sinking at the thought of leaving this moment behind. Yet even as she acknowledged the shift, her desire for Daniel remained, a smoldering ember that refused to die out.

Daniel’s gaze softened as he took in her expression, and for a moment, it looked like he might break, that he might give in and close the distance between them again. But instead, he offered her one last, devilish smile.

“Get some rest, Your Highness,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate. “You’ll need it for tomorrow.”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Juliette standing there, her body still aching with unmet desire, her mind spinning with the what-ifs that hung in the air. Though their time at the safe house had come to an end, the tension between them was only beginning to boil, threatening to spill over into something they could no longer control.

─────────── ♛ ───────────

[roosterforme]

Aim for the Sky Part 32 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: You're struggling through your pregnancy, trying to stay calm as your worries about Bradley grow as quickly as the baby. Bradley wants to put his best foot forward at work, making himself available for office hours, but maybe he's made himself too accessible.

Warnings: Angst, adult language, body image, DILF Roo, smut, pregnancy topics, lactation kink, jealous

Length: 3400 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

Aim for the Sky masterlist. This was written to accompany my series Is It Working For You? along with a bunch of my one-shots and other series, but it can be read on its own! Check my masterlist for the reading order.

Bradley's new office was coming along nicely. Everything was standard issue Navy grade, but he started adding some touches here and there to make it look more personal. The file cabinet was covered in ultrasound photos, one column of Rosie and one of her younger sibling. 

He glanced at the wedding photo on his desk before adjusting it and wincing. You were still mad this morning that he overdid it at the Hard Deck last night, but he wished you would just let it go. It's not like he drove home drunk or anything. Nat and the guys were just excited to learn he was going to have another kid. The drinks just kept coming.

There was a knock on the door, and then Maverick poked his head inside. "You have a minute?"

"Yeah," Bradley replied, waving him inside. "It's not like I can tell you no. You're my commanding officer, Mav."

The older man chuckled, setting some folders on the desk. "I need you to keep all of the forms updated for each of the pilots. It's best if you work on it every day and then update the hard copies. You should have time to do this between visits during your office hours."

Today was the first time Bradley was holding office hours, and honestly he felt a bit like a college professor: the aviators were kind of his students, and he was responsible for making sure they were prepared to fly.

"Not sure how busy my office hours will be," Bradley muttered. He should probably send a text to remind you he'd be home a little later than usual tonight. While he didn't want to make a habit of missing dinner with his girls, this was a far cry better than being deployed. 

"You might be surprised," Maverick replied with a smile as he backed toward the door. "You've got a lot to show the others, Lieutenant Commander."

Then he was gone, and Bradley could feel the warmth rising in his cheeks. He just wanted to prove himself, but the first time someone had him up against the wall, scrambling for an answer, he wasn't sure what he was going to do. He'd only started to advertise his extra hours during today's lecture, so it would probably be another week or so until someone came to him for any sort of guidance on a Monday evening. But he would try to be ready.

He was just opening one of the folders from Maverick when there was another knock on his door. This time when he looked up, he was met with a flight suit complete with a Golden Warriors patch identical to the one he wore. That would have been enough to let him know it was Indigo, but then he met her eyes as he stood up behind his desk.

"Lieutenant Jeffries," he greeted with a smile as she strode inside. "How can I help you?"

She studied his face with a knowing look for a few seconds before breaking out into a smile of her own. "Sir, I can think of so many ways you could help me. It's not even funny."

Bradley blinked, brow furrowed as he examined her. "Well, why don't you start with an easy one? It's been a long day. And something tells me you might be regretting the late start you got at the Hard Deck last night."

Her laughter filled the room. "I could never regret finding the officer hangout before the rest of my peers from Texas. I need to keep the edge I have over Rex and Spice." When she started to close the door, Bradley frowned.

"Keep it open," he said casually, reaching out to catch it before it shut. He didn't want anyone thinking he was playing favorites, and the little pout on Indigo's lips convinced him she wanted to be his favorite aviator. But she didn't argue. She simply sat down on the edge of the couch and looked up at him.

"The easiest way you can help me is by telling me where I can improve," she said, fingers toying with the zipper at her neck. "I want to be the best you've ever seen."

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

You couldn't tell if Cat was actually annoyed with you or if she was just teasing, but you were too exhausted from a restless night to care.

"I can't believe Bradley told Jake you're pregnant before you told me yourself! I just saw you last night!"

Her gaze dipped down to your belly as you stood before her in the lab. You knew you were showing. There was no denying it now. You had a bunch of appointments coming up with Dr. Morris, and you were just going to keep getting bigger until you had to wear the maternity tent again. You knew you were already huge and that you'd probably never be your normal size ever again. And the last thing you wanted was Cat Coleman of all people scrutinizing your appearance when she always looked pristine.

Everything was made worse by Bradley's interactions with Indigo. She was everywhere on base, but now she had taken over your bar, too. You saw her this morning but managed to duck out of the way before those piercing eyes landed on you. She knew what you looked like now, and Cat's gaze lingering on your belly was doing nothing to give you a boost of confidence.

"Please make sure you're eating and drinking enough," she told you. "We don't want another repeat of Annapolis where you could barely give a presentation. Or a repeat of the day you fell at work."

You gritted your teeth. "This pregnancy doesn't even feel like my last one. Okay? I'm eating just fine. Too well, actually."

You turned on your heel, boot squeaking on the floor and headed out to collect Rose from daycare. Everything was just a reminder of your size right now. Visions of candy bars danced in your head as you told yourself you'd go home and eat a sensible dinner while Bradley held his office hours. But you already knew... you just knew Indigo would squeeze her way in there with her pretty eyes and her perky tits. And your husband seemed to be oblivious to her. At least you'd tried to convince yourself he wasn't actively looking. But you knew she found him attractive. You could smell it on her a mile away.

Tears filled your eyes as you approached the daycare facility. If he was looking at her, you couldn't blame him. Indigo was beautiful, her body stunning even in her flight suit. Meanwhile you looked like an exhausted, lumpy, khaki-covered potato with acne and zero energy.

"Let's go home," you whispered to Rose, trying to smile at the daycare staff as you pushed her out in her stroller.

You were absolutely fine. You were totally fine. Or at least you would be. Or at least that's what you kept telling yourself.

But all week long, you heard the same collection of call signs spilling from Bradley's lips, and Indigo's was always the first one. She was the fastest, most cunning, smartest, most decisive pilot he'd ever flown with. Any time you asked him a question about work, she was the answer. And he was late coming home almost every day.

"Hey, Sweetheart. Sorry, I had to stay in the infirmary with Spice after she strained her shoulder," he said, rushing inside on Friday night as you made dinner. "She couldn't even raise her arm to get her helmet off."

He kissed your cheek, letting his hand rest on your belly for a beat before he ended up on the floor next to Rose's play mat where she was trying her hardest to crawl to Tramp. As soon as Bradley showed up, she changed her mind and tried to get to him instead.

You pressed your lips together as you turned off the stove burner. "Did anyone else stay with you and Spice?"

"Yeah, Indigo hung out," he replied easily, brushing his fingers along Rose's hair with a smile. You swallowed hard, watching him on his hands and knees in his khaki uniform. He looked so good. Like ridiculously good. Broad shoulders and big biceps and a handsome smile.

"Why am I not surprised?" you muttered, turning away from him.

"I think they're friends," he said. "It's kind of amusing getting to experience the love and hate dynamics amongst the group. The women tend to stick together on the ground, but anything goes in the air."

Your stomach ached with hunger pangs, and the only thing you wanted to eat was ice cream. When you realized you'd eaten a frozen burrito barely an hour ago, you desperately wanted to go to bed hungry, but you started to feel guilty about the baby.

"My parents listed their house today," you announced, trying to change the subject before you started to cry.

"Did you hear that, Nugget?" Bradley scooped Rose up in his arms and carried her into the kitchen where you were plating two meals. "Your grandparents are moving here to spend more time with you. And next summer, we'll take you and your little brother or sister back to Virginia to see where ol' Goose and Carole used to live, okay?"

He peppered her face with kisses until she was giggling wildly, and every negative thought started to get fuzzy around the edges. When his brown eyes met yours, you nodded toward the table, and his arm slipped around your waist.

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

Bradley came home from his office hours on Monday to find you wearing only his old UVA shirt. The soft cotton was hugging your bump and showing off your legs, and he was ready to get on his knees and beg for you.

After he put Rose in her crib for the night, he met you in bed where you were wearing your glasses, your face freshly scrubbed. He was plainly getting hard in his gym shorts the more he looked at you. It was so obvious. When you stood on your knees and coaxed him closer with your finger, he met you there.

"I hope you know how good you have it, Roo," you whispered against his lips.

He knew. He knew all about it. He let his hand slide down over your belly, keeping you in place when you tried to scoot away. Then his fingers slowly yanked up the hem of his shirt until he was touching your pussy. 

"Of course I know it, Baby Girl." He circled your clit with his middle finger before slipping it inside you. "I've got my Rosie. And my hot, pregnant wife with her perfect pussy." When you whimpered, he kissed your nose. "I've got it all."

You dragged the shirt up over your belly and chest, tossing it aside. For a beat, Bradley went completely dizzy at the sight of your tits. Then you made everything better by placing your hands on your breasts, working them until beads of milk appeared. Your head was tipped back, pussy squeezing his middle finger, and Bradley almost lost his mind.

His kisses were rough. He knew it. But you were whining Roo as he got undressed, and then you were guiding his lips to your tits. He had to have it dirty. His cock was so fucking hard, he needed to make you scream.

"Oh, fuck," he growled as his lips grazed your nipple, lapping up your milk until he thought he was going to pass out. Every inch of your body was so sweet and supple, but he wanted you babbling and begging.

Bradley meticulously cleaned you up until you were clinging onto him, then he pushed you onto your back. Without hesitation, he started fucking you. When you needed a hand over your mouth to keep from waking Rose, he was all too happy to help. When you spread your legs wider, he watched his cock glide inside your welcoming body over and over again until he felt his orgasm in his balls.

"Shit. I'm gonna cum," he groaned, waiting until you nodded against his palm to lose himself. Hips thrusting, filling you with shallow strokes, he fucked you until your pussy was dripping. He watched the mess he made dribble down your ass before catching it with his fingertips. "I swear I don't think I can keep my cock out of you long enough for you to not be pregnant ever again."

You snorted before reaching for his hand and bringing it to your lips. "After this one, I'm going right back on the pill. No more slip ups," you whispered. Bradley watched as your tongue darted out, licking his sticky cum and swallowing every drop.

"No more slip ups," he echoed, smiling at your belly. He'd never consider this a mistake. Not in a million years. A surprise? Absolutely. But not a mistake.

Bradley's phone lit up where it had been discarded on the floor when you slipped into the bathroom. He had a text from an unknown number with a Virginia area code. At first, he thought it might be his cousin Brenda letting him know she had a new phone number, but when he opened the message, his brow creased in confusion at first.

Lieutenant Commander, thanks for spending so much time with me today in your office today.

Only three people had been in his office with him earlier. One was Maverick. One was Forrest who he had to reprimand. The third was Indigo. Bradley hadn't been giving out this number, but it was readily available if anyone wanted to look through the registry in the lobby of the building where his small office was housed.

He scratched the rough stubble along his jaw, contemplating if he should respond after nine in the evening. He saved her number under her call sign and tossed his phone on the bed when you walked back in with a smile on your face. He should wait until the morning to respond if at all.

You yawned when he passed you. "I'm ready for bed, Roo."

"Give me a minute to brush my teeth, and I'm right behind you."

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

By the end of the week, your parents had two offers on the house where you were raised. They were officially downsizing to a cute bungalow a few streets over in Coronado, and you were excited. Or you wanted to be.

But every time you let your heart fill with happiness over your parents or the baby, you remembered that Indigo was texting your husband. You saw it for yourself. Right after he fucked you so good, you could barely walk, you glanced down at his phone on your bed. He had her number saved in his phone, and you wanted to cry.

You could ask him for permission to look at his phone. You could see what his reaction was. That would give you a good gauge of what exactly was going on between them. But Bradley had never once asked you to hand your phone over to him. He'd ever insinuated that there would be a reason he didn't trust you. 

Unsure what else to do, you sat in your office during your lunch break and cried. The tears were hot and miserable on your cheeks, and a headache instantly started brewing behind your eyes. It took you almost ten minutes to get yourself under control, and by then you didn't even feel like going to the cafeteria for food.

When someone knocked, you looked up at your door. Maybe it was Bradley. Maybe you could get his phone from him somehow and check it yourself. "Come in," you called, voice soft from all the tears you'd shed. Instead of your husband, Jake strolled inside. "Did you get lost? Cat's probably in the lab."

"Aww, come on, Angel," he drawled, dropping down into your extra chair. "I came all the way up here to see you."

"Oh." You were a little surprised. Everyone was so busy as the last quarter of the year was beginning, you felt like you hadn't seen much of him.

"Why do you look so sad?" he asked, already leaning forward to stand again. "Want me to grab you and the baby something to eat and bring it up here?"

"No," you told him quickly. "I'm fine. Just a little stressed." You tried to smile, but you felt like you could cry again. "Are you having a slow day?"

"Nah." He leaned back with his arms crossed over his chest. "Just had to get away from your annoying husband and his band of misfits clogging up the comms with their exercises."

"Band of misfits?" you asked with a soft laugh.

"Bunch of children," he replied with an eye roll. "Look like they just graduated from high school." His eyes went wide. "Oh shit, that probably means I look old now."

"You don't look too bad for someone older than me," you promised with a smirk. "Hey, do you know anything about any of those new pilots?"

"I know they like to hog the line in the cafeteria. One of them took the last slice of pizza yesterday, and I had to wait for a new pie to finish baking. Food should be based on seniority. I outrank all of them."

You were laughing at his smile now. "Hey, maybe I should get something to eat. And it might be nice to get out of my office for a few minutes."

"I'll walk you down." Jake stood and helped you to your feet. "Can't hang out too long though. Mav has a fire under his ass about getting Phoenix, Bob and I in the air this afternoon."

You headed to the cafeteria with Jake, getting a chance to hear his side of the wedding plans after listening to Cat for weeks. They wanted something small and simple, but he assured you there would be room for the Bradshaws on the guest list. Once you had a tray piled high with a salad, breadsticks and once slice of pizza, you took a seat while Jake headed back out to the tarmac to get back to work.

Your lunch tasted incredible. The cheese from the pizza was practically melting in your mouth. When the cafeteria started clearing out, there were only a few tables occupied, and you started stacking the plates on your tray. You could have a calm, reasonable conversation with your husband. He'd let you look at his phone, and everything would be fine.

"Okay, but what's up with Lieutenant Commander Bradshaw?"

Your eyes darted up from your tray to find two officers sitting a short distance away. The one facing you had a patch on her flight suit that said SPICE, and you recognized her call sign from conversations with Bradley.

"He's hot, but he's wearing a wedding band," she added.

You swore your heart stopped at her words. Then you realized that the woman with her back to you was Indigo. Her jet black hair was wound up in a tight bun that accentuated her long neck even from behind, and her laughter set your teeth on edge.

"I already told you," she said, and you had to stop breathing to make sure you heard every word. "His wife is a civvy. I saw her at the bar the only night he showed up. They have one kid, and apparently she's pregnant again. At least that's what I heard Lieutenant Trace saying."

"What does his wife look like?" Spice asked, casually taking a sip of her drink as if your world wasn't crumbling to pieces.

"It was hard to tell in the dark, but her face seemed okay. Nice-ish body, but come on..." Indigo gestured to herself. "The man's only human, and his wife is definitely older than me. That much is easy to tell. And she'll be huge again soon."

You tried to get up from your seat quickly, fighting with yourself to get out of the room, but it was too late. Both of them were standing now, still chatting as Indigo turned your way. As soon as her eyes landed on your face, you saw them widen. That pretty blue color looked terrifying as a smile of recognition spread across her lips.

Indigo absolutely knew who you were now. Her eyes dipped down to the hyphenated name pinned against your chest, and now she knew you weren't a random civilian. She knew you were an officer who worked on North Island. She knew way too much as she took in every inch of your body. And she looked really pleased by what she saw.

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

He has his sweet moments, but Roo doesn't see the bigger picture here. Next chapter will reveal if Rose is going to have a brother or a sister. Any guesses? Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 33

@hotch-meeeeeuppppp

@solacestyles

@blog-name6996

@bcon24

@avada-kedavra-bitch-187

@katiebby04

@marantha

@averyhotchner

@abaker74

@heli991113

@k-k0129

@noz4a2

@shanimallina87

@ccbb2222

@xoxabs88xox

@thedroneranger

@cherrycola27

@fanboyswhore9

@xomrsalliej4787xo

@desert-fern

@horseslovers2016

@mattyskies

@hookslove1592

@blahehblah

@sadpetalsstuff

@local-spidey

@schoollover

@lex-winchester

@nicole01-23

@jessicab1991

@happyrebelruins

@samsgoddess

@bellaireland1981

@sagittarius-flowerchild

@mygyn

@yuckosworld

@daggerspare-standingby

@nessjo

@trickphotography2

@lyn-js

@furiousladyking

@godsfavoritebabe

@bethabear12

@halo-mystic

@sherlockstrangewolf

@theamuz

@khaylin27

@glenpowellluver

[kararisa]

darling, starling

— 23. neon escape — ✦ (wc: 0.7k)

You first found this little spot at the end of your senior year.

The untamed greenery yields with a satisfying crunch as you dismount from Scaramouche’s motorcycle. A cool breeze brushes against your face as you eventually arrive at a clearing that overlooks the Inazuman cityscape. Towering skyscrapers command the horizon, windows reflecting the vibrant neon lights that litter the urban skyline. The air here is alive with the hum of insects, replacing the commotion of the city you’ve grown used to.

This view hasn’t changed at all, but you can’t say the same for yourself. Or for the person you’re with.

“You know,” Scaramouche starts, leaning against the railing. “You didn’t need to drag me all the way out here just to ask me how I’m doing.”

You give him an unimpressed look. “I didn’t drag you anywhere, thank you. I wanted to go here and you happily agreed.” A white lie. Both of you knew that.

Your gaze sweeps across the breathtaking view from the elevated terrace, catching the glimmer of city lights and distant stars. “Besides, I know you like this spot.”

It’s been a year since the two of you last stepped here. A year since Scaramouche returned to Inazuma.

A year since you asked him to live with you.

"I'm sorry for dragging you into this mess." The words don't feel like a sufficient apology. Even before your deal, he’s been subjected to tabloid gossip and rumors just by being your friend. Now he’s being bombarded by the press more than ever.

Scaramouche scoffs, "Don't be stupid. I was the one who proposed the deal in the first place."

“We could end it early,” you start. “I mean our projects are guaranteed to be published. The two of us could even gain a bit of clout if we time it right.”

“I get that you’re concerned about my safety, but I know how to hide.” he rebuts. To be fair, he does have a point. He and his sister did grow up in the public eye because of who their mothers are. Well-respected journalist Yae Miko and multi-award-winning actress Raiden Ei. Who doesn’t know their names in this industry?

It’s been a while since Scaramouche last spoke with them. Their relationship never really went back to normal after what happened with his aunt.

It was all over the news when it happened. Actress Raiden Makoto dies in fatal car crash — her sister, her nephew, and her niece sustain minor injuries. It made headlines for a month before the world moved on.

You know this. It’s why he hates being in cars, after all.

After a minute of silence, Scaramouche breaks the silence with a voice laced with both determination and a hint of resignation..

“Once our deal is over and everyone mourns the death of our relationship, I’ll move back to Sumeru and we can stay on friendly terms. It’s the best-case scenario for us.”

“That won’t be necessary. But you being harassed on the daily was never a part of the deal.” Liar. You knew from the beginning that this torment would be a part of his life again if he accepted. You even went as far as to warn him.

And yet he chooses to stay with you, even if it’s only because of your deal. Why?

It’s likely due to the potential backlash he’ll receive if the two of you were to break up. You’re not blind to the hate the two of you get on a daily basis. But is this really easier?

“Me going back to Sumeru after all of this is said and done is for the best, and you know it. Rumors would just stir up if the two of us still lived together after we split up.

“And I don’t care about the harassment. I knew what I was getting into when I made that deal with you. I’m not stupid,” he turns to face you, his indigo-blue eyes reflecting fragments of the night sky. “And neither are you. So stop thinking you can get rid of me that easily.”

His words are laced with a gentleness you’re unused to. Here he is, saying he’ll leave while saying he’ll stay with you. What the hell is his problem?

But whether you like it or not, he’s here with you for the time being. And damn it, you’ll cling to every last second with him if it’s the last thing you’ll do.

✧— previous — masterlist — next —✧

summary: being the world-famous singer-songwriter "zenith", the limelight has been on you ever since the start of your career. however, the media becomes relentless when leaks of music you never meant to release begin to circulate. your friend scaramouche, meanwhile, seems to have gotten stuck while writing his second book. with a deadline fast approaching, he comes to you with a deal: act as if you're dating him so he can gather reference material and, in turn, he'll help keep the press' eyes off of your leaks until you release your next album. a win-win in your book, so why not help a friend out?

author's notes:

it's been a while ^^ hope you're all doing well

will try to update more consistently but no promises

taglist — currently CLOSED:

@aestherin @your-kuya-pogi @yourstrulykore @krnzysh @vxnuslogy @yumiaur @featuredtofu @kodzusmiles @meigalaxy @fangygf @motherscrustytoenailclippings @samyayaya @hiimera @beriiov @e0nssadrift @dazaisboner @nillajhayne @chluuvr @deffenferofjustice @romyoia @xiaomainlmao @hotgirlshit5 @potabletable @letthewindlead @esuz @toriiee @kclremin @angelkazusstuff @phoenix-eclipses @sakiimeo @mayuumine @lilybythevalley @one-and-only-tay @keiiqq @what-just-happened-huh @haunts-gh0st @layla240 @miaakai @duckyyyx @cinnaniyoom @kgogoma @xtobefreex @mechanicalbeat1 @nordicbananas @feiherp @venturinea @nnasv @retiredmommylover @onmywaytoteyvat @tiredslepz