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hgfictionwriter · 3 months ago

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Discovery: Part Two

Jessie Fleming x Reader

Summary: Jessie's nervous about a date at your apartment. Despite enjoying the evening and a chance to talk, she's left with lingering doubts about how to handle your evolving relationship.

Warnings: G!P content. Body image issues or even dysphoria; mental and emotional anxiety; internal conflicts; themes of self-acceptance. Reluctant gaslighting??

A/N: Thank you all for the interest in this piece. Still heavy on the angst here. Things will move more significantly in the next chapter. First chapter is here.

"Hey, for Saturday I was thinking of making us reservations at that new place on Greenwood. What do you think?"

"That sounds nice. But I was thinking maybe you could just come over instead. I'll make us dinner. We've been going out a lot and while it's fun to check out new places and it's sweet of you to plan all these dates, I miss our chill nights in."

A pit formed in Jessie's stomach upon reading your message. It was inevitable, really. You two couldn't have an entire relationship outside of your apartments. In fact, this whole going out every week thing was draining for her, but it was the lesser evil compared to hanging out at either of your places and what would, eventually, follow.

She ran a hand through her hair with a sigh.

"Yeah, sure. That's fine." She paused, staring at the message before exhaling in frustration. What a lackluster response. She deleted it.

What you were offering was legitimately what she wanted. She had the most fun when it was just you two, relaxed and in the comfort of your own homes. Just, now, there would be nothing relaxing about it. It would be coded with all sort of hints and allusions to something more now that you were dating. That tentative dance of will you, won't you, and when.

"That sounds great. What do you want me to bring?"

"Just yourself 😉"

Her shoulders slumped with a sigh. She should be excited. Instead, her mind ran rampant with thoughts and scenarios, each one more concerning than the last.

Through the rest of the week, she couldn't quite shake that weight in the pit of her stomach. Sometimes she forgot about it, but as soon as she had space to think or rest, worry came rushing back.

"Still want me to come over?"

Jessie hit send though she was standing at her bike already, helmet on and ready to go. And it's not like she wanted you to cancel. She really wanted to see you, but she was so torn.

"Yes lol. Of course I do. Been looking forward to it all week!"

Her chest panged and another text came through.

"Do you want to do something else?"

Now she really felt bad.

"No, no. Just checking. Just about to hop on my bike. I'll be over soon, then 😊"

"Sounds good. Ride safe."

Jessie's heart was racing as she shifted anxiously from one foot to the next as she rode the elevator up to your apartment. She looked down at the bouquet of flowers she picked up along the way and shook out a hand as she let her head fall back and she stared vacantly up at the ceiling.

"Calm down," she said to herself.

Soon, she stood tentatively in front of your door, hand poised to knock. She stood there frozen for a second before she brought her knuckles to the door. She fidgeted with the straps of her helmet and the paper around the bouquet as she waited.

A few seconds later the door opened to reveal your smiling face. Despite how she was feeling a second ago, the veil of worry that weighed on her dissipated upon seeing you. She couldn't help but smile back.

"Come in," you said cheerfully as you waved her inside before your eyes fell to the flowers. Distracted by seeing you, Jessie momentarily forgot about them and glanced down to follow your gaze.

"Oh," she voiced in belated realization before she smiled brightly and held them out. "For you."

You gave a wide smile and took them from her, smelling them and smiling once more before wrapping her up in a hug.

Her grip around you was slack to begin with, but when you held her tightly she found herself reciprocating. Her chest tightened as she held you close; she really missed you and it was a relief to hold you in her arms again. She felt herself relaxing a touch.

When you pulled your head away from her, you two locked eyes.

"I missed you," you said. Jessie felt a small blush forming and she gave you a coy smile.

"I missed you, too."

Her eyes closed as you gently closed in and soon your lips were on hers. It was chaste and sweet, but it sent a shiver down her spine and she couldn't help smiling into the kiss. Her heart warmed as she opened her eyes to see you smiling affectionately at her as your hand came to her cheek and gave her other a peck.

"Okay, let's get inside. And thank you for these, they're beautiful," you said as you ushered her in and closed the door. "Gosh. It feels like you haven't been over in ages. I guess you haven't - not since we started dating."

"Yeah," Jessie agreed with a faint laugh as she scratched the back of her head, nervousness starting to creep back in. She tried to remain relaxed as you stood close to her.

"Make yourself at home. Dinner should be ready soon."

Jessie followed you with her eyes as you returned to the kitchen and found a home for the flowers. She was lost in her thoughts before shaking her head out.

"Can I help with anything?"

You looked around briefly with the cutest frown on your face before giving a shrug.

"I guess you can get some plates and cutlery out."

She did so, carefully laying everything out before returning to the kitchen and standing awkwardly waiting for further instructions.

"Go sit down," you laughed as you shooed her away.

"No, let me help you," she insisted, a smile finding its way onto her lips, your mannerisms infectious.

You placed your hands on your hips and cocked your head at her. "Fine. Go get me these things," you unlocked your phone and handed it to her with a recipe on screen. You nodded to the pantry cupboard. "The shaker's in there. I saw this on a mixology account I follow and wanted to make us some tonight."

"Oh," Jessie voiced as she looked at the drink recipe. "Tequila?"

"Don't tell me you're scared of a shot of tequila," you teased lightly. "I thought some of you varsity athletes partied hard - especially in LA."

"Yeah, some," she emphasized as she scanned the cupboard for the items.

"You don't have to drink anything if you don't want to," you added. She gave you a fleeting look over her shoulder before returning with the supplies.

"It's fine," she said. "I'll try it."

It's not that she never drank, she enjoyed a relaxing beverage as much as the next person, but alcohol seemed like a dangerous thing given her current circumstances. However, perhaps it would take the edge off.

She started measuring out ingredients into the shaker and sealed it before shaking it all together. You looked back and gave her a not-so-subtle look of appreciation as your eyes fell to her biceps. You even reached out and gave her nearest arm a brief squeeze.

"Oh," you said with a quick raise of your eyebrows, a hint of a smile at the corner of your mouth before you turned away. Jessie blushed under your attention.

"For you," she announced after she poured out the drinks and handed you your glass.

She smiled softly as you cheers each other and took a sip. You both immediately winced and she started coughing at the overwhelming taste of alcohol.

"Shit," Jessie coughed, her eyes started to water.

You burst into laughter, but took another tentative sip.

"They are not joking with these drinks. Either that or you're heavy handed," you teased.

"I measured!" She insisted.

The drink certainly took the edge off for Jessie. By the time you were done dinner and settled into watching a movie together, her body was void of tension and her head still felt a bit light.

It wasn't long before fleeting pangs of concern started to edge in though. You two had watched shows and hung out on the couch together before, that wasn't the big deal, but as Jessie became acutely aware of your hand brushing up against hers, she found herself fidgeting lightly. She cleared her throat.

She tried to view you out of the corner of her eye and got the sense you were doing the same. Eventually, you took charge and slipped your fingers between hers, giving her hand a light squeeze. She turned and gave you a tight smile that caused your cheeks to grow flush.

While you'd both been quietly watching the movie, now you started to talk - making comments about the movie or other things. She responded softly as you chatted, cluing in that you were nervous and trying to distract to some degree. Soon, your clasped hands were resting on Jessie's thigh as you leaned into her, eventually resting your head on her shoulder.

Her heart started to pound with increasing intensity in her chest. She cursed inwardly. This shouldn't be a big fucking deal. She wanted to cuddle with you. She wanted to put her arm around you and pull you close. But it was the possibility of what would follow that had her wary.

She completely lost track of the movie, fully preoccupied with what to do. She was so conflicted. You drew small circles on her thigh and at one point laid a soft kiss on her shoulder. She cast her worries aside and lifted her arm to wrap around your shoulders. A rush of affection went through her as she caught the smile on your face as you cuddled in.

If she hadn't forgotten about the movie earlier, it was certainly forgotten now as you grew more handsy. Jessie tried to not appear affected, but her body was so tense in apprehension; she just didn't know how to relax.

When your lips suddenly made soft, sweet contact with her neck. Her free hand dug into the underside of her leg as she fought to remain indifferent. Your lips were sensual and teasing, your breath hot on her neck and she could feel sensations building within her and threatening to spill over. When your tongue grazed the sensitive skin of her neck she instinctively jerked away, fully breaking away from the embrace. She'd done it before she even realized it. An apologetic frown etched onto her face already before even seeing you.

That pit in her stomach hit deeper than ever when she saw the hurt and embarrassed look on your face, even if it was just for a second before you quickly masked it.

"Sorry," you said with a forced smile and a breathy laugh.

"No, I-" Jessie stammered, struggling to find her words. Her thoughts were a jumbled mess and she could just picture the pathetic look she was giving you. You forced another chuckle and tucked your hair behind your ear self-consciously.

"No, no. I'm sorry. Must be that heavy pour," you faintly joked, forcing a fleeting look. You straightened your posture and seemed to recenter yourself. You looked to her, earnest. "I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have pushed. I think I just-" you paused, collecting your thoughts, "I think I just thought you were being, I don't know, really...chivalrous? Or just shy. I don't know." Your face fell briefly before offering her a brave, half-hearted smile. "You clearly want to take it slow, and I should respect that. I do respect that."

Jessie turned to you, shifting on the couch to face you more fully.

"Hey, don't apologize. Seriously. It's completely okay," she assured you. You looked far from comforted, so she reached out and took your hands. Your grip was nearly non-existent until she gave you a squeeze and you mustered up a soft smile and squeezed back.

"Y-yeah, I do want to take things slow, and it doesn't help that I'm super awkward and shy," she said self-deprecatingly. "But please don't feel bad. I'm just...I'm awkward."

You made a slight face at her.

"I made you uncomfortable," you countered.

"I liked it," Jessie said, and it was absolutely true. "I just," she looked away briefly as she found her words, "I just want you to know that I'm interested in more than just physical with you." That wasn't a lie either.

You frowned deeply and your mouth quirked up in a smirk. "I think I sorted that out," you said somewhat flatly. You seemed to contemplate your words, choosing to move forward. "You know. After going on five dates and having barely kissed."

Jessie could feel her face start to heat up and her mouth felt dry. While she struggled to figure out what to say, you scratched at the back of your neck and spoke further.

"I don't know. Maybe it's in my head. You seem less comfortable with me now than before we started dating." You relaxed your shoulders, taking a breath as you sat straight and gave her an earnest smile. "I really like you, Jessie. And I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable, at all, so. If there's something I'm doing that's making you feel like that - you know, other than trying to make out with you unprompted-" you rolled your eyes, "please tell me. I don't want to push you away."

Jessie's jaw was clenched hard and she didn't realize her fingers were digging into her palms. She hated that she was making you feel this way and making you doubt yourself, and her.

"Y/N," she said your name imploringly, "I really like you, too. Please believe me. I really, really do." She searched your eyes, hating the hurt and uncertainty she'd sparked in you. Her shoulders fell and she thumbed the back of your hands softly. "I haven't dated in a long time. I don't really know what I'm doing. And I think I'm just in my head. I don't want to mess things up with you."

Your gaze softened and you gave her hands a light squeeze.

"You're not messing anything up. And, it's good that we're talking this through. I think that's really good and I'm grateful for it," you told her and she nodded readily.

"Hey," she said softly as she shuffled in closer to you. "I really like you. Please don't doubt that. Even if I'm being stupid. Thank you for being patient with me."

You gave a faint frown. "You don't need to thank me. Nor are you stupid."

"Mm, I'm kind of dumb," she said as she gave you a comical expression. You chuckled, but frowned further. She smiled at you. "I have this gorgeous, incredible girlfriend and I'm getting so stuck in my head that I'm making her think I don't feel the same way about her as she does about me."

You rolled your eyes briefly, but looked at her in thanks nonetheless.

"You're not dumb."

"Mm," she voiced further as she slowly leaned in. She whispered, "I kind of am," before her lips met yours in a soft, lingering kiss. Though you reciprocated, it was passive. Tentative.

Jessie kissed you anew, deepening it. Something she hadn't initiated before. Your reaction was delayed. She could almost feel the confusion and hesitation, but she stayed the course. Her hand came up to the side of your face, her thumb caressing your cheekbone and she kissed you more. You met her briefly, but paused, your hand coming up to her cheek, your forehead resting against hers as you broke the kiss.

"Wait - we don't have to do this," you said, opening your eyes and looking at her.

"I want to," she assured you as she kissed you again. And she did want it. And she didn't want her fear and apprehension to control her.

This time, you returned her kiss fully. Whereas all of the kisses between you two had been relatively tame and mild, now, with Jessie opening up just so, things were heating up quickly.

Kisses deepened and grew hungrier, breathing was heavier; soft, subtle moans starting, and hands began to wander.

Jessie was immersed in the moment, in you, before a tightening sensation in her pants brought reality crashing back down upon her.

Her eyes shot open and she became keenly aware of your hand drifting up her thigh. She cleared her throat and did her best to gently pull back without it seeming too abrupt. She forced a smile as your eyes belatedly drifted open and you blinked at her, confusion settling on your brow. She shifted away, positioning her body as best she could to conceal the bulge that was threatening to reveal itself.

"That was really nice," she said, trying to somehow feign that the make out session had reached its natural end.

"Um, yeah," you said slowly, a subtle frown still on your face and Jessie could see your mind trying to process what happened. You eventually offered a smile of your own. "Yeah. That was nice," you reciprocated. Your eyes studied her.

"Do you want something to drink?" Jessie asked as she got up from the couch and turned her back to you, already retreating to the kitchen. She released an inaudible sigh of relief as she rounded the counter and out of your view. She opened your fridge and glanced down. She ground her teeth together upon seeing the bulge in her pants.

"Fuck," she mouthed, upset with herself.

She peeked up over the fridge door to look at you again. You were looking vacantly at the wall before you realized she was watching you. Your expression immediately brightened and you gave a small shake of your head.

"I'm okay, thank you."

Guilt washed over her again.

The night wore on and though you both cuddled and it was less awkward than before, there were still hints of unspoken tension. That aside, it was a nice evening and Jessie was glad to have this alone time with you. It was just different than being out together.

At some point, you were both stifling yawns. She was keenly aware of the time and knew another key point in the night was fast approaching.

"If I'm exhausted, I can't imagine how tired you must be," you said as you covered your mouth as another yawn forced itself up. "You just got back into town on Monday, training all week, game yesterday and now today."

"I'm good," Jessie dismissed, despite the yawn yours pulled out of her. "But I should probably go."

You watched her quietly for a moment, before giving a nonchalant shrug.

"It's really late. I don't want you to have to bike home at this hour. Why don't you just spend the night?"

Jessie was shaking her head already and stood up by the time you were even done speaking. She waved off your offer.

"It's totally fine," she assured you.

"Babe," you beseeched, giving her pause. It still caused a small flutter in her chest when you called her that. She faltered, rubbing the side of her face briefly. You rose. "I can sleep on the couch," you offered and she shot you a withering look.

"Babe," she reciprocated. "You would never sleep on the couch on my watch. I would take the couch."

You didn't respond immediately and Jessie felt like you were going to say something else, instead saying, "Well, offer still stands. I really would rather you not go home this late."

She was tempted. God, she was so tempted. Again, it ate her up that you were paying for all of the baggage she now carried. In another time, she would've gladly taken you up on the offer. Hell, you two probably would've slept together by now - assuming you wanted to. She'd certainly dreamt of it enough and you seemed keen to move things forward. Instead...

"Thanks baby. But it's okay. Really. I'll text you when I get home." She tried to ignore the expression that flashed across your face before you gave a small smile of resignation.

"Be safe," you warned.

She put on her shoes, grabbed her helmet and jacket, but was fully distracted with how quiet you'd become. She put on a bright smile for you.

"Thank you for an amazing night," she said as she wrapped your arms around your waist. You reciprocated, wrapping your arms around the back of her neck, but you hesitated for just a moment. It was subtle, but Jessie noticed it. She gave you a kiss in hopes of bridging whatever thoughts you were having.

"Thanks for being okay just staying in. I enjoyed it," you said once you pulled back. Your gaze flicked away and a faint smirk crossed your face. You looked back to her, your cheeks growing rosy. "I swear I didn't invite you over just to try to make out with you or to try to convince you to spend the night." You shrugged. "I just like spending time just the two of us at home. It's more relaxed." Jessie nodded.

"I know. Me too," she agreed. Her tactic of booking dates around town had expired; she'd have to let it go. She gave you an encouraging smile. "We can do this more often."

"Okay," you accepted with a nod. You gave her another quick kiss. "Well, you better go."

"Okay," she said. She started to thumb the small of your back and stopped immediately. "Goodnight." She stepped out of your embrace and opened the door, taking a step out into the hall before pausing and turning back. "Raincheck on spending the night?"

Your smile reached your eyes this time. You nodded. "Of course."

A/N: Forgot a couple of folks asked to be tagged. @multifandomlesbianic @marvelwomen-simp

#jessie fleming #jessie fleming x reader #woso x reader #woso imagine #canwnt x reader #wlw fiction #wlw angst

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yearning-for-autumn · 10 months ago

Note

So, here is my humble request 👀:

Reader is afab Illyrian, got her wings clipped (because we hate this tradition that’s why and because I am too much into enemies to lovers) and the Bat Boys consider her something close to a little sister.

When Eris was making a deal with the NC to get their help to kill Beron and that shit, his bond snapped with reader.

Obviously problematic for him because he has been insulting Illyrians since his mom popped him out about 500+ years ago.

So…bonus points for: smut obvs.- go as filthy as you like, Lucien absolutely mocking Eris for FUMBLING desperately to get his charm going, reader being oblivious.

I hope this sparks some ideas and creativity 🥰🤞🏻

Would That I -- Part 1

A/n: This was too good not to make into a multi-part fic, so expect more soon. Smut will be coming!

Pairing: Eris X Illyrian!Reader

Warnings: Allusions to smut, pining, mentions of mental health

Word Count: 3,638

Summary: You hate him. You hate the very thought of him. And yet he's your mate. The Mother has a cruel sense of humour.

Part 2 Part 3

Fury rippled through your body like a forest fire. You were livid. And Cassian had the nerve to laugh at you. Well, stifle a laugh. Rhysand was watching him with a worried look as he tried to give him a silent warning to stop. This progressed to warning him mind to mind when you got up from the sofa, flinging a pillow so far it almost landed into the fireplace. Azriel flinched.

“Him!?” You seethed, finally breaking the silence you had kept since your return from that damned High Lord meeting. Cassian snorted softly and you rounded on him with a deathly calm. Rhys made a small noise in the back of his throat.

“Is this funny to you, brother? I’m shackled to that evil, pompous, ginger-haired freak and you’re laughing?” His smile had dropped and a look of fear was quickly overcoming his rugged features. You stepped closer to him, your finger in his face. “Don’t sleep too deeply tonight.”

Rhysand cleared his throat.

“Look, this doesn’t have to be the end of the world. You don’t have to accept the bond. We can make sure you never see him again.” The bond snarled through you at that and you growled.

“Sure Rhys, because you were so calm when you found out Feyre was your mate.”

His brow furrowed.

“So you want to be with Eris?” The name seemed to physically disgust him. Azriel scoffed, abruptly rising from the sofa and marching out of the room. Cassian eyed the doorway in his wake. You turned to Rhys.

“No!” You groaned in frustration, pacing up and down on the carpet like a caged animal. Cassian’s eyes darted between Rhys and you. Finally deciding to break things up he manhandled you into a hug. You fought it for a few moments, before giving up and collapsing into your brothers embrace, hot angry sobs wrenching through you. Rhys took this as his cue to leave, and winnowed—probably to his office—out of the room. Cassian rubbed soothing circles on your back, careful to avoid your wings that were ever more sensitive after the clipping.

You were clipped at thirteen, which is how you had come to live with the three brothers. In Windhaven, they clipped your wings the day you started your cycle. Once grounded there was no escaping your duties, nor any chance to leave the camp. Unless, of course, you had grown close with the High Lord’s son, who had a mother with a habit of collecting strays.

You were there through all of it, the highs, the lows, and Morrigan’s tumultuous relationship with one Eris Vanserra. The male you were now mated to.

---

In the Forest House, Eris was pacing. His throat was still sore from the memory of Azriel’s scarred hand, and his cheek burned from the slap that had earned him from his father. But all of that had been overshadowed. He knew as soon as he saw you. His heart had lurched in his chest so hard he had thought he might throw up. You were the most beautiful female he had ever laid his eyes on. And of course, you were from the Night Court. The Mother truly did have a cruel sense of humour.

You had walked in, looking as arrogant as the rest of them, sharing a secret smile with the shadowsinger before sitting down next to the High Lord. Eris, next to his mother, couldn’t rip his eyes from you. Your doe eyes, sharp and intelligent captured his attention first. He wanted nothing more than to get lost in them, to find out everything about you: What you liked to read, your favourite food, how best to pleasure you and have you screaming his name. He was pulled from his fantasies by your wings. Cauldron, your magnificent wings. Their beauty stole breath from his lungs as they unfurled, getting comfortable on the chair. You had smiled at Feyre, warm and supportive, and Eris knew he was utterly lost.

He finally stopped his pacing, locked inside his room, and sat down on the edge of his bed. He sat there, holding his head in his hands until he heard the scratch of claws at the door. Getting up with a weary sigh, he opened it only to be knocked to the ground by his oldest and most loyal smokehound.

“Cheddar.” He chided as she licked his face excitedly. “Cheddar Biscuit.” He said, sternly, and she leapt off of him, waiting by the door expectantly.

“Yes alright, I suppose it’s time for a walk.” Cheddars tail thumped faster against the door frame and Eris couldn’t help the smile that grew. “Go and fetch your brothers and sisters then.” He said, grabbing the leashes off the wall. A walk was one way to clear his mind.

---

As you had predicted, Rhys was holed up in his office when you went looking for him. He barely looked up at you as you entered.

Rhysand’s office was always meticulously organised, but as you came up behind his chair you noticed how messy his desk had become. Letters and notes were piled on every inch of space, his childhood stuffed bat sitting atop one pile as a makeshift paperweight.

He loosed a breath.

“We are going to war, Y/n.” He said quietly, and any thoughts of Eris Vanserra eddied from your mind. Rhys looked up at you with bloodshot eyes. Guilt coursed through you for ever caring about something as trivial as a mating bond when you and your brothers were set for battle. You had only just got Rhys back from under the mountain, only to potentially lose him again.

“Is it certain?” You asked, leaning down to rest your head on his shoulder.

“Yes.”

“Is Cass--?”

“Leaving for Windhaven by first light.” He answered.

“Ok.”

Rhys turned, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. He knew what you were thinking, though you wished you weren’t.

“Eris is an awful male, Y/n. You know I could never support the bond between you. Azriel is...well, I’m sure you already know.”

You did. The moment he had stormed out of the room you had known this was the beginning of a negative spiral for Az. Not to mention the upcoming war. You stood up straight.

“That being said.” Rhys continued. “Eris is ensuring Autumn allies with us against Hybern. There is a certain political advantage to the match.”

You scoff.

“Like there was with Mor?” Rhys turned green. “What did Eris bargain for in return for Autumn’s support? What did you trade away, Rhys?”

Rhysand looked every bit five centuries old when he turned to you.

“Our support in his bid for the throne. Whenever that may be.”

Hatred for the male burst anew in your gut, fiercer still now that you were mated to him.

“That power hungry bastard.” You spat.

Rhysand sighed.

“He could never deserve you, starlight. I will make sure that he never sees you again. I will not lose another sister.”

---

It wasn’t until midnight that you saw Azriel. The last of your brothers to approach you. He let himself into your room, waking you, tattered blanket draped around his shoulders. Rhys’ mother had sewn it for him years ago, before you had come to live with them. It had helped him through many hard nights. So much so that it was threadbare and faded. Rhys had enchanted it not to break further as a solstice gift one year.

You sat up worried.

“Az? Are you ok? You didn’t—”

“No,” He assured, and you relaxed against the pillows, “I’m ok.”

You shuffled over in your bed to make space for him, and he laid next to you, blanket over the both of you.

“I hate him.” He said into the darkness. “I hate what he did to Mor. I hate everything he stands for. I will not let him have you.” He declared.

You snuggled up to your eldest brother.

“I don’t know why you all seem convinced I’m going to somehow fall for this prick.” You said, and he snorted. “I hate him as much as you do.”

Azriel tucked you under his arm.

“I know.” You smiled tiredly, somehow understanding the words Azriel left unsaid. The words Rhys had been able to express. Azriel’s shadows settled over your heart, confirming, and the two of you fell asleep.

---

Months later, Eris sat in a tent, head between his legs to stop from throwing up. Thousands were dead. Thousands more were surely destined to die. Two of his brothers, and his mate, fought on the battlefield.

He only had a moments warning before he was violently sick into a bucket.

Asher, his youngest brother before Lucien, chose this moment to enter his tent unannounced, scowling at the sight of Eris hunched over and retching.

“Can’t handle the bloodshed, brother?” He teased, though he sat next to Eris and put a warm hand on his shoulder. The gaping wound on his neck was healing quickly, as it should with the High Lords power coursing through his veins, but the sight of it set Eris off again. He heaved into the bucket, choosing to ignore the gagging sound Asher made.

“Eris you need to pull yourself together. Father is only a tent over.”

Eris rolled his eyes.

“Just show me your plans, Ash.”

“I don’t know, maybe I’m better off keeping them to myself, seeing as you’re battlesick.” Asher grimaced when Eris finally sat up and pushed the bucket away from him.

“Asher.” Eris’ voice held all the command of General, and eldest brother. Asher groaned petulantly as he handed over the plans.

In Eris’ opinion, not that Beron took any heed, Asher should never have taken on as much responsibility in this war. After Ceres had died, Ash had taken over as Eris’ right hand. Ceres had been more naturally suited to the role, Beron’s bloodlust had run as deep as his bones, and he had a sharp mind for strategy. Eris still mourned the boy he had raised—a quick witted, chess loving, boisterous child—but he had to accept, he had lost Ceres long before he had died. And Eris wasn’t keen on losing anyone else. Asher wasn’t comfortable with a sword, the gash in his neck clear evidence, and he had a wife and child that weakened his resolve. This is what Eris had to work with. And he had a job to do.

He let Asher discuss his plans, though he was unable to rip his mind from providing a hundred different ways that he could die, that Ash or Lucien could die, that you could die.

It took every ounce of training ingrained in him not to falter in his attack the moment he had caught sight of you, fighting your way through the onslaught, Mor by your side. Cauldron, you were ethereal. Your silken wings were spread as if they could carry you into the air, though he had long since guessed that they could not. You cut through your enemies with a frightening ease. Catching his eye, you hesitated just a second, then your face had turned to rage and the next Hybern soldier to cross your path had been beheaded so brutally that even he had to avert his gaze.

When he had looked back up, you were gone, lost in the chaos.

Asher sighed,

“You’re not listening.” He said, and Eris had the decency to feel bad. He looked at Ash wearily.

“Come back in the morning. I’ll be more attentive.” Ash just peered at him over his notes.

“It’s her isn’t it. It’s Y/n.”

“Yes.” Eris said, lacking the energy to lie.

“She’s Night Court. She’s not one of us. One day you’ll find a nice Autumn girl to marry and when you’re High Lord she can pop out a few Autumn court babies.”

“She is my mate.” Eris growled.

“Mate’s aren’t always meant to be Eris. It’s only a biological match, not a political one. When you find an Autumn Court lady you’ll wonder why you ever spent time worrying over some Night Court harlot.” Eris snarled, despite himself. His brothers words were wrenched straight from Beron’s throat and he wouldn’t stand for it. Not from Asher. Not from his kind, loving Ash.

“Get out.” He said. Asher looked surprised, and—Eris was pleased to see—ashamed. He made no moves to leave, so Eris repeated himself, sharper this time.

“Get out.” He snapped, “Come back in the morning with more sense.”

Asher, chastised, fled from the tent, and Eris buried his head in his hands. What use was there protecting you from his brothers when it was certain your own said the same about him. There was no denying the cruel twist of fate the Mother had pulled on the both of you, destined to crash and burn. He imagined you in your own tent, laughing at the thought of him speared on another males sword. Mor sat next to you whispering all the terrible things he had done that day, terrible things to twist your mind and poison the very notion of him. He was too late, he was nothing but soot in the deep pit of your heart, choking the both of you.

He felt blindly for the bond, and found it, rotten.

---

The war was over, but the scars it had left were red raw and bleeding. Rhys had died. Your brother. The one who had sheltered you, loved you, given you a home and a family for a few agonising minutes had been gone. Gone. And yet that Cauldron damned bond had been chafing in the back of your mind. You sat in your bedroom riddled with guilt as it plagued your mind. Eris. Eris. Eris. He infested your mind, your senses, you were consumed by the very thought of him.

Walking through the streets of Velaris had started to feel claustrophobic, being around anyone beginning to suffocate you. You felt safer on your own. Recently you had taken to sheltering in your room, only emerging to eat. Your brothers eyed you with poorly concealed worry every time you walked, ghostlike, through the house, shuffling to the kitchen to fix a plate of leftovers then retreat hastily to your safe space.

Nesta was struggling too, after the war. It had left its scars in all of you. You could feel Cassian’s heart breaking the day Rhys sent her away with him, but all you could think about was whether your brother would do that to you. You thought you knew the looks he gave you.

Disgust.

What use was a flightless Illyrian female, who couldn’t train, couldn’t talk, couldn’t think. He was dead. Rhys was dead. And then he wasn’t. Why were Seren and your mother not afforded the same luxury. You grieved, and cried, and screamed. It truly was a sick thing, to use to the miracle of Rhys’ living to guilt yourself into believing there was hope for them. But then, everything in your mind had twisted of late.

Nesta began training. Nesta began healing. And you were stuck in your room.

Every morning without fail, Azriel came to check on you. He stroked your hair until you woke up, then retreated when you once again rejected his invitations to join them. The Valkyries, they were calling themselves. You would have been proud of Nesta if you could feel anything anymore.

Occasionally, you could feel a light tug on the bond, on the shackles that kept you bound to Eris. The first few times you had thrown up. Now it was little more than an annoyance. You were his dog, disobediently pulling your leash as you fell further and further into nothingness. His face in your mind was as cold as it had been on the battlefield as he yanked you back, choking you. You spluttered. Standing weakly, you made your way down to the kitchen, setting water on the stove to boil.

“Sister.” Cassian’s voice rang out behind you and you flinched, dropping your teaspoon. He bent to pick it up and set it down on the counter. “Azriel says you’ve been ignoring him. You’ve been ignoring all of us.”

You shrugged, the familiar pang of guilt squeezing your chest, making it difficult to breath. You braced both hands on the counter top, taking a ragged breath. Cassian was beside you in a heartbeat, holding you in his arms.

“Y/n, I’m worried about you. We all are.” He squeezed you closer to him, closer than you had allowed anyone in months. “Come and stay with Nes and I. Az is a terrible chaperone, and I need to see you. You could be wasting away down here and I wouldn’t know until it was too late.”

You shook your head, though you no longer knew why you resisted him. Your body melted against him, muscle memory taking over as he enveloped you in his wings. You swore you heard him sniffling as you hugged him back.

“Please, y/n.” He said, voice shaking. It didn’t take much more convincing.

A few days later, Rhys was helping you unpack your bags in your new room in the House of Wind. You took the room next to Azriel, who—Cassian had explained—was falling into bad habits again: Not eating, not sleeping, waking up in a cold sweat when he did finally drop off. Cassian wasn’t doing as well as he wanted you to believe, either. Twice in the following week you woke up to find him taking things from your room. And once, when you had floated downstairs in a miserable haze, you found him throwing up in the kitchen sink, an empty plate that had once held a batch of Elain’s cookies sitting on the table.

Nesta had dragged you to Valkyrie training a few times, and whilst you were beyond their current skill level, it had taken your mind off of things. Cassian’s eyes gleamed with pride everytime Nesta mastered an attack or a block. He touched her affectionately, he teased her, he lingered as she passed to breath in her scent. Watching them together was as painful as it was sweet. How simple love could be.

Would that you could be half as lucky.

Slowly you were emerging from your shell. You could smile again. Nesta invited you to read with her and the Valkyries, and in the silence you found firm friendship. Emerie was a gift from the Mother herself. You bonded instantly, both of you clipped, grounded, but neither broken. Many late nights were spent talking, about books, your brothers, or about Eris. Nesta, Emerie and Gwyn knew little of the Autumn prince, but you appreciated their outside perspective on the bond. It was still a bitter taste in your mouth, but it was becoming more bearable with each passing week.

---

There was a ball approaching in the Hewn City and Rhys had asked Nesta to attend. Not long after, she asked you to join her.

“I can’t do this alone, Y/n, please.” She said one night, sitting at the end of your bed. You bit your lip, unsure.

“Eris will be there.” You said.

“I’ll be the one dancing with him. Rhys wants him falling madly in love with me. He won’t look your way, I promise.” Nesta said. You knew she meant well by that. You had never wanted him anywhere near you before. But something about her oath left a sting. You frowned, which she took to mean you were still unconvinced.

“Please, Y/n. My sisters will be there, Rhys will be there. I’m not ready to face them all on my own, not yet.”

And so you found yourself stood atop the stairs the following week, draped in a black dress with a slit so high up one side your whole leg was practically exposed. The back scooped so low the dimples at the bottom of your spine peeked over top. You were devastating. Death in midnight silk. Rhys’ smile was that of pure brotherly pride as you walked down the steps, your hair pinned in braids and curls.

Nesta stole your breath away as she appeared in the hallway, but it wasn’t your gaze she sought out. You looked towards Cassian and could have sworn he was drooling. Eris would be blind-sided by her, of that you had no doubt.

In the Hewn City, they danced like lovers. Nesta as dangerous in the ballroom as she had become on the training grounds. Every move was calculated, every parting of her lips a dance of the mind, designed to ensnare Eris in her dastardly web. Eris was caught. And you burned.

Standing next to Azriel, heat rolled off you in waves. He took a step towards you, perhaps to offer you a drink, but found something in your eyes to make him change his mind. You hadn’t taken your eyes off of Eris all night. He was sinful. A courtier and a Prince. His hair pooled over his shoulders, one strand to the front neatly braided. You reminded yourself that this was the male that left your cousin for dead at his Court border. Biting your lip, your mind wandered to see yourself lying prone beneath him as he stood, smile widening, cock hardening in his—

“Get me a drink.” You ordered Az. He raised an eyebrow.

“What’s the magic word.”

“Azriel.” You growled, and he turned on his heel. Your eyes stayed pinned on Eris as he led Nesta across the dancefloor in a tantalizing waltz. His gaze finally met yours, and you saw a fraction of surprise before his emerald eyes darkened. He licked his lips, eyes locked with yours as he leaned down, and pressed a kiss to Nesta’s neck.

A/N: I have to thank @fandomsmultiverse for talking to me and giving me about 100 ideas to flesh this story out, I really hope you like it! There will be a part 2 coming soon! I wouldn't just leave you on a cliffhanger like that. We will see more of Eris and Reader interacting, and maybe.....some smut...

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mo0nfairy · 1 year ago

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ᥫ᭡ . # ۫ , ⸺ THIS IS A LIFE, PART ONE !

summary :: in every universe, spiderman will inevitably lose the one thing that matters most to him: y/n l/n. miguel o'hara, peter parker, and hobie brown have all suffered through this story. they soon discover another version of you is alive, bound to fall in love with miles morales and to die abruptly. with the prospect of a second chance and a newfound obsession, these four men will do anything to keep you at their side.

chapters :: the masterlist.

word count :: 7.5k

content warnings :: yandere!miguel, yandere!miles, yandere!noir, yandere!hobie, reader death, gore/violence, murder, electrocution, fire, guns, alcohol, cigarettes, suicidal tendencies, kidnapping, stalking, physical restraint, child abuse/neglect, allusions to a child's death, physically abusive ex-boyfriend, infidelity, & torture.

──── October 17th, 2099 — Miguel O'Hara remembers the day the same way he will never forget you. August 24th, 1934 — Peter Parker remembers the day the same way he will never forget you. July 3rd, 2020 — Hobie Brown remembers the day the same way he will never forget you.

Y/N L/N. Miguel O'Hara, Peter Parker, and Hobie Brown will never forget them the same way they will never forget how it felt to lose them.

The inevitable fate of your demise is a cannon event for all spider-people. To love this person with every shred of their being only to live the rest of their lives without them; to love this person with all the might their body can contain only to let go of their hand in the end. It crushes their soul. Countless people are forced to live with the consequences of being bitten by a spider, not one had suspected it would be so detrimental.

Not when it is your life that has been taken.

Written in the stars is this destiny. How they will never love another again, but vow to be a hero and refrain a similar fate from falling onto anyone else. Many have been able to crawl out of the bottomless pit that is grief, but others have succumbed to the unforgiving anguish and let their life escape them. Just the way yours had. After all, what is life if you are not present? What is the point of living if there is no one there to patch up their scars and praise them for their heroic acts? There is no point, which leaves these three particular spider-people here. Their body is stuck in the past, reliving each moment with you up until they lost you forever.

October 17th, 2099. It was all his fault. Maybe if he hadn't let his violent tendencies toward anyone who isn't you slip through the seams, maybe if he had been more persistent in his reminders of how loved you are. Maybe if he had tried harder, Miguel O'Hara would still have you here at his side.

Miguel's attempts to make this sudden transition in your life as easy as possible turned out to be disastrous. He is not stupid; he knows this upbringing into this new lifestyle you claim to be "kidnapping" was blunt. He knew this, yet still, his plans on easing you through this change had collapsed right before him. Time had passed, and he naively assumed your fear had depleted, far too caught up in the sheer delight that came from holding you in his arms. Days and nights spent trailing his fingers down the expanse of your skin and kissing away the bruises his fangs had left upon your lips. This is a dream, Miguel always catches himself thinking.

And his sweet daughter, Gabriella. How she adored you so much. Even more so than her own father, he often joked. Coming home to find you both brushing the hair of her numerous dolls, baking treats that were rich with far too much sugar, or fast asleep on the couch while some whiny kids show plays on the television. His heart hammers like a fluttering hummingbird at the sight of you so soft and calm with his daughter. However, your guard then builds itself back up, brick-by-brick, faster than a gust of wind when he makes his presence known. In a way, Miguel found himself... jealous of Gabriella. That gentle and loving nature of yours, why couldn't he have it for himself? Why couldn't you give him some of that attention, even just a blink? What could that crybaby brat possibly have done to deserve such an amazing thing!?

No matter what kind of thoughts suffocate his mind, Miguel always tried to keep himself composed in front of you. With his tall, muscular physique, it makes sense why you are so intimidated by his appearance. If he were to ever let this satiating envy bleed through the bandaids, however, you'd certainly never open your heart to him. The prospect alone makes his chest tighten with dread.

And he had been so negligent towards his daughter, it only makes sense why she would turn to you. With how breathtaking, elegant, brilliant, electrifying you are, Miguel can understand why she loves you so much. Still, this does not refrain him from tightening his jaw whenever his daughter does something as trivial as hug you. That should be me with Y/N. Let me hold them, let me hold them, let me hold them like that.

It's his fault he had so frivolously expressed his envy through sharp gazes, a towering frame, and muffled shouts through the thin walls. It's his fault he never assured you these ugly emotions were never your fault, since you could never do any wrong in his eyes, after all. It's his fault he didn't drown you in even more heaps of affection, to further remind you of just how much he needs you.

It is his fault you are dead.

Overcome with drowsiness, Miguel heedlessly packs his daughters lunch for school that day. Despite how you are usually the one who does this task, since you have always adored looking after the little one, you needed your rest. And he was insistent on treating you with even more intensive care, all to prove that he is the right one for you. No one else. Meanwhile, Gabriella sits at the kitchen table with her backpack on, swinging her short legs back and forth. She is bright with full energy that contradicts her father's state in a comical manner.

"Y/N/N always cuts my food into cool shapes! Yesterday, they made my sandwich star-shaped!" Gabriella exclaims to her father with admiration.

The mere mention of your name from someone else makes Miguel freeze. A sudden surge of anger wraps around his lungs like a sheen layer of morning dew resting on Spring grass. You treat her with such attentive care, why can't he get any of that? What is so special about her that he doesn't have? What does he need to change about himself in order to get you to love him the way you so fatuously love her? Miguel casts his gaze across the counter and finds several bottles of cleaning products you must have forgotten to put away. So endearing, so adorable. An idea then sparks. While Gabriella continues to babble about how cool and amazing you are, Miguel finds himself considering something he will never be able to take back.

Just a dash of some drain cleaner in her sandwich and this problem will fade away.

"Y/N/N!" The sound of your nickname shouts through the air upon your arrival. Gabriella is more than elated to greet you, but your eyes remain locked on Miguel. In other circumstances, he'd be thanking the heavens above for this bit of attention you have given him. At this moment, however, there is a disturbed gleam of horror in your expression that makes his stomach twist with apprehension.

The energy is not directed towards Gabriella, as you caress her cheek and gift her that smile of yours that rivals sunlight. Miguel inadvertently rolls his eyes at the sight, envious as ever. As she continues to ramble to you about her success at a recent soccer game, you retrieve all the cleaning products and return them to their respective place underneath the sink. Not without shooting a burning glare at Miguel, however. Had he made his intentions that obvious? You wave him aside from his stance at the pink, glittery lunchbox and he obeys. Pretending to finish up his original efforts, you examine every snack inside for anything this crazed man may have tampered with.

"Good morning, button..." The nervous tremble in Miguel's voice doesn't tarnish the sheer adoration that seeps from his tone.

Your short response of "'morning" could barely be heard over the thunderous sound of his heart shattering. Yet again, you have broken his heart. And still, he will crawl back to you every time, aching for any inkling of your regard. Soon, you're saying your goodbyes to Gabriella and wishing her a wonderful day at school. Planting a quick peck to her cheek, Miguel's talons grow and dig crevices into the steering wheel while he waits for his daughter to join him in the vehicle. Oh, if only you could give him the same act of affection, he would never ask the universe for anything ever again.

And if only he had known how the rest of the morning would play out, he never would have left the house.

When Miguel finally pulls out of the driveway, giving you a quick wave that is not reciprocated, you let your guard down. You almost watched this man murder his daughter. Tears begin to form in your eyes as the revelation simmers like boiling water. With more time here, who knows what lengths he'll travel to?

Fortunately for you, with how occupied he was with his daughter and his own inner turmoil, he had entirely forgotten to lock the door to his office. The one place neither you nor his daughter were allowed to venture into. You were unaware of what is within the room or how anything inside could aid you in your attempts to escape. What you were aware of, however, is how paranoid he was in his efforts to keep you out of there. Peeling back the curtain and taking a fearful glance out the window, just to ensure this psychopath who claimed to be your soulmate wasn't lurking, you embark on your journey into uncharted territory.

Miguel had mentioned several times in his late-night talks with you about his job at Alchemax. His boring explanations about the technology he was working on there did wonders in lulling you to sleep. Now, seeing the scatterings of machinery that littered the room made you gasp from their futuristic appearance. One contraption had caught your attention, however. It seemed to be a current project, evident in the numerous tools and papers inked with equations littered around. Upon stepping closer to the contraption, a holographic screen sputters to life. You find several distorted, glitching files that all attain to you in some shape or form. Y/N's wish list, Y/N's checking account, and Y/N's security camera footage. Curiosity does spark, but with how swiftly Miguel is able to drop his daughter off and speed home to return to you, the time you had was not versatile.

If I can piece together how this gadget works, I may be able to call for help and get Gabriella and I as far away from this man as possible, you think to yourself.

The machine continues to stammer pathetically as if it were desperately chasing its own life. Trying to peruse through the technology to find anything useful, its poor performance prevented you from any fruition. In a fit of frustration, you pull your hand back and deliver a harsh smack! to the side of the machine. With how little time you have, you can feel your opportunity for freedom begin to fade away with every glitch that erupts. With one final, violent slam to the machinery, the metal borders protecting the numerous open wires inside fall, and a sudden wave of electricity surges through you. Your entire body goes rigid before you splat harshly against the ground. You are now left entirely lifeless, except for the electric shocks that cause your stiff form to twitch in response.

With that, your life was over. October 17th, 2099 — the day Miguel O'Hara inevitably lost the only thing that ever mattered to him.

August 24th, 1934. It was all his fault. Maybe if he had stayed with you more and neglected the city, maybe if he hadn't been so careless with expressing his love for you. Maybe if he had tried harder, Peter Parker would still have you here at his side.

Peter, too, attempted vigorously to make your transition to this new life with him as smooth as possible. At the very beginning of this new adjustment, hope had still plagued your mind. As days turned into weeks, soon months, the forest fire that was your persistence had slowly been snuffed out like an old candle. Now, all you can do is sit at the window seat of his apartment and just pray that someone will recognize your face. From the numerous missing persons' posters that were now left behind in dumpsters and rain puddles, you could feel your luck grow thin. Everyday looked like this, all with this lovesick maniac at your beck-and-call, deluded enough to believe this fantasy of being your doting partner to be reality. The amount of egg-creams you've drank is bound to make you vomit at some point.

At the end of the day, you had gotten what you had wished for. You were once a journalist, putting all your time into unmasking the famous Spiderman. The truth of his identity was now in the palm of your hands. However, there were far more consequences to this wish than you had originally anticipated. And Peter is overcome with guilt when he thinks back to how disastrous his efforts to give you his heart turned out.

It's his fault he had so carelessly exposed his acts of heroism through the stench of gunpowder and chunks of blood beneath his fingernails. It's his fault he didn't spend more time showering you in the affection you truly deserved. It's his fault he never assured you the inevitable fate of the bastards that hurt you was never your fault, just so you can realize that everything he does, no matter how calamitous, was all for your benefit.

It is his fault you are dead.

Slow dancing with you in the gentle haze of the moonlight peaking through the window, swaying along to some romantic melody echoing from the saloon across the street, amorous words that you'd hear from the lips of a poet whispered into your ear — this is where heaven is. This is all that he has ever dreamed of; this is all he has ever wanted for the two of you. This is what makes him happy.

"My heart is bleeding in your hands, dollface. It's all yours, I'm all yours." Peter's breath tickles your neck, the infatuation-stained harangue finally coming to an end as he continues to sway you along to the harmonies outside.

You often joke to yourself that you could stab Peter in the heart, give him even just a sliver of the turmoil he has forced into your life, and he would still give you a smile with blood painting his teeth and that revolting gleam of pure, unadulterated devotion in his eyes. With this devotion, however, comes dark, dark side effects. This was not a surprise to you, considering how you've been locked up like a bad dog for these past several months. Still, when you inhale and the sharp odor of iron poorly masked with bleach overwhelms your senses, you find yourself taken aback.

The clamoring sound of the bolts to your prison cell your captor claims to be your love den being unlocked brings you out of your thoughts. When the door opens and Peter walks in, all you see is a euphoric, hopelessly-besotted partner. With the sudden stench that is still heavy in the air, however, you feel a new, sudden sense of dread with his presence. He is elated to see you, as he always is. An impassioned kiss to your lips and an ardent compliment are essential to your everyday encounter with the man you thought once to be a superhero. Sometimes, a gift of fresh, blood-red roses may accompany him in his attempts to woo you further, as well.

Through the whiff of cigarettes sitting on his trench coat when he envelops you in a much-needed embrace after his long day of work, you sense something else. The tang you had inhaled from outside the bedroom is now stuck to his form, nestled beneath the aroma of late-night brume and smoke. You force a gag down your throat and reciprocate the affection, trying to push your suspicions to the back burner in your mind. The rest of the evening is like any other: listening to some tunes from the radio as the two of you play a card game, all that Peter deems as a "romantic date". Your winning strike against him (he always lets you win, but he won't tell you this) falters when your brain can't help but wonder what he was so occupied with outside that door.

As devastating and exhausting as the truth is, coming to terms with reality is the only chance you have of returning to the life you once had. Hoping he'll wake from his delusions and let you off your leash is nothing more than a pipe dream, you realize. If you want freedom, you'll have to take it by the neck and claim it as yours. So, as the hours of the night fade into dawn, you conjure a plan in your head while the man beside you snores in a deep slumber (not without a few sleepy mumbles of flattery for you, though).

The scheme you had so flawlessly crafted was quick, simple, and easy. You would do something you have never done before: initiate affection with Peter.

This was your ploy: fulfill all the fantasies his lovesick brain was infested with and watch with a newfound sense of hope as he forgets to lock the door, too dazed from the pleasure your sweet attitude had brought him. And it worked marvelously. Not only did this man forget to lock the bedroom door, he had entirely forgotten to lock the front door of the apartment altogether. The prospect of this mistake being a test of your loyalty lingers, but when you watch through the window as he swings away from building to building, you let out a roar of laughter.

After your fit of hysterics, a smile sits on your face as you tread to the front door. Something stops you in your tracks when your hand hovers over the doorknob. When you leave, you will have nothing but months of memories to defend yourself with. Who are the authorities going to believe — you, a mischievous journalist, prone to bending the rules for a good headline, or Peter, the famous superhero, notorious for his restless efforts to save the city? Despite the freedom you have dreamed of being right in your palms, you step away from the door. Instead, you look around for any evidence deemed beneficial. Whatever can put him under the negative limelight is satisfactory to you.

No stone was left unturned in the apartment, all besides a single door at the end of a long corridor. The night before, Peter had been so frantic with his time inside (all in order to get back to you sooner) that he was sloppy with his efforts in cleaning his mess. The spilled bleach he had accidentally knocked over was still lying in a puddle; the nauseating scent of fresh blood still satiated through the air like a fragrance. And lastly, the latch on the door had been left unlocked.

Without so much as a second thought, you enter the room and let your curious eyes soak in the sheer horror that resides within.

A metal chair rests in the middle of the room, leather straps tightened around a body that sits motionless. Two tables are located on the sides of the room where all sorts of gut-wrenching tools reside. And there is blood everywhere. What was once a second bedroom for buyers of the apartment has now been morphed into a torture chamber of sorts.

The person restrained in the chair, you weren't sure if they were even alive. Everything is drowned in so much heaps of red, attempting to use your mere first-aid knowledge is impossible. What is most perceptible, however, is the way their eye had been forcefully torn from its socket. It resembles a runny egg how it causes bodily fluids to cascade down their face. The amount of flesh on their body that had been torn asunder, the gag in their mouth that was oozing with tears and saliva, the gushing blood that continues to hastily seep from infected wounds. Everything makes your eyes blur and your stomach churn with nauseau.

With the career you once had as a journalist, you've seen some disgusting sights. Sneaking onto crime scenes from a brawly saloon fight gone too far or snapping pictures of the result of Spiderman's "heroic" acts to save citizens, you've become desensitized to gory scenes. But, this. This wasn't like anything you have ever seen.

"Y/N?" You hadn't realized how deafening the silence was until the poor victim is able to speak out.

With one eye practically staring daggers into you, the revelation hits you like a train. That voice, that eye. This is no other than the man you had called your boyfriend before this mess had snuck into your life. Or, ex-boyfriend, as you'd prefer to refer to him as. The status of your relationship was left a mystery after the night he had come to your home drunk and reeking of someone's perfume. Your insistent demands for him to sober up and inform you of his recent whereabouts earned you a harsh slap across the face. With a loud shout of how much of a “shitty partner” and "piece of cityside trash" you are, the person you thought to be the love of your life storms out of your home. Never to be seen again.

Hastily, you unclasp the restraints that left his skin numb and bruised. With how malnourished he had become from his time spent here, it was fairly easy to support his weight. You swing his battered arm around your shoulder and help him stand on his emaciated legs. After only two steps, he pushes you off of him harshly with what little strength his body was able to garner. His attempts served well, as you feel your stomach hit a table adorned with blood-stained utensils that make you sick to imagine how they were used.

"You... How could you...?" As his weak voice fills the air, you feel your stomach fold into itself. Does he think you did this?

Opening your mouth to begin stammering your way through what you intended to be a thorough explanation, a loud bang! then pervades the air. Without a second to process his actions, the man grasped the pistol left on the table and pulled the trigger. A stream of smoke now stems from the barrel. The betrayal, the aversion, and the debility in his expression tell you everything you need to know. You were so close to the finish line that would grant you freedom, but when you shift your gaze down, you're devastated to find a bullet hole protruding through your chest. You then slump to the ground and your killer falls not long after you, the act of merely standing too much for his abused body.

With that, your life was over. August 24th, 1934 — the day Peter Parker inevitably lost the only thing that ever mattered to him.

July 3rd, 2020. It was all his fault. Maybe if he had been more attentive to your safety, maybe if he hadn't exposed how soul-crushing the love he has for you is. Maybe if he had tried harder, Hobie Brown would still have you here at his side.

As opposed to the others, Hobie did little to ease you into this new life with him. The transition was curt, violent. With you as a bartender, drunken customers are most certainly not a rare sight. However, when you rejected a man who had one too many drinks and he reacted with violence, it caught you off-guard. And Hobie, the lead singer of the band that consistently played at your bar, had become blind with rage. Through the mess of the blood on your head when the beer bottle shattered against you and the apple-red matter staining Hobie's guitar as he smashes it relentlessly into the man's skull, these events somehow landed you where you are now.

An abandoned building on the outskirts of town, that's where you had woken up. The debris around the room was masked with string lights and band posters adorning the walls, as well as a rickety bed frame scarcely supporting a lone mattress. With bleary vision and an even fuzzier head, you gain consciousness abruptly. You find yourself on the bed with thick, itchy blankets draped around you, clothes that certainly do not belong to you on your body, and spiky belts used to restrain your limbs. Barbed wires and decaying planks of wood board the windows; the lack of passing cars and loud pedestrians outside cause you to worry about how far you are from the lively city you called home.

A lanky figure makes their presence known, dressed in those all-too-familiar garbs. Spider-Punk, the man you'd always see performing at your penurious bar, despite how widespread their band was. Much to your shock, his large hand finds the trim of his mask before tearing the garment off. Beneath is a gorgeous face embellished with piercings and a wild head full of hair. Large, wet eyes overwhelm you. And there is only one discernible trait you could read clearly through his expression: desire.

The way your plump body pools from the hems of the small clothing he dressed you in from his closet, fuck. Hobie has thought of this moment plenty of times — finally being able to take you away, just the two of you. He swore up and down he'd keep his fervid cravings at bay. But, when you're truly here in front of him, looking like that. He has to dig his long nails into his palms to physically restrain himself from lunging for you like a feral animal in heat. God, you look too fucking good.

From here on out, the relationship you have with Hobie sprouted into something only you would call treacherous, something only he would call rapturous. Being trapped within the small expanse of this grimy room, your new life has shown how perceptibly different your reactions are from one another. You are entirely dumbfounded at these new circumstances you've been forcefully thrust into. Meanwhile, Hobie attempts to put space between you both to avoid giving into his irresistible hunger. Though, it doesn't take a genius to notice how his hands always find their way to your naked skin and how his eyes linger on the intimate parts of your body. And it most certainly doesn't take a genius to notice the sheer terror and confusion stuck to your expression.

The discomfort the residence brings does little to ease you, as well. How your body is restricted against the firm mattress has your limbs aching with cramps. Your neck throbs from no support, considering the lack of pillows. But, Hobie always remarked that his chest is more comfortable to lay on, anyway. His clothing reeks of alcohol from the numerous bars and parties he’s attended, but also from the expensive perfumes, lotions, as well as the skin and hair products he received from his time being a runway model. The scent now clinging to your skin fails to bring you any of the tranquility he wished you would feel. Meals shared between you two were often dowsed in grease and cheap in flavor. Your captor never put much effort into making your dinnertime together anything reminiscent of a romantic date in Italy or something along those themes. He would much rather eat something else for dinner, after all.

This is what life looked like for the next several months. Records spinning and filling the air with headache-inducing songs he says he had written about you; Polaroid pictures scattered around the room that display different variations of the same scene: you sitting pretty with Hobie's hands and lips all over you. Never, never, has this man ever felt so much bliss in his entire life. He has always preached about how the idea of "love" is nothing more than propaganda meant to earn greedy, capitalistic companies more money with their cheesy movies and Valentine's Day garbage. When you entered his life in all your glory, however, he was ashamed to put his pride aside and admit those irritating pop songs may have been correct.

"I don’t need nothin’ else. 'Long as I have you here, birdie." He fidgets with the necklace he had given you that was currently draped upon your neck. His lucky guitar chip is swung upon the chain, since it always belonged to you, anyway. You will always be his muse.

With how carelessly he let himself be swathed in the warm blankets of love, how carelessly Hobie had let you slip from his fingertips.

It's his fault he had so frivolously expressed his protective nature through blood-stained bar floors and constricting arms encompassing your body. It's his fault he never assured you these conflicts weren’t your fault, it was only the monsters outside who wished to separate true love. It's his fault he had disciplined himself so heavily for his big heart, fearful of losing self-control with the love of his life.

It is his fault you are dead.

You regret not tallying the days you've spent locked up in this birdcage. Carving lines into the deteriorating walls to represent the slashes this new life has left in your sanity. It feels as if lifetimes have tread by you, the same day repeating itself like your own personal nightmare. Mere months have gone by and unbeknownst to you, the sweet escape you so despairingly crave is sitting upon the horizon. The circumstances of your freedom were the absolute last thing you had wished for, however.

Hobie’s history of being a heartthrob and heartbreaker were no secret to you, but his newfound loyalty to the innocent person he had taken from their previous life was even more evident. All the possessive, delusional fans that were convinced they'd marry their favorite singer, it was just so easy for Hobie to indulge in some casual fun before leaving them behind in his dust. As the story of all Spider-People goes, however, Y/N L/N is the tool that throws this man into a whirlpool of enamoring disarray. Embracing this newfound happiness was exhilarating for him, but Hobie was so dazed from it, he never had thought that karma would slither itself between you two.

A certain groupie, wholly convinced she and Spider-Punk are soulmates, was devastated to see how carelessly the love of her life abandoned her. Her mind had sprinted to all sorts of gut-wrenching conclusions. Am I not enough? Is he moving on? Is there someone else? Her worst nightmare materializes into reality when she stalks behind his tall figure and follows him to a building one late night, an odd pep in his step as he enters. What she assumes is just another exclusive club location with more taboo forms of partying, she is left stunned when she catches sight of what sights lie within.

The man of her dreams is found in the depths of infidelity. Through the crack of a rickety door coated with locks, there he was. Chest pressed against the back of someone else, who was sound asleep beneath an array of blankets like a baby in a crib. With his arms locked around them like a lifeline, Spider-Punk presses long, intimate kisses to their face. The words she had begged to hear from him, he was so frivolously drowning this stranger in such, despite their unconscious state. Every syllable was dripping with lust and smitten-induced hysteria. Tears brim in her eyes from how desperately she covets to be you in this moment.

With a shattered heart and a festering rage, she comes to the conclusion of what she must do. She will take him back, no matter what it takes.

Rarely did Hobie ever leave the expanse of your room, he wanted to stay with you forever. When he did, however, it was for some quick cash at yet another gig he and his bandmates had landed. Singing his lungs out, knowing every lyric revolves around the one waiting for him back home — you have brought him ecstasy he still cannot fathom the sheer weight of. A Friday night like no other, Hobie would spend the evening beneath the blinding spotlights, drinking the hours away, before returning home and cuddling with the only reason he chooses to live.

Through the barricaded windows and doors, a sudden stench of what appears to be smoke invades your senses. A big city like this, something along these lines is nothing out of the ordinary. After all, you were so thrilled to finally be granted a night to yourself, anything that would jeopardize this gift from the universe is seen as insignificant. When the heavy smell becomes more perceptible and the unmistakable sound of fire cracking gets louder, you feel dread tickle down your spine. The fear settles into your bones before you can think of a logical way to escape. Hobie did everything to ensure you wouldn’t leave his side, after all.

Air soon becomes precious, your lungs begin to squeeze, your skin is burning with scorching pain. It brings you the hell you had carelessly thought you felt before. A final cry of help into the suffocating air and you feel your life begin to fade. Meanwhile, the lost groupie stands near the entrance, holding back a satisfied smile. An onslaught of concerned pedestrians and firefighters accompany her. And Hobie was still far away, alcohol heavy in his system and the joy of returning to you seeping through his body like a drug. So blissfully unaware of what awaits him when he comes back to the place he had called home only with you.

With that, your life was over. July 3rd, 2020 — the day Hobie Brown inevitably lost the only thing that ever mattered to him.

The effects your departure has left on these men are all nothing short of disastrous. No longer do they have the vibrant, loving souls they once held. Day by day, they are dragging the dead carcass that is their own body, suffering through every second and hoping it will be their last. The paths your death have led these three are unique from one another, but they all find themselves in one specific space. Spider-HQ, within Nueva York on Earth-928. The story the multiverse has written for them had so selfishly taken their happiness away from them. Taking the pen for themselves and creating the most beautiful fairytale where you are alive and back in their embrace is the only purpose they now have.

Now, Miguel O'Hara stands at the office he earned from becoming the leader of this society. Upon the various monitors displayed around him are scenes taken from numerous different universes. Lethargy sits like bags of bricks beneath his eyes, slowly blinking as he ensures no minor mistake is present. If the multiverse were to crumble, his sole objection to save the only important person in Spiderman's life will fall with it. When he verifies all is well on Earth-1610, something perceptible then catches his gaze and he does a double-take. Any sign of fatigue within him is snatched out of his body, leaving him more awake than ever before.

Within this universe, Miguel finds you.

Before, these universes have only displayed the effects your death has left on all the spider-people. Today, however, is the first time he has seen you alive since the day he lost you. Lyla snickers and accuses him of having a cute, teenage-like crush when she takes notice of the sheer captivation in his expression. Little does she know how much history lies in your mere face. It is heart-crushing, how much the simple sight of you enjoying a cup of coffee (with one too many sugars, as he knows you've always preferred) has such catastrophic effects on him.

Piles of schoolwork are scattered around your desk, covered in information adhering to your current college major. Even with your lack of sleep, school-induced annoyance, and general exhaustion over everything in your life, Miguel has never seen something quite as breathtaking as you in this moment. An epiphany sprouts in his brain as quickly as the sight of you caused his soul to blossom, just like it did all those years ago.

Maybe he can stop it. Maybe he can get you back.

Your death is inevitable, and even though Miguel was aware of this, dread still pervades his stomach at the prospect and churns with his breakfast. What really makes him shudder is when he reads through the cannon events assigned to you. A flare of jealousy ignites within him when he finds an unfamiliar name in the midst of your story.

Miles Morales, the Spiderman you are meant to fall in love with. What good is he? He's just some stupid kid, what more could he possibly do that Miguel can't? Why would you choose this loser when he can give you everything you have ever wanted!? In a sudden fit of rage, he grasps hold of whatever matter was closest to him and uses all the strength within his muscular arms to hurl it across the room. His chest heaves with infuriated huffs; his claws slice into the meat of his palms. He is enraged, yes, but he is mostly devastated that the beautiful face on his screen will soon meet their inescapable demise.

Not only will he do everything in his power to stop your death, but Miguel also vows to put his blood, sweat, and tears into ensuring you do not fall for this boy. Additionally, he will formulate a plan to bring you back into his arms without destroying the multiverse as a whole. With that being said, this does not change how reality on Earth-1610 continues to play out in front of him. It’s like a television show; a show he'd give a 1-star rating out of sheer pettiness.

In his last year of high school, Miles Morales' life was thrown into a tornado when his parents enrolled him in a new school to finish his last semester. And the 18-year-old boy absolutely dreaded this. New people, new location, new clothes that poke and jut at his skin uncomfortably. With the hefty responsibility of being Brooklyn's sole hero and hiding this truth from his loved ones, this sudden alteration in his environment does not relieve any stress. Swiftly, Miles conjures a plan to convince his parents to send him back to the way his life once was. Slack off, play dumb, and bring home report cards that are absolutely atrocious and his parents will have no choice but to give their son what he wants.

However, this is not what happened. Much to Miles' dismay, the grand idea his parents had was to not let him continue his education comfortably. Instead, they hired a tutor to aid him through his final months of high school.

Rio and Jeff had invited this tutor for dinner at their home, which Miles had flaked on entirely. Mostly due to his duty as Spiderman, but partially from how sour he was about the state of affairs. When he returned home, their anger was practically palpable. However, this disappointment soon shifted into a long, insufferable tangent about how marvelously smart, mannerly, and kind this tutor was and how embarrassed they were because of him. That Saturday, he was expected to join this tutor in the school's library or his parents may consider grounding him once again. Miles has to refrain from rolling his eyes at their never-ending lecture.

March 11th, 2023. It will be all his fault. This day is the day Miles Morales will inevitably meet the only thing that will ever matter to him.

To earn some extra support through your time in college, you had decided to take up tutoring in your free time. The myriad of students you had met all possessed the same attitude — the kind of attitude you'd expect from teenagers whose parents forced them to do schoolwork in their free time. Miles fit this category well, at first. And how your situation developed, it was oddly refreshing to finally meet someone who isn't repudiating every second with you.

15 minutes late, open backpack spilling with paper, tie loose around his neck, the student most certainly made his presence known when he stumbled into the silent library. Attempting to fix his untied shoelaces, you rush over to help him and save him from any further embarrassment he was already enduring. You are able to catch the folder that had tumbled out of his bag before it hit the ground, to where he mumbles a quick "thanks" in response. His gaze is still locked to the strings of his shoes he was attempting to tie together as swiftly as possible. Nearly tripping, Miles makes it to the table you had once organized thoroughly, but was now cluttered with everything this boy had thrown onto the surface.

Oblivious to you, the boy whose parents described as having a "heart of gold," was doing everything in his power to appear as rude and ill-mannered as possible. Deliberately arriving late, making a fool of the two of you, messing up the neat array of lesson plans and pencils you arranged. Anything to convince his parents to send him away from the nightmare that is this school. This plan of his was seized from his mind like a rug pulled out beneath his feet when he finally turns his shoulder and shifts his attention to you. What Miles expected would be the slowest, drawn-out hour he's ever experienced would actually be the most exciting, life-beaming 60 minutes he’s ever experienced.

Your voice sounds like honey as you introduce yourself to him. And that heart-stuttering smile of yours works wonders on him. Miles had already known your name, but hearing it from your mouth made him think he was listening to a symphony of angels. Since the last few stages of high school are stressful for everyone, you decided to cut him some slack and offer a kind hand for him to shake. All thoughts of his old school and the comfort it brought are all eradicated as he stares into your soul with those wide, bambi-brown eyes. After months in this new environment, you must be a gift the universe sent to compensate for all the misery he has endured. And fervently, Miles accepts you as the best gift he has ever received.

"I'm Spiderman." His mouth moves before his brain can compute. Your brows furrow in response, scrutinizing the confession for some sort of punchline.

“I mean- shit, uh… I mean, I’m Miles... You-You know, like- kilometers, yards, feet. Except, it's Miles this time... Y-... Y'know?"

His relentless stammering to try and prove himself worthy of your time while also acknowledging he accidentally told you his deepest secret earns him a quick giggle. And the sound bouncing from your lips is nothing short of paradisiacal, especially when he is the cause. A sudden wave of silence then rests between you both. You, laughing nervously to lighten the awkward tension. Miles, entirely flabbergasted at how he could have ever wanted to miss out on something as profoundly magnificent as this. His mind runs rampant while his wide eyes remain locked on your averting ones. Do it, do it, do it. Just do it already, Miles!

He pulls his hands up, your eyebrows furrowing once more trying to consider his intentions. He then lands his touch upon your shoulder.

"Hey..." Miles' voice drops several octaves, a fiddly excuse of a smirk forms on his lips, and he squints his twitching eyes that still hold the same crazed wonder they've had since they first landed on you.

"Hi...?" Your response expresses nothing but sheer confusion, not your face burning from the attention like Miles had initially strived for.

Wrapping your hand around his, your mere physical touch sends flares of electricity down his skin. Goosebumps bloom across his arms and his entire body halts in place, tense with shock and nerves. In an attempt to forcefully remove his hold on you, you're startled to find how he is now stuck to your hand. As if he had lathered his hand in heaps of glue before touching you, the efforts you took to get this boy off of you only resulted in your skin painfully stretching.

So enveloped in the way his heart lurches from holding your hand, a sudden, hushed whimper of "you're hurting me!" and Miles feels a gasp involuntarily escape his throat. Attempting to pull away from you, as much as he wishes not to, only intensifies your pain. What had Peter told him to do when this happened? Oh yeah, just relax! But, how on Earth can he possibly relax when your hand is in his!?

People are staring, exclaiming in annoyed distress over their interrupted study time. You're trying to piece together how Miles had managed to cement his hand to yours and why he refuses to let go of you. Meanwhile, Miles is apologizing profusely for inadvertently harming you, while also soaking in how rhapsodic it is to have your hand in his. He knows he has fully fallen into oblivion when the prospect of letting go of you hurts him more than the relentless pull and twist of his flesh.

So much for first impressions, right?

⁺ 🎧 , 🪷 you are currently listening to . . . ⁺ 🪺 , 🎵 ꪆ

❝ MANY LIVES THAT COULD HAVE

BEEN ENTANGLED FOR ETERNITY . . . ❞

gif credits :: miguel, miles, peter, & hobie.

tag list :: @honey-beeuwu, @hex-touchstarved, @thel0v3hashira143, @cailey1011, @mickxxstxvxns-blog, @flaming-vulpix, @puthypirate42069, @dolliemoons, @mikalovesnoodles, @explosiongamora, @thegalacticnacho091, @brinleighsstuff, @shinsou-hoetoshi, @uselessbutinteresting, @amortentor, @fried-milkfish, @officiallypoopoo, @lu-lupe, @belladonnashifter, @forgottenbynature, @marooseshawnash, @gothika-spacech1k, @funtimefoxybae, @ethnicbratz, @painpainflyaway, @shadepelt4673, @vivacioussaint, @palepettycharmer, @rqdior, @clownwiki, @clever-username96, @bisoudoll, @darlingdontwe, @naiomiwinchester, @weskennedysgirl, @chubbuart, @simpfo, @neytirisarrow, @leilani04, @lizzymizzy-blogg, @sublimesoulmagazine, @minimari415, @hcmay, @jinuaei, @altusha, @daisygirlll, @boredwithlifeatthispoint, @islandgyal06, @the-hufflebird-girl, @laucoeurs, @nepherawinchester18307, @tiredao3reader, @decadentlawyerapricotcowboy, @kitisb0red, @gabiacee, @reneuv, @letmegetthestrap, @krentkova19, @ayupfrogg, @vita-nire, @emmbny, & @realifezompire

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adragonprinceswhore · 4 months ago

Text

Rumours

Aemond Targaryen x (Ex)wife

Chapter I: The Chain 🎼 Masterlist

Summary: Three months after leaving him, your inevitable reunion with your soon-to-be ex-husband Aemond isn’t as bad as you thought it’d be.

Warnings: 18+, AFAB reader, she/her pronouns, angst, toxic relationship dynamic, possessive Aemond, depictions of anxiety, allusions to smut

Word count: 3000

A/N: Edited and done, please enjoy 🩵 Thank you my love @theoneeyedprince for giving this a look-through for me 🫶

Breathe.

In. Hold three seconds. Out. Hold three seconds. In. Hold three seconds. Out.

You haven’t been able to eat anything all morning, far too nauseous to keep even a piece of toast down.

The breathing exercise your therapist had taught you does little to help you calm down.

You’ve felt anxious before, but rarely this intense.

It’s so physical.

You feel it in your stomach turning, chest contracting, hands tingling, head spinning.

You knew you’d have to meet him sooner or later.

Afterall, you’d both decided to stay in the band. You’d just started to gain traction, embarking on your first ever tour across the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.

A once in a lifetime opportunity for an up-and-coming band.

Still, knowing that didn’t make it easier to turn the handle of the door and walk into the studio.

Knowing he’ll be there.

You hadn’t seen your husband, Aemond, in over three months now.

Soon to be ex-husband.

You’d honestly expected the process to be speedier; you hadn’t demanded anything from him, the only thing important to you was that you kept all legal rights you had in relation to the band; the rights to your songs. And he hadn’t really given any conditions himself, yet his solicitors took ages contacting yours.

That’s all you’d heard from him over the summer. Updates from your legal advisers about his.

You’d blocked his number after leaving the divorce papers at your shared flat and moved out, tired of your phone overheating from the amount of times he’d tried calling you.

In the end, Alicent, your mother-in-law, had phoned you, begging you to please meet with her son and talk it out. You told her that you’d already talked plenty and there was no point in continuing indulging in pointless discussion. You’d always gotten along well with Alicent, so having her call you to do her son’s bidding felt so unbelievably awkward. He’d always been such a mama’s boy.

With one final, shaky exhale, you turn the handle of the door and push it open, stepping into the hallway.

With the door ajar, you can hear chatter from the studio.

Everyone’s already here.

Good, then you’d just have to suck it up and face them. Like ripping off a band-aid; only painful for a second.

You spot Helaena first. She gives you a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and straightens up slightly.

You’d met her a few times in the last months; brainstorming song ideas and recording vocals together in the studio.

Besides playing the piano, she wrote songs and sang for the band, just like you and Aemond. She hadn’t asked you anything about him, which you were thankful for. You know she’s anxious about how the dynamic in the band will shift now that the two of you have separated. And her anxiety materialises in the way she starts picking at her nail beds as soon as she sees you emerge through the door.

Next to Helaena sits Jace, who plays bass for the band. He gives you a half-hearted smile, accompanied by tense shoulders and a murmured greeting.

Across the table from him is Erryk, drummer and the newest addition to the band. He seems to not sense the tension that hangs heavy in the room and smiles at you until his eyes crinkle.

His obliviousness almost makes you laugh. It nearly manages to cut through the uncomfortable tension, until your eyes travel to lock with the last person in the room.

You knew that Aemond wouldn’t cause a scene and act infuriatingly indifferent towards you.

You knew that he’d give you a nod and get straight down to business.

Still, you feel a sliver of satisfaction when your predictions turn out to be true.

“So, everyone’s done with recording their parts?”, he asks the room.

He’s already pulled out his laptop, quick fingers typing as he waits for confirmation.

Though the tense atmosphere never really leaves the room, you all collectively try to power through as you discuss how recording went and what else needs to be fixed before the album is ready.

Due to your and Aemond’s separation, and the tumultuous events leading up to it, the band had agreed that everyone would record their vocals and instruments separately; putting everything together in production later. This had slowed down the process significantly, resulting in you being far from done with the album your label wanted you to release at the end of the month.

“As you know, the label isn’t too pleased with the fact that we haven’t finished the album yet-”, Aemond says, eyes still on the screen of his laptop; both his seeing eye and the unmoving one covered by a layer of white mist,

“-But they’ve asked us if we’d be willing to perform some new songs during the tour, to boost sales and get the hype up”

His voice is stoic, every utterance straight to the point. You sit on his blind side, with Helaena between your chair and his, and you take the opportunity of knowing he can’t clearly see you to examine him, searching for any changes since you last laid eyes on him, when his knuckles were bloody and panic reflected in his lilac eye.

He looks exactly like he always does; infuriatingly handsome.

His long, silvery hair hangs loose over his shoulders. His long eyelashes cast down as he inspects the screen of his laptop. His aquiline nose slopes beautifully to meet his perfectly pouty lips, begging to be kissed-

Fuck, stop!

Truth be told, you’d put extra effort into looking your best today, spending an hour on doing your makeup and picking out the perfect outfit. Hopefully you’d succeeded in making it appear much less intentional than it was, suddenly feeling a flash of embarrassment wash over you.

Why do you care what he thinks anymore?

The meeting goes on for another hour. The band’s manager, Tyland Lannister, joins in after 20 minutes, briefing the band members on the upcoming tour. Opening night’s in one week, on Dragonstone, and you’ll all fly out the morning of the show.

As the members of the band prepare to leave the studio, the tension that had previously felt so crushing is now only lingering in the periphery.

Jace and Erryk talk excitedly about all the places they’ll visit during the tour; what they wanted to eat and what they wanted to see. For a second it almost feels like things are back to normal, like the last three months never happened.

As everyone makes their separate ways home, you spot Aemond walk up to a black car and quickly jump in the passenger seat.

Your stomach turns.

You only see a flash of her black hair before the car drives away. The mask of indifference you’d put on cracks slightly at the sight of them together.

You wanted the divorce, idiot.

It still hurts seeing him move on though. He’d done it so quickly; uncharacteristically so.

The first week after you’d left, he blew up your phone trying to get a hold of you.

Despite his inexcusable behaviour, there had been times when you felt guilty for leaving him so abruptly. Even though you knew he deserved it, you also knew that leaving him and refusing to talk to him would drive him insane. What you hadn’t expected was that he’d go and get a new girl a mere week after Alicent had called you.

Seeing them together in real life made you feel exactly as you did when your friend Alysanne had sent you the link to the 30 second video two and a half months ago.

Nauseous.

The video showed Aemond getting out of a taxi in front of a new and chic Braavosi bistro downtown. It was opening night and a few local news sources were there to report. One of the journalists had recognised Aemond, clearly intrigued by the fact that the still-married bandman rounded the taxi and offered his hand to a beautiful dark-haired woman stepping out. As they walked towards the entrance, the reporter chased them down, microphone in hand and cameraman in tow.

“Aemond Targaryen? Already moving on after the separation I see?”, the reporter half-shouts behind Aemond to get his attention.

His date turns around in response to the comment, smiling as her emerald gaze observes the reporter. The news of your separation had been speculated on a few minor fansites after someone leaked an email from your solicitor's office, but neither you nor Aemond had made any statement about it.

He wasn’t planning on giving one now either, unimpressed eye giving the reporter a once-over before huffing in amusement and gesturing for his date to follow him inside.

The reporter, set on getting an answer from the rising star, chuckles before forcefully shoving the microphone in Aemond’s face,

“Women come and go, is that the case?”, he presses with a cheeky wink.

Aemond huffs out a laugh, “Yeah, something like that”, he says, wrapping his arm around his date’s shoulders as he leads her into the restaurant.

You’d later learn that the date from that night was his new manager, Alys Rivers.

Funny how he’d gotten a manager to handle his possible solo work.

Six months prior, when you’d been approached by a talent scout asking if you’d ever thought of doing solo stuff on the side, Aemond had been absolutely livid. After giving the agent a few well-chosen words, he had stormed off, leaving you upset and confused.

It was ultimately his jealousy and possessiveness that broke your marriage, getting to a point where you felt like you couldn’t be with him any longer. Neither as a lover nor a friend.

Now, the only place he can take in your life is as your bandmate; business partner, and nothing more.

You’d seriously considered leaving the band when you decided on leaving him. Still, somewhere deep inside you can’t shake this feeling that what your band has is something unique; something you won’t find anywhere else.

You and Aemond had started the band with Helaena right around the time you’d first met.

The three of you quickly bonded over your shared vision of what kind of music you’d like to make. On top of that, your voices sounded so good together, Aemond providing structure with his precision while you focused on conveying raw emotions.

So you decided to stick it out, work with your ex-husband in order to make the music that you wanted.

You’re an artist. All artists suffered for their art, right? You’d just have to suck this up and get on with it; continue to create art. And the pain would be worth it.

Besides, truth be told, you’d never met anyone quite as talented as Aemond. You’d never met anyone else who understood the music you wanted to create quite like he did.

When it came to music, you two almost had a telepathic connection. As someone who relies a lot on intuition and ‘that feeling in your gut’, you found it hard to describe music and your visions for it in general. But with Aemond you never needed to; he understood. Two minds wired the same.

Unfortunately, that wordless communication only stretched as far as music.

You think back to one of the last conversations you had before you left him.

You’d tried to confront him about his temper and inability to keep his jealousy in check, and he’d promptly ignored you; defaulting into shutting you out.

Exhausted, you resorted to the only solution you could come up with.

“Maybe we should spend some time apart, let things cool down a bit”, you try, purposefully making your voice as gentle as possible.

Aemond, who’d been staring out the window of your apartment in contemplative rage, quickly turns to face you, expression impassive but one eye furious.

“If you want some ‘time apart’ you might as well get on with it and leave”, he says, voice chilly. Sometimes when he’s angry, he sounds so hateful it hurts your heart.

“What do you want me to do Aemond?”, you reply, patience running thin as anger overcomes you, “You don’t allow me to live my life, you hinder any chance of growth I have-”,

“Growth!? What else do you need?”, he spits back. “Do you understand what it means to be married to someone? I do fucking everything for you, you’re my wife!”

“Sure, chain me to our marriage. Keep me shackled to you forever, that’s what you want, isn’t it? While you fuck around town, relishing in the freedom you never allow me”

Your agitated voice matches his. You know your words will hurt him.

Aemond exhales loudly. His jaw’s shut tight and misty gaze piercing. He has a tendency to shut down during fights, especially when he doesn't have a snide remark waiting at the back of his mind.

Aemond’s eyes, locking yours in a death stare, narrow,

“So you want out?”

The flight to Dragonstone goes by in a flash, and after a quick soundcheck at the venue, the five members of Dragon Dreamers start getting ready for the show.

You and Helaena do your usual routine of getting ready together, checking each other’s makeup and hair.

As the venue starts to fill up, the band gathers backstage, quickly running through your set one last time. You try to shoot a covert glance at Aemond, but he immediately finds your eyes. As always, he looks impeccable.

“Since we’ve finished ‘The Chain’ in production, I suggest we play that as our opening number tonight. It’s fast-paced and will get the crowd moving”, Aemond states, looking at his bandmates for approval.

They all nod knowingly, catching you by surprise.

“I’m not sure I’m familiar with ‘The Chain’”, you say, trying to sound neutral though you suspect he chose a song you don’t know on purpose.

“It’s the one you did some backup vocals on in the studio”, Aemond replies, throwing you a quick look, “Me and Helaena can sing the verses and you can join in during the chorus”, he offers, moving to pick up his guitar, signalling that he’s done with the conversation.

Great, first song on opening night and you’ll stand there like a deer in headlights.

You sigh quietly and grab your tambourine. If you’re not going to sing you’ll at least try to join in by jamming a bit to the beat. Only one thing echoes in your mind,

Don’t let him get to you!

‘The Chain’ starts playing. Steady drums beat in a slow rhythm as Aemond plays a bluesy melody on his guitar, and you realise that it is one of the songs that you and he had worked on when you were still together.

Last time you heard it, you had worked out the melody, but not really pinned down the lyrics. Aemond must’ve taken it upon himself to finish it, completely steering away from the direction you thought the song would take.

‘Listen to the wind blow, watch the sun rise’

Why haven't you heard anything about this new edit?

A chill runs down your spine.

Has he re-written it to be about you?

‘Run in the shadows, damn your love, damn your lies’

Yes he has.

You and Aemond got married at sunrise by the Hightower summer house in Highgarden in June two years ago.

Aemond had proposed to you only five weeks prior, and being so in love that you couldn’t possibly imagine being separated for more than 15 minutes, you decided to tie the knot as quickly as possible.

You just wanted to be his.

That had been one of your fondest memories together; a small ceremony that was only yours.

Now, it leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

Memories rotting from within.

You hate it. You don’t want to think about that now.

Damn him. Damn his love. Damn his lies.

‘And if you don’t love me now, you will never love me again’

‘I can still hear you saying, “you would never break the chain”’

As he sings, he sounds so angry, his voice is almost foreign to you.

He usually tries to keep his emotions in check, even when performing. Probably too scared to be vulnerable enough to let people know he actually has feelings, you reckon.

You remember the song and the rapid pace it picks up. Trying to ignore what you think is Aemond staring at you from the side of the stage, you dance and sing to the song about your heartbreak.

You let the music consume you as you work the tambourine, dancing and spinning, trying to relish in the feeling of knowing your band had made a killer song.

The audience is loving it. You have never heard them this rowdy before, and you can see the entire venue dancing.

You keep going, trying to distract yourself so your gaze won’t travel to Aemond.

He had played a rough first version of the guitar solo he wanted to incorporate in the song for you when you were still together. It really was phenomenal, fitting perfectly with the climax of the song.

He’s an insanely skilled guitarist, never missing a note and always instinctively knowing exactly what melody will match the feel of a song.

The audience is loving it, screaming and dancing with you.

Feeling braver and with the adrenaline from the performance running through your veins, you come up to your mic and sing along with Aemond and Helaena, chanting in unison.

The three of you sound good, like you always do.

The realisation gives you comfort; there’s still hope for your band.

‘Chain, keep us together’

‘Running in the shadows’

You can do this.

A/N: Thank you for reading! 🫶

#aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen imagines #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #aemond x you #my fics #rumours #Spotify

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gyuwoncheol · 1 year ago

Text

Slowly; All At Once

Pair: Mingyu x f!reader

Genre: fluff, best friends to lovers with Mingyu, boyfriend material!Mingyu, slight angst.

Summary: Kim Mingyu fell in love with you slowly, but you fell in love with him all at once.

Warnings: short hair Mingyu (yes this deserves a warning. He looks too good), rowdy house party setting, mentions of alcohol, angst (but not with Mingyu), mentions/allusions to a panic attack/sensory overload, kissing, fluff because mingyu is so sweet and protective 😩 Half proofread.

WC: 5k

Author's Note: listen, short hair Mingyu is SO boyfriend coded okay, it just does things to me.

“Gyu?” You spoke as loudly as you could.

“What’s up?” Your best friend answered through a yawn and you would’ve regretted disturbing him so late in the night but you really needed him now.

“Gyu, i’m so sorry..”

Mingyu sat up from his position in bed, the drowsiness in him suddenly gone at the sound of your voice trembling. “What’s wrong?” He asked, his senses heightened, suddenly now hearing the loud music in your background.

“Could.. if you’re free, c-could you come get me?”

Mingyu was already slipping his shirt on and turning off his tv right after you asked. “Where are you? Are you okay? Are you in danger?” He quizzed, rushing down the stairs to grab his car keys and the hoodie hanging off the hooks.

“I’m at Jamie’s house. So many people, I jus’ wan’go home,” you slurred, stumbling into a corner of the house party you were at.

You could hear the sound of his engine rumbling to a start and somehow, that made you breathe a little easier. That was the thing about your best friend, when you needed him, he would be there, any time, any day, no questions asked. “Ok hang tight. I’ll be there.”

The line went dead as you cowered a little more to the corner of the house party you were at. The more the crowd grew, the more out of place you felt. Sure, most faces were familiar to you as they were the same ones that walked around your school building but no one was really close enough to you. Jamie, herself, was nowhere to be found. You weren't a stranger to house parties, you actually enjoyed them but this one really made you feel like you didn't belong. The crowd was quite rowdy, noise was obnoxiously loud, people were shoving drinks to you left and right, frat boys— both those senior and junior to you— were hitting on you, and, well, the sight of your ex-boyfriend's tongue down your ex-roommate's throat just wasn't exactly what you expected to see tonight.

You wished you had stayed home instead or spent your Friday night with your best friend watching Shark Tank episodes and talking about all the inventions you both could make and would definitely get invested on. But no, you had begged off from Mingyu this one time, telling him that you wanted to let loose a little bit and hang with some of your girl friends.

The night started fine, you and the girls having cocktails after dinner at a bar nearby, until one of them had all but dragged you guys to the house party a common friend was throwing. What you didn't know was all their boyfriends had already been there, eventually leaving you alone as soon you all walked in the doors.

You wanted to get out of there but as you looked at the volume of people in front of you, you were sure you wouldn't be able to push through them without getting pushed around. You felt trapped, your breaths becoming shorter whilst you tried to calm your heart. You were in need of air and of water real bad.

"Hello?" you picked up your phone at first ring.

It was Mingyu. "Where are you?"

"I-i'm by the end of the hall towards the kitchen at the back."

Mingyu grimaced at the mixed smell of alcohol, cigarettes, sweat and weed in the place, not to mention the huge crowd that the party had gathered. He spotted numerous acquaintances and friends who all excitedly greeted him, offering him shots and beers but he ignored all of them, brain laser focused at finding you. It took him about five minutes before he reached the hall you were in and immediately spotted you thanks to his height which allowed him a “bird’s eye view.”

"Y/N," you felt a towering presence stumble in front of your crouched position, but was immediately comforted at the owner of the voice. It’s a really good thing you knew his voice well because you were still getting used to his new and much shorter haircut.

"Gyu!" You sighed in relief, hands immediately gripping his forearm as you steadied yourself against him. He kept a protective hand on your waist, caging you in between him and the corner to shield you from the crowd. He noticed the natural blush on your cheeks from the alcohol and the slightly far away look in your eyes. He could tell you weren’t exactly drunk, but he could also read the fear and sadness in them. He gave you a little bit more time to steady your breathing and comfort yourself in his presence, whispering "it's okay's" and "you're alright, I'm here."

"Gyu, I'm dizzy," you declared. You weren't drunk, just slightly tipsy at most, it was the stuffiness in the room that had you wanting air.

Mingyu glanced back at the amount of people in the hall, mentally mapping the fastest way out to the closest door, before turning back to you. "Y/n,” he cupped your cheek to guide your eyes to his, "We'll make our way out, okay? Hold on to me?" He laid out his large hand for you to take and you gripped it like a vice as you gave him a small nod.

There are many reasons to be thankful for Mingyu's height and build, and tonight, as he pushed through the crowds with one hand tightly intertwined with yours, was one of them. You were only but a few steps away from the door when your face collided with Mingyu's back. Someone had blocked his way and you were too slow to stop yourself when he did.

"heeey leaving so soon?!" A very familiar but very drunk voice slurred. It was Jung, your asshole of an ex-boyfriend. "You just got here,bro."

"Not here to party. Just—"

"Oh come on, Mingyu! At least take a shot!"

"Yeah!!" another party goer whom you recognize to be from the same frat as Jung cheered on, "In fact why don't you and y/n take a shot together!" Two shot glasses filled to the brim with tequila were suddenly raised at you both. You made a face, hiding yourself behind your best friend’s broad back, hoping it would be enough to make you disappear.

"Y/n!" Jung sang-song in a way that had Mingyu gripping your hands even tighter, "Why don't you take a shot for me, baby? It's still too early to call it a—"

"Don't touch her." Mingyu growled at your ex who was attempting to bypass him and snake an arm around your waist, "Let’s go, y/n" Mingyu pulled at you, desperately hoping to just get the both of you out of there.

As you stumbled past your ex, you yelped when you felt his hand pull on your free wrist, almost yanking you away from Mingyu's hold. "Cmon, baby. Just one more shot. Like old times." A disgusting smirk was plastered on Jung's face, one you wanted to wipe off with a punch.

“I said. Don’t. Touch. Her.” Mingyu repeated louder and firmer this time, pulling your caught wrist and now purposely standing in full height to tower over your drunken ex.

“Gyu, let’s go,” you whisper, noticing that the exchange between both boys have suddenly gained the crowd’s attention.

“Oh come on Mingyu, it’s just a shot!” One of the other guys pushed.

With a roll of his eyes, Mingyu took the shot glass and downed the liquor easily. But it wasn’t until he took the second shot of tequila— supposedly yours— and poured it down his throat that the crowd erupted in cheers. “Happy?” Mingyu sneered at Jung, “now, let us go.”

“Still her savior, huh?” Your ex called out, making Mingyu freeze in his tracks as he tried to navigate through the crowd, “you still the best friend? Or are you finally the boyfriend now?”

You felt your breath get caught in your throat at what you just heard. But nothing could have prepared you for the next thing that tumbled out of your best friend’s mouth.

“So what if I was?” Mingyu looked back at your ex bitterly, eyes filled with anger, “At least I know I’d treat her right.”

You had no chance to see the sour, defeated face Jung sported, but the crowd’s ‘oooh’s’ were enough to let you know that Mingyu definitely had the last laugh in that exchange. Everyone had even made space for you both to successfully exit, not wanting to mess with the 6 foot 2 man.

Mingyu watched you carefully as you stabilized your breathing, the fresh air paired with the water he had just given you was slowly erasing the dizziness you felt earlier. He had his hands in his pockets while you looked up at him, your back leaning on his car, and a thick silence in the air. You wanted to say something, you wanted to say a lot of things actually, but didn’t know how to start.

“Here, put this on,” Mingyu said softly, grabbing his hoodie from the back seat and pulling it over your shivering frame since your dress did little to protect you from the cold. You hummed in satisfaction, the warmth of the cotton shielding your exposed skin and the smell of him grounding you even more.

“Thank you, Gyu. For saving me. And for taking that shot.” You squeaked, looking down at the ground, wanting to say many other things but it’s all you could put together for now.

Mingyu’s mind however, wandered some place else. Like how you were still so beautiful right now? Looking so tiny in his hoodie, cheeks flushed and your makeup a bit smeared. To him, you were still the prettiest thing his eyes had seen. God he just wanted to kiss you. If only you were in your right mind, no alcohol in your system and not reeling back from what could’ve been a panic attack. And maybe, if only it didn’t ruin the friendship.

‘I’d die for you,’ is what Mingyu would’ve wanted to say. “Hey, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it… as long as you’re okay. I mean… you are okay, right?”

He stood closely in front of you, watching intently as you tried to form words but your growing silence did nothing to quell his worries.

“Y/n,” your best friend’s voice firm, “did something happen back there? Are you hurt? You think your drink got spiked? Did someone harra—“

“No, no!” You confirmed, sensing the agitation in his voice, “nothing happened to me. Was just really overwhelmed with the crowd… the boys were annoying, the girls left me, and I… i didn’t even know Jung was dating Cass now.”

Ah, there it is, Mingyu thought. It always has something to do with your stupid ex.

“Cass? Your ex roommate, Cass?”

“Yeah.”

“Dating or not, they were definitely making out,” Mingyu could hear both the pain and disgust in your voice, “i just don’t get it.” Yeah, neither does Mingyu, why were you still so hung up on this—

“I’m over him, you know?”

“What?” Mingyu looked at you so quickly, he might’ve gotten a whiplash

“I’m over him.” You confirmed and Mingyu would be lying if he said he didn’t want to just jump in joy right there and then. But your face still looked sour, angry even, like you had just been forced to chew on a whole lemon. “I realise now I was such an idiot for even loving him. But Cass? Really? My ex-roommate? I don’t know.. I know we’ve broken up months ago but it just feels weird. She knew how much he hurt me.. she even wanted to, and I quote, ‘stab him in the gym,’ but now she’s practically dry humping him in the middle of the worst house party known to man?!” You frustrated, your voice reaching a higher pitch than you had expected only to fall down to a very quiet whisper, “i just… I can’t help but feel betrayed.”

Mingyu noticed a lone tear roll down your cheek, the back of your hand immediately wiping it away. He knew how close you were to Cass, he still remembers how you cried to him when she suddenly cut off communication with you and moved out of your apartment. For the longest time, you had thought you did something wrong and had beaten yourself up over it. But now it all just made sense.

Your best friend pulled you in for an embrace, mumbling about how you deserve better and how he’s sorry this happened to you.

“God,” you scoffed, “i’m sorry, i’m such a loser… everything about tonight just makes me feel so… alone.”

“Hey now!” Mingyu pulled back harshly, holding you firmly by the shoulders, an arms length distance between you both. “I take offense to that. I’m literally right here, you know.”

“Exactly. When you really could’ve been sleeping peacefully, or maybe even be on a date with some pretty girl. Instead you’re here, rescuing your pathetic excuse of a best friend.”

“Well.. you know what?” Mingyu challenged, pulling you in again into his arms for a warm hug, “there’s nowhere else i’d rather be. Now let’s get you home, yeah?” He assured instead, opening the door to the passenger seat of his car. You slumped into the seat and Mingyu went as far as strapping your seat belt for you, your lips just mere centimeters away from his. He stopped to look at you, eyes scanning yours before dropping to your lips momentarily and then back to your eyes again. You could feel the tension in the air and you didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until he finally moved away and closed the door gently.

Mingyu couldn’t help but notice a few tears escaping you as you looked out the car window, lone tears slowly falling on your cheek. You couldn’t really shake the idea from your brain of your roommate and your ex getting together, the betrayal just squeezing your heart in pain. Maybe the alcohol also just heightened your sensitivity too. When the car stopped at a red light, a gentle squeeze on your left hand had you looking up to your best friend, soft eyes matching yours as he flashed you a lopsided smile. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to. You knew his action was that of comfort, as if to tell you you weren’t alone.

Mingyu kept his hand tightly on yours throughout the ride, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of your hand and that small action really helped keep the sad thoughts away. It wasn’t until you reached the exit of the freeway when you noticed Mingyu suddenly take a left turn.

“Where are we going?” You squeaked

“Mine,” Mingyu confirmed, “is that ok? I just don’t wanna leave you alone for now, and i don’t think the sight of Cass’s empty room is something you’re ready to see either.”

You pondered on his suggestion quickly and knew it made sense. If anything, your best friend’s comforting presence is exactly what you needed right now.

The moment you got to his place, everything was like clockwork. He let you shower and freshen up, then handed you one of his large shirts and one of your old shorts you kept at his place for sleepover nights like these.

A bottle of water was left by the bathroom door when you had finished. Drink this all before you go back down, Mingyu had written in a note and you cooed at the thoughtfulness of your best friend. As you got to changing, you couldn’t help but notice just how much comfort his place brought you. His bedroom— and the rest of the apartment— was littered with photos of the both of you through the years. Your favorite conditioner was in his bathroom. He had a little basket in his closet that had things for you— hair brush, your favorite makeup remover, a few of your skin care items (which he bought himself), some old clothes, and even sanitary pads. You smiled at the sight of the little disney nightlight he had bought especially for you last year because even though he liked his lights off when he sleeps, he knew you hated the dark. You knew he kept some of your favorite snacks in his pantry, and he always had a pint of your favorite ice cream in his freezer. You were grinning by the time you had thought of all these things. You were feeling way too giddy and and then it hit you, those are butterflies you feel in your stomach. You felt like a tidal wave just hit you, your brain suddenly replaying every encounter with Mingyu and the longer it went on, the more you felt your heart being squeezed. You’re reminded how he didn’t even hesitate to pick you up tonight, or take that shot for you, or how he might’ve just thrown a punch at Jung if he so much laid another finger on you. You remember the tension in the car when your lips were inches apart. Yup, definitely butterflies. You simultaneously cursed yourself for not seeing it sooner. For not feeling it sooner. Do best friends really go this far? Could Kim Mingyu be in love with you? Better yet, did you just fall in love with him? There’s no way. Right? Mingyu was simply a really nice guy, and he would be especially kind to you, his best friend, and you are just very, very appreciative of it.

Yeah, just best friends.

That’s all.

So why do you suddenly want it to be more?

Mingyu, on the other hand, was a ball of nerves in his living room. The events of tonight made him feel like he might not be able to hold back his feelings any longer. Seeing you tonight, your helpless self in such a huge crowd of people and then silently crying in the car just awakened something in him, like a very strong urge to protect you and embrace you in so much love that you won't ever remember the feeling of being hurt. He loves you very much, for quite some time now actually, and not just in the best friend kind anymore, he knows that much. But he can't quite figure out when it happened. There was no specific moment or grand gesture that made him think "i'm in love with my best friend." Your friendship certainly began platonic, no hidden intentions or attraction. It started when both your chaotic selves ended up paired for a group work in freshman year and you just haven't been separated since then. Over time, he's unconsciously made more space for you in his heart. What started as him giving you food every now and then so you could test his culinary experiments eventually turned into packed meals every Tuesdays and Thursdays when your classes stretched until 8 in the evening. He began omitting mustard in the dishes he cooks for you because of your allergy, even though he personally loves it. He once helped you do groceries and noticed you liked to buy your juices and milks in large cartons, and so he eventually scheduled his grocery days the same as yours so you wouldn't have to carry everything by yourself. You brought out the best in him. He witnessed your thoughtfulness and kindness and that made him want to be a better person for himself. One day, when he cracked a lame joke, he realised nothing sounds sweeter than your laugh. Mingyu always listened to you, even when you spoke nonsense most times. Your crazy ideas were something he questioned a lot before but now it's what makes him laugh the most. Kim Mingyu fell in love with you slowly, he never stopped himself from it because he's learned it was simply impossible. The joy you brought to his life was unexplainable. So he just let it happen, but he'd never tell you that, not when it could mean losing the single most important person in his life. But tonight, it seemed his heart was bursting at the seams and he wasn't so sure how long he could control his mouth from vomiting the words. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to have you sleep over tonight.

"Gyu? you good?" you asked, sitting beside him and getting under the same throw he had placed over him. He looked so soft and cuddly in his dark gray sweatshirt he changed into. God, he looked every bit of boyfriend right now.

"Huh?"

"You were spaced out," you giggled

"Oh. Yeah, i'm ok, just waiting for you… Was the shower ok? Did you drink your water?"

You nodded and pointed to the empty water bottle you had placed on the coffee table in front of you, "I'm alright, Gyu. Tired but feeling much better." You punctuated your words with a small thank you and a kiss on his cheek and Mingyu tensed. The scent of your shampoo washed over him and even though it was only a few seconds, it's like he could still feel your lips on his cheek. You saw his eyes grow wide and his shoulders slightly square up but whatever it was, he chose to stay silent.

"okay!" he announced, trying to break the awkwardness he was feeling. "movie?"

"about that... could we... maybe talk first?"

An ice bucket might as well have been thrown on top of Mingyu's head, either that or have the ground open up to swallow him whole. He seriously might not keep his feelings at bay this time around. "uhhh... a-about what?"

"About what happened in the party."

"Oh," your best friend relaxed a little, "I thought you were fine? You said no one hurt you right? I mean, of course aside from seeing Cass and—"

"Gyu," you interrupted him with a hand on his forearm, turning to the side so you could face him, "I don't mean that."

"Then what?"

"About what you said to Jung," your voice barely above a whisper, "about being my boyfriend..."

At that very moment, the both of you paused, the same thought in your brains: will my heart actually start beating out my chest?

"Oh. What about it?" Mingyu played it off and you gulped hard, maybe you shouldn't have brought it up. You normally thought you could see right through your best friend, but this time, he seemed so nonchalant about it all and if you were being honest, it broke your heart a little.

The tanned boy waited for your answer, eyes holding a glint of fear as he watched you look at everything else in the room except his gaze, "I just... I don't know. You said if you were my boyfriend, then you'd be treating me right."

"I would." Mingyu responded a little too fast, making your eyes find his immediately. He cursed himself for the lack of self control, now literally biting his tongue to stop from spilling the rest of his feelings.

"Then am I crazy for thinking that... that all you've done tonight was treat me right?"

You watched your best friend swallow hard, eyes boring into your soul. You waited in bated breath for a response but Mingyu opened his mouth only to close it, and then open again. Mingyu steels himself, genuinely wanting to run away from the conversation. If he spoke any further, he just knows he'd lose his best friend and get his heart broken, so he chooses to point out the obvious instead. "Well, you are my best friend."

"is that all you want me to be?" There it goes. The million dollar question. It's now or never, Kim Mingyu, he hears the subconscious in his brain. He could feel the sweat on his back, his hands fidgeting under the throw. Mingyu was not fond of how straightforward you were being. It's like you were ready to catch him red-handed and then tell him to start acting like a bestfriend instead of some love-sick puppy, or worse, stay away from you altogether. This is it. The end of a friendship he so carefully protected even if it meant it will never be more.

"What do you mean?" He croaked, his throat feeling drier more than ever. Oh, if only Mingyu knew just how nervous you were too.

You closed your eyes shut, inhaling sharply to muster up some confidence as you carefully place your heart on your sleeve.

“Because I look at your place and your life, and though I see a lot of you in it, I see me too. Pictures of us, my favorite food always in your kitchen, my number in your speed dial. I think about the past and all that you've done for me, laughing at the stupid shapes I think the clouds are forming, listening to me vent about all my frustrations, holding me when i cry about a broken heart, you’re there. You're always where I am. And it might have taken me long to realize this, but maybe you do love me more than just your bestfriend. And I just I hope i'm not too late to tell you that when I think about all of it, it hits me like a truck that I'm in love with you too."

If Mingyu was deaf, then everything you just said is probably the one thing that would help him regain his hearing. Every single word was loud and clear, your last sentence obnoxiously ringing in his ears, yet all this six foot something man could reply was an awkward “huh?”

You blinked hard at his dumbfounded expression, the back of your eyes immediately stinging with tears. Your efforts of confessing dying together with your heart. You felt the blood rush to your cheeks in embarrassment, hands flying to cover your face because wow, you seriously just misread the whole thing. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I- i must’ve misread. For—forget I said anything.” You mumbled, your voice shaking towards the end.

“No, no!” Mingyu panicked, his large hands prying yours away from your face and then cupping your cheeks, “i’m sorry. I love you. I heard you, loud and clear. And I love you, more than just a best friend. I’m so in love with you, have been for a while now.” He inched closer to you, the shyest smile on his face.

His eyes glanced at your lips before looking back at you again, asking softly, “Can I?”

With a small nod, he slotted his lips to yours and you immediately hummed in relief. Your eyes fluttering close with how gentle he was. His lips were slightly chapped but they were so pillowy against yours.

“I love you,” Mingyu mumbled in between a kiss, not being able to contain the smile that was breaking on his face. He swore he saw fireworks explode, his stomach churning in the best way possible.

“I love you too,” you responded as you broke apart for air. Both your eyes were twinkling, pure happiness just flowing through your veins.

He couldn’t quite believe it. Just moments ago, he was certain he’d end the night without a best friend. “Could you say that again?” He asked shyly, and if you weren’t just so whipped for the man, you wouldn’t have indulged him.

You climbed onto his lap, grinning as you placed your hands by the sides of his face. “I love you, Kim Mingyu. I’m so in love with you,” you obliged, peppering kisses on his cheeks and nose and lips.

Mingyu let out that tiny giggle he does when he’s really happy, the crinkles in his eyes appearing and his canines showing. “I love you,” you said one more time before properly latching onto his lips again. This time, your kiss was slightly deeper. He continued to mumble i love you’s to you in between before finally slipping his tongue into your mouth. Mingyu let out a low hum of sayisfaction when he felt you run your fingers through his short hair. His large hand stayed firm on the small of your back while the other was on your neck, making sure you couldn’t pull away too far or too fast, not that he should worry, the warmth of his body alone was already drawing you impossibly closer to him.

You rested your forehead on his when you broke apart the second time, matching grins on your faces as your eyes looked deeply at each other.

“You scared me, you know?” You scowled out of nowhere, your fist hitting his chest playfully.

“What?”

“I thought I really misread. Thought you didn’t actually love me.” The pout that appeared on your face was one Mingyu had seen before, but this time around, it pulled at his heartstrings even harder.

“Well I thought you saw right through me and didn’t want any of it. Thought you wanted to stop being best friends even.”

You raised a brow at him, tilting your head to the side slightly, “well now you’re not just my best friend, you’re also my boyfriend.”

The squeal that came out of Mingyu’s mouth was definitely one you wouldn’t expect from someone as large as him, but you loved it nonetheless, even though he paired it with a bone crushing hug that had your face uncomfortably smushed on his hard chest.

“G-gyu… c-can’t br-breathe.”

“Oh sorry,” he pulled back, still giggling from the thought of being called your boyfriend. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this happy before and it makes the butterflies in your stomach flutter even harder.

You felt soft lips on your forehead, another “I love you” rolling past Mingyu’s mouth.

You responded back with the same three words, allowing yourself to look into his eyes intently, marking this important moment in your brain. You’ve heard of best friends falling in love and then falling out of love, the friendship sinking together with it. You knew there was no certainty that you and Mingyu wouldn’t meet that same fate, and it scared you for sure. But there was something about being in your best friend-now-boyfriend’s arms that just felt right. Like you were home. And somehow, that was more than enough to take away all the fears. It took a while, but you’ve never been more sure of something than you are now of loving Mingyu.

“So… we’re really doing this?” Mingyu asked as he tucked your hair behind your ear. You looked beautiful with the light pink that dusted your cheeks and the deeper crimson on your slightly swollen lips.

“As long as it’s with you.”

#svt #seventeen #svthub #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #svt imagine #seventeen imagine #svt fic #seventeen fic #svt one shot #seventeen one shot #mingyu #mingyu fic #mingyu fluff #mingyu one shot #mingyu imagine #kim mingyu #paula writes ✨#Slowly; All At Once

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illyrianbitch · 3 months ago

Text

Handsome as Life and Poison

For @erisweekofficial Day 6: Retellings

Pairing: Reader x Eris

Summary: Defying your father’s sacred command, you wander to the grove where Spring and Autumn blend, only to encounter a sinfully divine figure with glowing amber eyes.

Warnings: sexual content/smut, nsfw! religious & biblical undertones & allusions, reader is overly innocent/naive, implied loss of virginity, sinner eris

Word Count: 3.5k

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

You shouldn't be here.

You can feel it in your bones.

You've never traveled this far, never managed to make it to the border. Your father warned you about this area, where the bloom of spring meets the decay of autumn.

He says that there is evil that lurks under the canopy of fire trees, that the blood of Autumn is so cruel it's cursed their very ground. Father has warned you that if you were to come across a fall beast, you would never return. At least, not the way you once were.

You understand his concerns—to a certain extent. He's protective. He has a certain plan for your life. Safety, purity, security above all. And father has been stressed recently, twitching hands and sharp reprimands.

Your High Lord has descended into madness, moving on all fours, his paws sinking into the mud, more beast than man. He prowls in the darkness now, no better than the creatures he once cared for, and your father believes there’s safety in the small village you call home.

It’s far enough from the heart of Spring to grant a quiet, predictable life. The faces around you never change, familiar and worn like the stones that line the village paths. It's peaceful, quaint—a life promised to you forever once you marry Adramis, the neighbor’s son.

Until then, your father urges you to stay safe, to temper the curiosity he knows stirs within you, the kind that might lead you too far, too soon.

Yet, despite his warnings, you find yourself here, day after day, drawn to the very place you’ve been commanded to avoid.

It's prettier, somehow, at this time of day— in the dim dusk, when the birds are beginning to tire. The air is tinged with an unfamiliar chill, a whisper of the season’s change that beckons you closer. You can see the colors of the autumn leaves clearly, watch as they sway in an intricate dance of red, orange and gold.

The movements stir something within you—a call like the ancient siren songs your father once spoke of, drawing you into the twilight's fire embrace. You take another step further into the shifting hues of the forest.

The rustling of leaves comes to your ears—soft, hesitant, as though a beast moves swiftly through the underbrush. The sounds intensify, multiplying by the second.

Beasts, you think, multiple.

You catch a fleeting glimpse of red hair through the tangled foliage, a figure half-hidden by the encroaching shadows.

You stop, and a sickening thrill rolls through you. You should turn back. But a phantom hand seems to beckon to you, an invisible thread leading you deeper.

Then you see him.

His clothes, finer than any you’ve seen even at your High Lord’s court, cling to his tall, lean frame, the dark green fabric glinting with gold thread that catches the last remnants of the fading sun. Each detail—his long, tailored coat, the sharp lines of his collar—speaks of wealth, power, and a meticulous cruelty you’ve only heard whispers about.

Your breath hitches. You know, deep down, who he is.

He’s surrounded by beasts, ferocious creatures with eyes gleaming in the half-light, their snarls low and guttural. Their presence should terrify you, yet you can barely hear them over the thundering in your chest. You count more of them than you have fingers, but with a subtle motion of the prince's hand, they fall still. Regal, patient, they sit at his side, watching you with the same unnerving calm as their master.

He studies you.

You want to take a step forward, to speak to him, but a rustling sound breaks through the stillness behind you. You turn sharply, scanning the underbrush.

From your side, a firm hand clasps around your arm, jerking you back with startling urgency. Almost immediately, once your body has been moved, the touch leaves you.

You meet the frantic gaze of your fiancé. His eyes are wide and his chest is rising and falling with uneven breaths. He ran here, you conclude. Past the border of Spring.

He's scared. Not just for you—but of something else entirely. Adramis is afraid of your father more than he is of what lurks in these forests.

"What are you doing here?"

“I saw—” You turn quickly, pointing toward where the figure stood moments before, but the woods are empty. The fire hue of his hair, the regal presence, the hounds—all gone, swallowed by the shifting shadows of the trees.

You glance back at Adramis. He's staring at you with furrowed brows, lips pressing together as if he's unsure whether to scold or comfort, wary as if you were troubled in the mind. His eyes scan your face, searching for something. You're not sure what.

“It’s almost dark,” he says, his voice calm but insistent. “We should get back.”

There’s no question in his tone. It’s not a suggestion, not really. He’s telling you—gently, but still telling you. He'd never force you, no, Adramis is sweet. Simple. But he’s a male and you are his promised bride. What good would you be if you were to get lost in the autumn woods?

Nothing at all, you suppose.

You don’t answer him. Your mind wanders to the fire-haired prince, to his amber eyes and the strange pull that brought you here.

Your silence seems to worry Adramis more. He steps closer, his hand hovering near your skin but never making contact, as if he’s afraid to touch you.

“Are you feeling alright?”

His voice is soft. Too soft, almost, to where it makes you shiver uncomfortably, like the touch of something too light, too ghostly.

You momentarily expect him to reach out, to place his delicate hand on your forehead or gently touch the flushed skin of your neck. But Adramis only hesitates, his hand hovering in the air for a moment longer before pulling back.

Too good for his nature, too holy to even touch you with a bare hand.

With a slight shake of your head, you dispel the strange sensation that lingers.

“No, I’m alright." You blink and muster a smile. "Thank you.”

He nods, though his eyes remain troubled. You follow him back toward the familiar warmth of home, casting one final, reluctant glance at the encroaching shadows of where autumn's decay kisses the air.

The leaves are aflame with fading light, but beyond them, the darkness waits—quiet, watchful, tempting.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

You're grateful for the familiar routine of your father’s sleeping hours, for the certainty that he wouldn't wake for another few hours.

The sun is still waking now, too, its low, gentle light spilling into the navy sky. It is as slow and tentative as you, quiet in its bearings.

The air is cool and biting, the kind of chill that lingers in the space between night and day.

You wrap your cloak tighter against yourself. It's a thin fabric, white with green thread. It does little to ward off the morning’s bite, but you don’t mind. You welcome the cool breaths that manage to slither past the soft cloth.

The scent of the autumn forest is sharper, more vivid than the soft blooms of home, where everything is neat and ordered. It smells richer, more alive. As traitorous as it feels, you almost prefer it.

It’s only a short walk before you find yourself in the familiar patch of trees. The autumn leaves sing their song, that same siren call that led you here again.

And he’s there—alone this time. Waiting.

His amber eyes gleam and shine with a glow that you’re certain is sinful. You know, deep down, that you should leave, that holding even his gaze, with that burning stare, is treacherous. But you do not.

You're unsure of what to say, unsure if you should wait for him to speak. He pushes himself off the tree he'd rested against.

"Hello again, little lamb."

His voice drips with a smooth, hypnotic cadence. It wraps around you like an incantation, compelling and unholy.

It's strange to see him before you, to have him acknowledge you, to hear his voice directly. You glance around him almost instinctively, as if expecting his hounds to materialize from the shadows, to form a regal, beastly, floor-lain crown once more.

As if he senses your question by look alone, he lets out a small laugh.

"It's early," he says. "Even beasts must sleep at times, too."

Against your better judgment, the corners of your lips twitch upwards. He scans your face, taking another step towards you. You stand still, remain in the spot you had froze in. He begins to study you, walks around you like a shrine.

"A bit far from your home. Curiosity must be a powerful force."

He stops before you. You can smell him now. It envelops you—rich and intoxicating, a blend of autumn leaves and something darker, more primal. You clench at the sensation, a sweet tingle spreading through your body. It courses from your head to your fingertips, settling deep in your now aching core.

"My father says it's my nature."

Eris hums. The answer seems to please him. "And what else does your father say?"

You admire him for a fleeting moment. When the gentle breeze rakes its fingers through his hair, it glows like a live fire. Freckles dot his skin, spread across the pale coloring like the stars you adore in the sky. His eyes are a molten gold that match the detailing on his fine coat.

"That I shouldn't be here," you finally respond.

A serpent-like smile curls at his lips. It spreads slowly.

"And yet here you are."

You nod. The faintest shiver of fear lingers in your veins, but you're unable to tear your eyes from him. You feel an inexplicable pull, wishing for him to come closer, to feel the brush of his presence against you.

Eris takes a step forward, his hand extending to graze the edge of your cloak. The touch is feather-light, a barely-there whisper of contact that sends a jolt through you. But it's firmer than Adramis's touch. It leaves you wanting more.

"Do you know who I am?"

You nod again. "Prince," you say, almost timidly. Quiet like a prey. "Son of the High Lord."

"Eris," he corrects. "My name is Eris."

"Eris," you repeat, his name falling from your lips like a comfortable prayer. You want to say it again, to taste the sweetness it offers your senses.

"And you are?"

You pause, brows furrowing slightly as you hold his gaze. His eyes still gleam, still glow with something so deliciously sinful, but something in them coaxes an answer from you.

"Y/n."

A moment passes. Eris takes a breath.

"Why did you return, Y/n?"

The way he says your name—a silky caress, a whispered secret—makes you yearn for him to repeat it, to let it roll off his tongue again and again. You have never heard anything so beautiful, so mouth-watering. You've never felt a desire this strong.

You struggle to find words, your head shaking slightly. “I-I don’t know.”

Eris’s gaze drifts to your lips, eyes darkening with a predatory curiosity. You're acutely aware of your lip trapped between your teeth and self-consciously release it, swallowing hard.

His eyes are intense as he meets yours again, almost devouring. But not scary. Not terrifying like you'd once believed.

"Does your village bore you?"

He knows where you live. That buried sense of fear begins to flare and you blink, swallowing hard as you take his presence in once more. He doesn't move, doesn't say anything else. Slowly, the fear dissipates.

"Yes," you admit. There is a stillness in your home that bores you. It makes your bones ache with craving. "But it is all I know."

He studies you for what feels like an eternity, his gaze intense and all-consuming. His hand, almost imperceptibly, brushes against the fabric of your cloak once more.

"You should return home, little lamb. Your father is going to worry."

Eris turns and leaves before you have a chance to respond.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The secret should make you feel dirty, feel guilty like a reckless child, but it does not.

You wake before dawn and, like clockwork, you're traveling before the first ray of morning.

It's become routine now.

You approach the familiar area, where the border of Autumn seems to hold its breath, waiting for you. And there, amid the crimson and gold of fallen leaves, lies Eris.

He’s sprawled on a blanket laid out on the ground, a feast spread before him. The array of foods is a vision plucked from your most indulgent dreams, an array of rich, and tempting dishes. Your mouth waters at the sight—at the lavish feast and the male who has provided it.

"Come," he beckons and pats the blanket beside him. "Sit."

You lower yourself, the fabric soft beneath you. The scents of the feast rise to meet you, mingling in the crisp autumn air. You turn to him, your large eyes drinking in the sight before you, the face of celestial allure: hair like a smoldering fire, eyes glowing with the golden light of autumnal sunsets. Eris’s features are etched with an ethereal grace that seems both ancient and timeless. With each passing day, you find yourself yearning to worship at his feet, to forge a devotion just for him.

“Eris?”

A melodic hum leaves his throat. “Yes, little lamb?”

“Why do you call me that? ‘Little lamb.’”

Eris's fingers graze your cheek, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch is gentle, almost reverent. "I believe you know," he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing caress.

"Why did you seek me out again?” You ask him, “Why do you wait here?"

A smile curls at the corners of his mouth. He lets his fingers trace the line of your lips, his touch light as a sigh. “I believe you know that, too.”

Eris's eyes glint with something that seems almost divine. It is unlike anything that you’ve ever known, nothing like the stories your father has told you. Your gaze drifts to the feast laid out before you. You reach for a small, perfectly ripe apple, its glossy skin catching the muted light. The fruit feels cool and smooth against your fingers.

Somehow, autumn's bounty surpasses even the lush abundance of spring.

A sense of longing stirs within you.

How naïve you had been to think that your village, your court, held all the wonders the world had to offer. You had planned to stay, to settle into a life of security and predictability, never daring to venture beyond what was known.

You turn to Eris once more. His eyes flicker, amber catching the light as he reaches out, fingers brushing against your arm. His touch is featherlight, yet it sends a ripple of warmth through you.

Your voice is barely a whisper as you confess, "I want to know a life bigger than my village."

“You wish to be free, little lamb?” He trails his hand down to where the apple rests in your grip, and with a slow motion, he gently takes it from you. "I can show you," he murmurs, turning the fruit over in his palm. His voice is like honey, rich and smooth. "You’ll know life—pleasure, want. All of it."

A tingle spreads through your body at his words, your breath shallow as you nod, leaning unconsciously into the heat of his presence.

“Yes," you breathe, the word barely a whisper. "I want to be free.”

Eris’s lips curl into a grin, a quiet satisfaction settling in his gaze. He looks pleased, eager, as if he’s waited for this moment since time itself began. He draws closer and you can feel his presence everywhere, consuming, enveloping.

His lips brush against your ear. “Then let me show you.”

The apple falls from his hand, forgotten. He inches closer, the space between you dissolving as his warmth spills over you. A hand finds the delicate line of your throat, fingers grazing against your pulse. With the lightest pressure, he lifts your chin, tilting your face toward his. His touch feels like a benediction.

He’s so close now that his breath melds with yours, the air around you thick with the scent of earth and fire. The world shrinks and the only thing that exists is him—his heat, his gaze, the slow, measured closeness that steals away your reason. His lips hover just above yours, and the ache of not touching nearly brings you to begging.

The first brush of his mouth against yours is light, a whisper, a tease, and you tremble beneath it. And then he claims you, his lips pressing against yours with a slow, haunting fervor. Your body goes slack as his movements seem to weave a spell, binding you to him with every caress of his tongue, every sigh he draws from your lips.

You feel him guiding you, lowering you gently onto the blanket beneath, the world beneath you falling away. Eris hovers above you and dips his head, pressing his lips to the soft skin of your neck. His mouth sears your senses as he works his way down, the press of his touch growing heavier, more possessive with every inch.

“Such beauty,” he murmurs, “Unfolding before me like the dawn. You were meant to be here.”

His words fall like a decree, a promise, and his lips continue their journey down, parting from your skin only to explore further. His fingers find the fabric of your dress.

The air shifts around you, something soft brushing against your skin, falling away with the gentleness of leaves in autumn, leaving you bare to the elements—and to Eris. The cool air grazes your skin in places untouched by even the sun.

His calloused hands explore your bare form, one cupping your breast, fingers pressing and kneading with a practiced touch. His lips follow, settling on the other, and your hands grip the blanket beneath you— knuckles white as he demands your gaze to remain on him. His tongue circles your nipple, amber eyes locked with yours, burning, all consuming.

Eris continues his careful exploration, moving downward as his lips follow the path of his hands.

Fingers spread you apart with a confident touch.

The sensation is profound and awakening, a mingling of sacred heat and cool anticipation. The essence of your very being is laid bare before him. You feel the brush of his fingertips against the tender places, feel as his lips follow with a similar reverence, their touch becoming a worship of its own.

And then he devours you with his mouth and hands.

His tongue traces every inch of your throbbing core, flicking and teasing your sensitive nub. Your entire body quivers beneath him. You’re overwhelmed by a tidal wave of sensations you’ve never known before—an innocent purity being slowly unraveled and transformed by his touch alone. You tangle a hand in his auburn hair as his fingers plunge deep inside you, scissoring and pumping, working you over until you’re a quivering mess of desire.

Your body responds instinctively. You’re writhing and squirming, small sounds of pleasure falling from your lips. He bathes in the moans, groans in response as you repeat his name like a prayer.

Eris sits up and soon you’re staring at his sculpted form, bare before you, ready to be worshiped, touched as he had explored you. His hardened length rests against you, blunt tip against your aching core, and you tighten your legs around him, pulling him closer. The crown of him splits you open with a steady pressure and he fills you completely, a divine intrusion that makes you gasp with the pleasure of being so thoroughly claimed.

Eris stills, his body pressed flush against yours, your walls clenching around him as you adjust to the new, overwhelming sensation. His face nuzzles into the crook of your neck, his hand cupping your breast, thumb teasing your nipple in slow, deliberate strokes.

“Let me show you how pleasurable life can be.” Eris leans down, his lips brushing against yours in a tender caress. “Just tell me you’re mine.”

You arch into him. “I’m yours,” you whisper, voice trembling with surrender. “Free me.”

And as he begins to move, begins to roll his hips against yours, you turn your head, gaze falling to the apple lying beside you, untouched yet no longer gleaming—its perfect surface now bruised, smeared with the dirt of the earth.

Father was right about one thing.

You'd come across a beast, indeed, and you could never return.

Not fully.

Not the way you once were.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

author's note: happy retelling day from ur local exmormon!! im an eve defender till i die. biblical lore goes crazyyyy

as always, thank you for reading <3

permanent tag list 🫶🏻:

@rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon

@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg

@evergreenlark @marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @feyretopia @ninthcircleofprythian @velariscalling @azrielrot

@justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli @mrsjna @anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound-blog

@melissat1254 @secretsicanthideanymore

@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire

@angel-graces-world-of-chaos

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javier-pena · 11 months ago

Text

embers

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader

Word Count: 9.5k

Rating: Explicit

Summary: You're engaged to be married to a man you've never met. Arthur Morgan is supposed to escort you across the country to meet him. You should keep your distance, but the dangers of the road bring you closer and closer together with each passing mile.

Notes: So there's this post ... and It has been on my mind for months so I had to write this exact scenario with Arthur, naturally. Again, this is way longer than it was supposed to be, but working on this fic allowed me to daydream a lot, so I can't complain. As always, I wouldn't have been able to do it without Dani @alexturner, who pushed me in the right direction and came up with the ending (because I'm not good at writing those)!!

***

You’re not pretty. At least that’s what everyone told you from the moment you could understand those words. Your mother, the maid she hired to look after you, the boys working for your father, the marm, the people in town. Since you were little, you’ve been hearing it over and over again. “It’s such a shame she ain’t pretty, what’s she gonna do with brains?”

The thing is, you also don’t feel very smart. If you were, you’d have found a way to leave your godforsaken town for one of the big cities in the east as soon as you could read the timetable down by the train station. You would’ve found a way to get out of this marriage your father arranged for you. Ambrose Longabaugh was his name. Ambrose Longabaugh. From what you have heard, he shares your lot: anything but handsome, but at least he has money.

No one was sad to see you go, save for your little brother, who held you tight and made you promise to come back if you didn’t like your betrothed. You had promised, knowing you were lying. It didn’t matter if you liked him or not, he was the man you were going to marry. You weren’t getting out of this. Your father had made sure of that.

Mr. Morgan is riding ahead of you, sitting in the saddle with his shoulders slumped, a cigarette dangling between his lips. You can smell the smoke on the crisp fall air, even though you’re trying to keep your distance. It’s not that he scares you – not as much as other men do, not as much as your future husband does – but you don’t like him very much. Your father is paying him to take you out west where Ambrose Longabaugh will one day take over his father’s cattle business. And Mr. Morgan is doing it without complaint, hardly acknowledging your presence. He talks more to his horse than he talks to you.

You let your eyes wander across the mountains around you and sigh. The first time you had seen them, your mouth had hung open in awe. Now you feel trapped by them. You can’t go back, and there’s only one way forward. You sigh again. No, you’re neither pretty nor smart.

“Break?” Mr. Morgan asks from up front. It’s only the fifth word he has said to you today; the others were good morning and let’s go.

“Yes,” you agree, not because you need it but because it gives you something else to do.

You stop near a small river with a shallow bank where Mr. Morgan can refill your waterskins. While he’s busy, you stretch your legs and pick up a few rocks from the riverbed to toss them into the water. The rushing of the water fills your ears, drowning out both thoughts and sounds. You take a deep, calming breath and close your eyes.

When you open them again, Mr. Morgan has taken off his lambskin coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He’s washing his face and neck in the cold water of the river, a wet stain forming on his collar, drops running down his lean, muscular forearms that are still tan from working outdoors all summer. Your face heats up with an emotion you don’t quite understand, and you turn away from him, pretending to be interested in some moss-covered rocks. You’re not supposed to look.

He startles you when he touches your arm lightly, making you turn around. You hadn’t heard him coming over the sounds of the river. His coat is back on, but you can see his neck glistening in a few places still.

“You shouldn’t wander, ma’am,” he says. That’s four more words for today.

You look around. “Indians, right?” you ask with a small laugh.

His face remains serious. “No. White men. Gangs. They like to hide out here.”

You watch his Adam’s apple move as he swallows and your throat immediately mimics his. “Then why are we taking this road if it’s so dangerous?”

He shrugs. You realize he hasn’t let go of your arm yet. “It’s fast.”

“My father –”

“Your father planned this route.”

You swallow again. “I’ll be careful, sir. Thank you.” He lets go of your arm then, and you walk back to your horse, your face now heating up with an emotion you definitely recognize: embarrassment.

You make camp later that day where the trees are standing close together. While he builds a fire, you pick at a pine cone you found on the ground. Somewhere in the distance you hear a howl, but you’ve learned that if it’s not loud enough to make Mr. Morgan look up from his task, then it’s nothing to be worried about. And he stokes the fire, eyes fixed to the flames.

After dinner, he hands you a small bottle and when the sharp taste of whiskey makes you cough, he smirks. So you take another sip, holding his gaze. He looks away first, pulls a torn-up pack of cigarettes from his coat, and offers you one. You accept, surprised.

“Don’t let my father find out you’re corrupting me,” you tease.

He only makes, “Hm,” in response.

The smoke from the cigarette burns your throat, just like the whiskey, but this time you manage to suppress the cough. “Do you have family, Mr. Morgan?” you ask, watching how he uses a branch to stoke the fire.

“No,” is his simple reply.

Now it’s your turn to make, “Hm,” before you add, “No one you’re sweet on?”

You don’t really care about the answer, why would you? But when he gives you another, “No,” a careful one, it makes your heart pound faster. Until he turns the tables.

“What about you?”

“Oh,” you say, “I don’t know, I haven’t met my fiancé yet.” And you don’t want to be thinking about him right now.

Mr. Morgan looks at you, his head cocked to one side. “Come now,” he pushes, as if you’re being evasive on purpose. “That ain’t what I’m askin’.”

You sigh. “It’s not? I’m spoken for. I have no business thinking about other men.” You don’t mean to be so frank, but the words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. And you can tell from the look on Mr. Morgan’s face that he still thinks you’re not honest with him.

“Hm,” he makes, and you dread what might be coming next.

“I’m going to bed,” you tell him, putting an end to your conversation. He opens his mouth to add something, but you don’t give him a change. You lie down and pull your thin blanket over your body, face hot with embarrassment. The last thing you see before falling asleep is Mr. Morgan staring at the flames, a quiet smile on his lips.

Later that night, you wake up to shouts. What pulls you from your sleep entirely is a gunshot that reverberates through the forest. “Mr. Morgan?” you shout, because he isn’t sitting next to the fire anymore and you can’t see him anywhere. Then you hear a sound that makes your blood run cold, a snarl, a growl, but animalistic, wild, unlike anything you’ve ever heard. You jump up from your bedroll, ready to run, but then you remember Mr. Morgan’s warning. It’s better to stay here, in the light of the dwindling fire, than to take your chances out there. “Mr. Morgan?” you try again, this time a hiss, as you frantically search the darkness beyond your camp. It gets so dark out here at night.

A shout is your answer, a deep, “Hey!” Short and fast. The horses whinny, and you’re only now realizing they’re stomping the ground, tearing up the soil with their hooves, the whites in their eyes visible, ears pressed tightly back. You try to swallow your panic, but it gets harder with every passing second.

Then something moves between the trees and Mr. Morgan stumbles back into the camp, a gun in one hand, a torch in the other. He has a wild look in his eyes too, just like the horses, but when they land on you, he relaxes, his face assuming its usual, stoic mask. “Mountain lion,” he says. “It’s gone.”

“What does that mean?” you ask, your voice trembling.

“Chased it off,” he explains. “It ain’t coming back here.”

“The horses …,” you start.

But he walks toward the fire, toward you. “You did good,” he says, dropping to his knees next to you, so close, too close. You can smell the gunpower on him, and the sweat; you’ve never been so close to a man before, not even your own father. “Here.” He hands you the whiskey again. “It’s gone, I promise.”

You wish your hands wouldn’t shake so much. He grabs yours with one to steady, his warm skin like fire against yours, unscrews the stopper with the other, not with impatience but oh so gently. You manage to take a sip on your own, but he watches you intently for any signs of distress.

“You’ll have to get used to it,” he says, stowing away the bottle. “This land out here … it’s wild.”

You nod. Now that the initial burst of panic is dulled, you feel tears sting your eyes.

“But you’ll manage.” His voice is so calming. “You’re a brave girl.”

*******

The hooves of your horse pound out a slow, steady beat against the hard ground. You’re tired, every muscle in your body is sore, but you push on without complaint, following Mr. Morgan up a winding mountain and back down on the other side. The days are so similar they’re bleeding into one – the mountain lion … did it attack three nights ago? Five? You don’t remember. All you know is that your heart picks up speed when he looks at you, that every evening your conversation around the fire becomes a little bit longer, that you wish you could go on like this forever, never to arrive at your destination.

Sometimes at night, when you can’t sleep but you pretend to, you can hear him sing, sometimes to himself, sometimes to the horses. Your heart almost flies out of your chest when he does it. He hasn’t touched you anymore since the night of the mountain lion attack, but you wish he would. Even though everything else about him confuses you, you wish you could feel his skin against yours again; such longing, it almost consumes you.

Is this what it’s supposed to feel like? Did your cousin feel like this when she ran off with that cowboy? Did your mother and father feel like this; is that why they got married? Are you supposed to feel like this when you meet your fiancé? Or is this something else entirely? Is there something wrong with you?

“Break?” he asks once the ground is beginning to even out.

“You know, you keep asking for breaks so much I’m starting to think you don’t want us to reach our destination,” you tease.

He just shrugs and stops his horse. You halt too and climb off, your legs steady when they hit the ground. It wasn’t like that in the beginning; the first few days he had to help you off your horse and you could barely stand. It’s astonishing what a difference a few weeks can make.

You stretch, then begin to walk up and down the path. It’s cold, sitting so still up on that horse, and you flex your fingers, trying to get some feeling back into them. Mr. Morgan, meanwhile, sits down on a tree stump to write in a leather-bound notebook. You’ve seen him use it before but you don’t quite know what it’s for. He’s probably tracking your progress or taking notes on the weather.

Careful to keep him in sight, you veer off into the underbrush, looking at the trees and the different kinds of plants growing on the ground. You pretend you can read the language of the forest, looking for tracks of animals or some mushrooms you might be able to eat. Just like you’ve seen Mr. Morgan do countless of times. When you do find something, you’re not sure what to make of it.

“Mr. Morgan?” Your voice is raised as you try to keep it steady.

You hear his footsteps immediately but you don’t dare to turn around, your eyes fixed on the sight before you. He stops next to you, and you can hear his steady breathing. The knot in your chest immediately dissolves.

“Hm,” he makes.

“What happened here?” you ask. Now the tremor in your voice is all too audible.

He hesitates just for a second, weighing his options, but then he says, “Some people were camping here, a family by the looks of it.”

“Where are they?” you ask, finally turning toward him. The cold, calculating look on his face sends a shiver down your spine.

“Ma’am …,” he says slowly.

“You can tell me. I can handle the truth.”

You look back at the burned-out wagon, the torn clothes hanging from tree branches, all that blood on a log next to a cold fire pit. You don’t need him to tell you. You just want him not to confirm your suspicions.

“They’re dead,” he answers. “Killed. For money.”

“All of them?” you ask.

He winces. “If there were women …”

“Can’t we help them?” You know you can’t, but you wish there was something you could do.

“Stay on the path next time,” he growls. “No more wanderin’ ‘round … ma’am.”

“Mr. Morgan …,” you try, but he’s already trudging back toward the horses.

You spend the rest of the day in silence, riding next to each other but avoiding each other’s gazes. You shouldn’t have called out to him; it was obvious what had happened in that camp. They were a group, and you’re just two people … your father couldn’t have known about the dangers of this journey, or he wouldn’t have made you go. He would’ve found another way. At least that’s what you’re telling yourself. Because you don’t want to even consider the other option and what it would mean. When the sun slowly disappears behind the mountains around you, dread settles onto your heart, the heavy kind you haven’t felt since you were a little girl, afraid of the dark.

Finally, Mr. Morgan stops his horse. “We camp here tonight. No fire.”

“It’s so dark,” you whisper.

“The darkness ain’t what’ll kill you,” he growls.

You can’t sleep; of course not. So you watch him all night, sitting up straight next to you, not so close that you could touch him, but close enough so you’ll always see he’s there. He doesn’t sleep either but he sits very still, keeping his eyes on the path, making sure nothing evil comes out of the dark. And you wish all you had to worry about were mountain lions.

*******

Two days later, Mr. Morgan’s face is pale and you’re frozen through. You haven’t had a warm meal since you found that destroyed camp, and Mr. Morgan has barely slept. You haven’t talked at all, apart from the necessities. And still you haven’t left those mountains and woods behind you. At least the daylight makes you feel less afraid.

“Is it far still?” you ask when the silence becomes unbearable.

“A week,” he answers, looking up at the sky, “if it doesn’t snow.”

The weather is the least of your worries. “And how long before we’re past the mountains?” You hate them now as much as they awed you at first.

“Three days maybe.”

Three more days without warm food. You straighten your back. “Have you come this way before?”

“Yes.”

“Has anything ever happened to you?” You don’t know if you’d prefer confirmation or denial.

“You’re safe with me, so don’t you worry about that.” There’s something in the way he says it that makes your grip tighten on the reins.

“I’m not worried,” you lie. “Just curious.”

“Hm,” he makes before going back to observing the surroundings with caution. “Bad people are everywhere. Not just here.”

“That’s a grim way to look at the world.” You try for a teasing tone, but it sounds like you’re reprimanding him instead.

“You ain’t seen much of it then,” he replies.

“More than you know.”

He looks at you curiously, just for a moment. “You –” he starts, but a shout ahead on the path interrupts him.

“Hey!”

You almost jump out of your skin and stop your horse reflexively. That’s your first mistake. The second one is to shout, “Arthur!” Because it costs him valuable seconds, that distraction. He turns around to look at you, and then suddenly two men are on him, pulling him out of the saddle. Two more appear next to you, a young, handsome one with a dark mustache and darker eyes, and a man your father’s age, but scrawny, with a mouth full of yellow teeth that he exposes to you in an ugly grin. You pull on the reins and your horse dances nervously, ears pressed tightly against its head. And then you hear a shot.

A fifth man stands in the middle of the path, a smoking gun held high over his head. His thick, gray beard quivers as he shouts, “Everybody stay calm and no one is gonna get hurt!”

You look at Mr. Morgan for guidance and see him struggle against the two men who are restraining him by holding his arms tightly pressed against his back. His pants are dirty from where he hit the ground when they pulled him off his horse.

“Get her down from there,” the man with the gray beard barks, and before you can do anything, thin but strong fingers have closed around your arm and you tumble out of the saddle with a shout.

The man who is holding you stinks of rotting things and nicotine. He twists one of your arms until it is pressed flush against your back and uses his other hand to hold your chin, so you’re forced to look straight ahead at the man with the mustache.

“Pretty little thing, ain’t she?” he snarls, and the other man licks his lips.

“We just want your valuables,” Graybeard says to Mr. Morgan.

“We ain’t got any,” he growls.

“I’m sure you don’t,” is the calm answer as Graybeard starts going through the saddlebags of Mr. Morgan’s horse.

You roll your shoulders but the man with the rotting teeth only tightens his hold on you. His companion takes a few careful steps toward you. A lump is forming in your throat as you begin to realize just how dangerous this situation is. You try to kick back, like a horse, but you miss your captor. It only earns you a cruel laugh and a pinch to your cheek.

Somewhere to your right, you hear a dull thud and a pained groan coming from Mr. Morgan. You try to look at him, but you can’t move, not because you’re being restrained but because fear has taken over your body and you can’t do anything but relinquish control.

“Check her horse,” Graybeard orders, but the man with the mustache doesn’t move. He’s only a few steps away from you now, his eyes hungrily roaming over your body. “Now!” Graybeard barks.

“There isn’t -,” you start, but the man who is restraining you clamps a hand over your mouth. You could vomit when you taste his skin.

“There’s this,” the man with the mustache says, holding up a cheap necklace your mother gave you as a parting gift.

“Take it,” Graybeard orders.

“What about her?” the rotting man asks and shakes you.

“Her too,” Graybeard answers with a nod. “Shoot the man.”

“No!” you shout, even though it makes the disgusting man get more of his fingers in between your lips.

The man with the mustache stuffs your mother’s necklace into the pocket of his jacket, then walks over to you. You can hear the blood rushing in your ears as he grips your skirt and begins to pull it upward so your boots and then your drawers are slowly exposed. A hot tear rolls down your cheek but it only makes him smile.

“I bet you’re lovely.” His voice is deep, almost as deep as Mr. Morgan’s, but hearing him speak only fills you with revulsion. “I bet you’re all tight …” He lightly strokes your cheek, then uses his free hand to unbutton his trousers.

“No!” you shout again, but it’s muffled, and your feeble attempts to free yourself are met with an evil snicker.

Then you hear a shot and all the life goes out of your body. It’s done. You’re alone now. And if you’re lucky, you’ll soon be dead too. Two more shots ring through the forest, each one as painful as if you’ve been hit by the bullets yourself. The man with the mustache doesn’t even flinch. His trousers hang open now, and you can see dark hairs peek out from between the fabric, before he cups one of your breasts hard and licks a broad stripe up your neck.

The other man moans, low, wetly, and it’s the most disgusting sound you’ve ever heard. He lets go of you, but it’s too late; you can’t run anymore. A wet, dull sound is followed by another moan, and you know exactly what he’s doing. You’ve heard people talk about it, even though you don’t quite know what it means when a man touches himself. All you know is that you feel bile rise at the thought of it.

The man with the mustache freezes and looks behind you, his eyes wide with shock. Maybe they have a different bargain, maybe he wants to keep you for himself and feels threatened. But then, so fast he’s only a blur, Mr. Morgan rushes past you, grabs the man by his collar, and pulls him off you, landing a punch against his jaw. You blink a few times as both men go down, not sure if what you’re seeing is real or if it’s a vision your panicked brain conjured up to calm you. The man with the mustache lands a kick between Mr. Morgan’s legs, gaining the upper hand. He pulls a knife from his boot while he straddles your companion to pin him down, but Mr. Morgan doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the man’s arm and bites down until he lets go of the knife. You catch a glimpse of Mr. Morgan’s eyes and where you expected him to be all feral rage, he’s cold and calculating. It sends a shiver down your spine and you stumble back a few paces until you step into something soft that squelches on impact. You don’t have to look down to know what it is.

Despite the loss of his knife, the man with the mustache is putting up a good fight. He lands a blow in Mr. Morgan’s face, then scrambles off him, grabs the knife, and pushes himself upward. Mr. Morgan moves faster than you’ve ever seen him move, jumping up while dodging the glinting blade of the knife.

“Stay down, big boy,” the man sneers.

Mr. Morgan shoves into him with such force the knife ends up in the dirt again, right next to the two men. But this time, Mr. Morgan has the upper hand, landing blow after blow in the face of the other, grunting with grim satisfaction when he draws blood, continuing even when the man retches up blood and spits it in Mr. Morgan’s face. He doesn’t stop until the man doesn’t move anymore and his face is nothing more than a bloody pulp, entirely unrecognizable. Only then does he grunt in pain and rolls off his opponent, lying on the forest floor, breathing labored and hard.

*******

You make camp that night as far away from that spot as you could travel before the light faded. Mr. Morgan gets a fire going while you sit on a log, trying to hide your trembling hands in your lap. You haven’t cried yet but you know it’s coming. He hasn’t said anything yet, and you’re not sure he will.

In the flickering light of the fire, you can see the cuts and bruises in his face, the sleeve of his shirt drenched in blood. And when you close your eyes, you can see the five dead men, their broken bodies left in the dirt for scavengers to feed on. He did that, all on his own.

You force yourself to stand up and walk over to him. He’s not the man who calmed you down after a mountain lion attack anymore; you’ve seen him beat a man to death today with his bare hands. No, he’s someone new now, someone you have to get to know first. And when you crouch down next to him, he looks at you with dark eyes like he’s never looked at you before and you feel all the air being pressed out of you.

“Let me take a look at your arm,” you say, pulling it toward you by his hand. The dried blood on his knuckles is rough against your skin.

He doesn’t protest, just watches as you carefully roll up his sleeve to expose a deep cut, undoubtedly left by the knife. It must have happened so fast you missed it. Even though it’s not bleeding as much as it used to, each pump of Mr. Morgan’ heart pushes some more blood out through the cut.

“You need stitches,” you tell him.

Before you can second-guess what you’re doing or change your mind, you’re next to your saddlebag, looking for the sewing kit your bother gave you. Only you’ve never used it for something like this before. You don’t even know if it’ll work, only ever having read about it in books, but it’s better than doing nothing. You also grab the bottle of whiskey from Mr. Morgan’s bag.

“Drink this,” you order, handing it to him once you’re next to him again.

He takes one big swallow, then another one, his throat working to get the liquid down. You pretend not to notice. Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand while you stare at the cut with much more focus than necessary. Taking back the bottle, you pour some of its content on the cut, drawing a low groan from Mr. Morgan that heats up your cheeks.

Your hands are shaking as you try to thread the needle. “Have you ever done this before?” Mr. Morgan asks, his face stoic as if he’s ready to accept his fate no matter the answer you give him.

“Technically, no,” you answer, finally pushing the thread through the eye.

“Huh,” he grunts.

“But I’m very good at mending stockings.” You offer him a feeble smile and he nods. “This might hurt a little bit,” you warn before pushing the needle through his skin. Holding his arm in place with your other hand, you can feel his muscles flex at the intrusion, and a short burst of breath tickles the top of your head. He doesn’t complain.

“Have you ever been stitched up before?” you ask him to distract him.

“No,” he replies through gritted teeth.

“Oh, good. Then you have to believe me when I tell you I’m doing a very good job.” What’s wrong with you?

He grunts again, but maybe, possibly that sound could be hiding a laugh.

“Still, when we arrive at our destination, you should have a doctor look at this,” you instruct.

“Eager to hear from a professional how good of a job you did?”

Your cheeks ignite and you drop the needle. “Shit.” He is laughing now, a low chuckle, as you try to locate a glint in the flickering light from the campfire. Luckily, you don’t have to look far – the needle fell straight down and is lying between Mr. Morgan’s boots. You wipe strands of hair from your face, then wipe the needle clean on your dress before getting back to work.

“No,” you answer his question, forcing your voice to sound steady. “Because I have no idea how to prevent an infection. Or if I’m even doing this correctly.”

Mr. Morgan leans down, his big hand closing around the bottle you discarded earlier, and he unscrews the cap with his thumb and forefinger. “Looks to me like you’re doin’ fine.” A big swig, then another one.

You glance up at him just to see his face looking unusually pale. “Does it hurt a lot?” you ask carefully.

“I’ve had worse,” he answers, but flinches when one of your stitches comes too close to the wound.

You blink fast a couple of times, trying to shake the image of him on top of that man, punching and punching until no trace of life was left. The memory of the sheer brutality makes your hands feel clammy. No, this wasn’t his first time getting hurt, just like it wasn’t his first time killing someone. And now the same hands rest peacefully in his lap, cut and bruised, yes, but a far cry from the deadly weapons you saw today.

“Thank you for what you did today,” finishing up with two final stitches, then quickly add, “There,” and pet his arm before he can acknowledge your words of gratitude.

He lifts his hand from his leg and flexes his fingers. “Thanks for this,” he replies, examining the stitches.

Your gaze lands on his knuckles that are covered in blood, his own and that of the men he killed. “Do you want me to take a look at your hands?” you ask, your throat tight all of a sudden.

“I’m used to that.” He stretches out one of his legs so it rests next to you, close enough that you feel the ghost of a presence next to your hip.

“I’ve never met a man who was used to so much violence.” Your eyes are still on his hands, bruised darkly.

“It was either them or us.” He shrugs.

Us. “I was sure they had killed you when I heard that first gunshot,” you tell him, lowering your gaze to your own hands that have some dirt on them, some streaks of Mr. Morgan’s blood, but that look so clean compared to his.

“And break the contract with your father?”

You laugh. “A father who selected this route knowing full well about the dangers we would face?” The silence that follows your question is filled only by the crackle of the campfire and by the sounds of creatures moving through the woods. “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you,” you finally say.

“This ain’t the first time I had to save someone,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“And how did those other people repay you?” you ask, eager for his answer. Being indebted to him puts you on edge.

“Money,” is his short reply.

“I don’t have any,” you say, feeling a tug at your heartstrings. But maybe that doesn’t matter; maybe when you arrive, you could talk to your fiancé. He’ll want to reward the man who defended your honor and saved you from a horrible fate. Still, you wish there was something you could be doing for him right now. “There’s also other ways,” you say, very slowly.

“Hm,” he makes, a sound that has started to fill you with a certain warmth for reasons you can’t quite explain. Then he shifts, moves his legs a little further apart. And you’re there right between them, looking up into his face that betrays nothing except for the smallest glint in his eyes.

You’ve never even kissed a man, but you’re not stupid. You know what certain gestures and movements mean. You’ve watched your father’s hands when a woman walked past them, you’ve attended dances where everyone around you was getting drunk … growing up on a farm, you’ve seen things. But you also know that those things are wrong and they should only be happening between husband and wife behind closed doors, no matter what everyone else is doing.

It's getting harder to breathe, and you feel a tug low in your stomach, almost like an ache. You’ve never felt anything like this before and you can’t quite place it, but the way he looks at you, mouth slightly opened, his eyes deep and dark, only fuels that sensation. And when you think back to this afternoon, it becomes so strong it makes you shift on your knees.

“You’re a pretty little thing.”

It’s the second time today someone has said that about you. Whereas the first time made your skin crawl, the second time makes your cheeks heat up and your breath get stuck in your throat. You notice that Mr. Morgan unbuckles his belt, eyes locked to yours, and you make sure your gaze stays on his face. It’s only when he groans and his eyelids flutter shut that you look down and see he has his hand wrapped around himself, moving it up and down his length with sure strokes. Something in you is released at that sight.

“Here, let me,” you offer, shuffling closer on your knees until you’re trapped between his legs.

Before you can think better of it, you wrap your fingers around the base of his cock. It’s warmer than you expected, feels heavier than you thought when you move your hand up in the same move you saw him use. He groans again, louder this time, and removes his hand, resting it on your arm. You tremble.

Back home, you were taught that what a wife does in the bedroom is fulfilling the duty to her husband. It sounded neither pleasant nor enjoyable, and so far, you’ve managed to push the thoughts of what is awaiting you at your destination from your mind. But your mother couldn’t have meant this, because this doesn’t feel like duty at all. You stroke the tip of his cock with your thumb, he tightens the grip on your arm in return, and you feel a surge of pride well up. No, your mother couldn’t have been talking about this.

Eager to try more, you twist your wrist on the downstroke, then lower your head and kiss the tip of his cock. He growls this time, and his hand lands on the back of your head, pushing you down. You have no choice but to open your mouth further and take him in. The weight of him presses down against your tongue, the tip of him brushing the back of your throat makes you gag as tears shoot to your eyes. He grips your hair, pulls you off, then pushes you back down again, and you got it. It’s not so different from the hand.

Steadying him at the base with a tight grip, you pull off him again, but let your tongue run along the underside, the sharp taste of him filling every corner of your mouth. It will take some getting used to, but you’re determined to get this right, and from the way his hand trembles at the back of your head, you have a feeling you might be.

You close your eyes, focusing on taking him as deeply inside as possible because he seems to enjoy that. Sometimes, when you think there isn’t any room left, he pushes you onto his cock that little bit further and then groans contently, a sound that tightens parts of your body you didn’t know could tighten. You run your tongue over the tip of him, hum around him when your mouth is full of him, just to find out what kind of sounds you can draw from him. If this is what it’s like, you can’t imagine why anyone would call this a duty.

Mr. Morgan stiffens and pushes his hips upward so you take even more of him into your mouth. This time you can’t help the gagging sound pushing past him. But instead of forcing you to take more, he grips a handful of your hair and pulls you off. Your mouth feels strangely empty for a moment, even though his taste lingers, and you blink in confusion. Was that it?

You lick your lips and look up at him expectantly, waiting for him to say something. But he’s quiet, only placing his forefinger under your chin to tilt your head back a little more. For some reason, that gesture leaves you breathless. And you know why a second later when his lips lock onto yours and your breaths mingle, and you suddenly understand why people would kill for this. Why he killed for you.

You can’t help the moan that comes out of your mouth, don’t even realize at first that the sound is coming from you. His hand glides to the back of your head to grip you and hold you in place, and you push yourself toward him, one hand on his arm, the other on his thigh. He licks into your mouth and you try to mirror him, feeling a strange sense of pride when he opens up for you.

He pulls away, holding you in place by the hair at the nape of your neck. “Did you like havin’ me in your mouth?” he asks and his voice is so low you barely recognize it.

“Yes, Mr. Morgan,” you answer, and you also almost don’t recognize your own.

“Oh, you’re somethin’,” he says with a wicked smile, then stands and pulls you with him.

Your legs are trembling and your knees threaten to give way when he kisses you again, pressing his entire body to yours. Just when you think you could spend eternity like this, he closes his arms around your backside and lifts you up, so you don’t have any chance but to sling your legs around his middle. You squeal against his lips, but he just carries you past the campfire toward your bedroll. Beneath your palms, you can feel the muscles in his shoulders and arms flex and tighten with each step. Something in your stomach flutters as you remember he's strong enough to beat a man to death.

Before you know what you’re doing, you’re kissing his jaw and neck, biting down on a tendon that’s jutting out with the effort of keeping you in his arms. When he rumbles deep in his chest, you flick out your tongue to lick across the spot in apology, but he drops you to your feet. You both stand there for a second, looking at each other with heaving chests. His hands come up to grip the neckline of your dress, and he pulls, a tearing sound echoing through the trees. Your torn dress crumbles to the ground around you, exposing your undergarments, and even though your first instinct is to cover up you don’t because he pulls his shirt over his head to expose his naked chest beneath, and that sight is enough to distract you from any embarrassment you might be feeling.

His pants are next, and then he stands before you stark naked. You try to touch his stomach with a trembling hand, but he grabs your wrist and pushes you down to the ground. With precise movements, he pulls off your drawers, taking your shoes with them, then tears open your corset to expose your breasts. Your breath hitches when he cups one in his calloused hand and squeezes, making pleasure spike through your body.

You kiss him again, lean into his touch, and then you discover you can make him tighten his hold on you by licking over his bottom lip. You can make him press his hard length against you by moaning in pleasure. It feels so, so good to have this effect on him, to be able to do that to him without words. Never, in a million years, would you have expected that giving yourself to a man would feel like this, would make heat blossom at the base of your spine, would make you ache between your legs. You shove your fingers into his hair, deepening the kiss, and he sighs against your lips, a sound that makes your knees weak. How can all of this make you feel so good yet fill you with a hunger you don’t know how to satiate?

You run your nails over his scalp, testing to see what other sounds you can elicit from him, when he suddenly shifts both your bodies, pushing you to the ground while caging you in with his body. Your heart hammers in your chest so hard it’s almost painful, but even when your back is uncomfortably pressed against your thin bedroll, you still crane your neck to keep kissing him. God, why can’t you get enough of him?

With a sharp slap against your knee that sends another spike of pleasure through your body, he pushes your legs apart, then draws back to look at you. His lips are red and swollen, and both shadow and light are dancing across his face in quick succession. You reach up to touch his cheek, but he catches your wrist and pins it down next to your head with so much strength it steals the breath from your lungs.

“You’re the prettiest little lady I’ve ever seen,” he mumbles.

You feel your face heat up, but he doesn’t notice how flustered you are. With his free hand, he grabs himself, then lines himself up between your legs. You watch, eyes wide, breathing so fast your head is starting to swim. What comes next is a pressure that is not painful but not quite pleasurable either. And the more it pushes, the more it hurts.

“Stop,” you say, your voice not more than a whisper.

Either he doesn’t hear you or he’s ignoring you, but he continues to push up into you, and now it’s so painful you’ve lost all sense of pleasure entirely.

“Stop,” you try again, bracing your hands against his shoulders, trying to push him off you. He’s too strong for you. “Arthur, stop!” you bellow.

And he hears you. He immediately withdraws, and you scramble to sit up, pulling away from him as best as possible on the small bedroll.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, and the concern in his voice makes you look at him.

“Yes,” you answer, hugging your knees to your chest. You wish you weren’t so naked.

“Have you ever …?” He doesn’t need to finish the question for you to know what he means.

You shake your head.

A deep, red flush creeps up his chest and neck. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t –”

“It’s alright,” you interrupt him, his apology embarrassing rather than harming you. “You didn’t know.”

“The way you were kissin’ me …” He trails off again.

Your ears prick up at the compliment. “It all felt … good,” you stutter. “More than good. It’s just …”

“I can … we can slow down,” he offers. “If you still want …”

You look at him, kneeling before you, his skin glowing orange in the light from the fire. His dick is slowly softening between his legs, goosebumps are covering his arms, but he is showing you all of himself without shame. That bold display of his body makes your blood heat up again, but you hesitate. Touching his naked skin is one thing, giving yourself to him entirely is something you’ve been warned of your entire life. And yet … now that you’ve pushed through the initial shock, you slowly realize your body is demanding to feel him again.

You nod. “Yes. I still … I want you.”

Your cheeks are fever-hot, but the way his eyes light up is worth the embarrassment you feel. Arthur moves toward you, loosening the hold you have on yourself, and you relax, dropping your knees, letting him come even closer. He smirks, his eyes darting to your lips and then back up again before he leans in for a searing kiss, and it feels like the last few minutes didn’t happen at all. Without breaking the kiss, he reaches for your wrist, then slowly guides your hand between your own legs, while you tremble in anticipation. He doesn’t touch you, but when he presses your own fingers against all that heat and wetness, you moan deeply.

Arthur breaks the kiss first. “I want you to play with yourself,” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear.

“I don’t …,” you start, suddenly unsure.

“Yeah, I know.” He kisses your neck. “You’re gonna figure it out though.”

You take a deep breath and nod, and when he captures your lips for another kiss, you move your fingers over yourself in a motion that makes pleasure shoot through your entire body. A shaky pant escapes you and lands on his mouth, turning his lips into a smirk even while he’s kissing you.

“There you go,” he whispers.

You find a rhythm and pace that makes you feel like you’re about to explode but that doesn’t light the final fuse, and he continues to kiss you for a while before drawing back to watch the hand between your thighs. Any shame you could have felt is replaced by pure lust when you see the arousal in his eyes; you shift to open your legs further, and he raises his eyes in surprise. You shift under his searing gaze and moan when you notice his hand closing around the base of his cock.

You’ve never felt like you’re feeling right now, completely in control but also like you’re surrendering yourself to him. It’s so addictive it makes you wonder how people don’t want to feel like this all the time. “It feels so good,” you groan, struggling to get the words out because your teeth are clenched.

“You’re so pretty,” is Arthur’s answer as he moves his hand up and down his length.

You can’t help but believe him. “I love you strong you are,” you return the compliment, and before you can think better of it, you raise your free hand and cup your breast, squeezing your nipple.

His eyes lock onto your chest. “Fuck.” Pleasure shoots through you from the tip of your toes to the top of your head. “You’re such a good girl,” he adds, and it makes your heart flutter so painfully you feel like it’s about to fly out of your chest.

“Say that again,” you demand, not recognizing yourself at all.

Arthur shifts closer until he’s right between your legs, fisting himself eagerly. You can smell the sweat and arousal on him, a scent so overpowering you wish you could bury your nose in his skin and inhale it forever. “My pretty, brave girl,” he says, and when you lower your gaze, too overwhelmed by what his words make you feel, he grips your chin and lifts your head. “Oh no, you’re gonna look at me.” You blink once but don’t lower your head again. “Yeah, that’s it.” He smirks. “Look at you … so eager to please me. You should see yourself right now … goddamn prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.”

You do lower your gaze then because it feels like too much. Your eyes land on his cock, on the tip that’s glistening wetly, and you lick your lips, remembering the feeling of him in your mouth.

“You want me inside of you, don’t you?” Arthur asks, and you nod. His rough, calloused hand closes around your throat and you can’t help it – you move your own hand faster, a crescendo building in the pit of your stomach. “Use your words, pretty girl. I know you can.”

You swallow hard, knowing he can feel your throat move against his grip. “Yes, I want you inside of me.” Your face doesn’t heat up this time as you realize you’re not only saying that to please him. It’s exactly what you want.

He rewards you with a deep kiss, then mumbles against your lips. “Are you ready?”

You hesitate. “I’m not …”

But Arthur doesn’t let you finish. “Let’s find out together.” He leans back. “Finger yourself.” The way his eyes darken when he says it isn’t lost on you.

You shift and move your hand lower, his eyes fixed to your movements. He has stopped moving, his hand grabbing his cock, holding it between his legs. You feel yourself flutter against your fingers in anticipation at the same time as he licks his lips. And then you push the tip of your finger inside of you, past the initial resistance, deeper and deeper until you can’t go any further.

“Breathe,” he instructs and you exhale sharply. “Did that hurt?”

You shake your head before remembering he likes to hear your voice. “No.”

“How does it feel?” he wants to know.

Carefully, you pull your finger out until only the tip remains inside of you, then you push it back in. “Good,” you manage. “Really good.”

“You’re sweet when you can barely talk,” he says with a smirk and the muscles inside you clamp down on your finger. You moan and close your eyes, unable to keep them open. “You like that, don’t you?” You hear him shift closer. “You like hearing my voice. Bet you’d like me to talk you through it, too.”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly as you feel something building inside you. It’s like a wave that will drown everything out. You lean back further and further until your back connects to the ground, until you can raise your hips to meet your finger, trying to get it as deep inside you as possible.

Then his hand is covering yours and he pushes you to the ground, stilling you. When you open your eyes, you’re met with his, dark with lust, and you’re rewarded with the sight of his chest, flushed so deeply red it looks almost purple. His cock is leaking onto his fingers. “Not yet, sweet girl,” he says in a voice that sounds familiar to the one he uses to calm down his horse. “You’re doing so well, but wait until …”

Arthur removes his hand from yours, but then you feel the tip of his finger right where yours is disappearing inside yourself. You steel yourself for the pain you’re about to feel, but when his finger joins yours, stretching you open, all you feel is pleasure so intense it makes it hard for you to stay conscious.

“Fuck,” you groan, a short outburst, almost like a bark.

“You can say that again.” Arthur’s voice is so husky it’s almost impossible to understand. He cups your hand with his, and then moves the both of you in tandem, pulling back out and pushing back in. You tentatively meet his thrusts by rolling your hips and he growls. “Look at you, spread open just for me.”

You don’t know why his words make you feel like they do, but the muscles between your legs are working hard to keep both your fingers buried as deeply as possible. That earns you a smirk from him and you smile back in return.

“I think you’re ready.” He grips your hand tightly and pulls the both of you out, making you sob. To calm you, he cups your cheek and presses a soft kiss to your lips. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna fill you right back up again.” All you can do is nod.

He positions himself above you, stroking himself a few times, then lining himself up. It’s easier for you to relax this time because you know what to expect, but when he breaches that resisting wall of muscles, you still feel a burn and hiss.

“Shhhh,” he makes and kisses your forehead. “You’re doing so good.”

And then he’s inside of you, stretching you open as much as you can take. His eyes flutter shut and he groans, shifting to adjust himself. “You feel perfect.”

“You’re … you’re big,” you manage, drawing a chuckle from him.

He shifts again, then pulls back out before slamming back into you, making you see stars. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he apologizes immediately.

“No,” you press out through gritted teeth. “Do that again.”

He does, and you grip his arm, burying your nails in his muscle, slinging your other arm around his back. There’s a strange taste in your mouth and you only slowly realize it’s blood from biting down on your bottom lip. He kisses you, licks over the wound, pulls a sharp moan from you. And then he slams into you so hard you scream, clawing at his skin, leaving bloody streaks down his arm and back. The pain only seems to spur him on and when you pant, “Harder,” he doesn’t hesitate.

You clench around his cock in return and he whispers, “I like you like this.” You feel yourself clench again and he groans. “You’re perfect,” he repeats. You kiss his neck, then bite it, until he pushes you back down. “I bet you’ve never had an orgasm before, have you?” You shake your head and he mimics that motion, tapping your bottom lip with his thumb. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

“No,” you manage to say, your voice hoarse.

He rocks into you, not as hard and fast as before, but it makes you pant helplessly nonetheless. “Yeah, I thought so,” he mumbles more to himself than to you.

“Please,” you whisper.

He smirks down at you, then shifts his knees ever so slightly to change the angle. Suddenly, he’s brushing against something deep inside of you that makes a sob erupt from deep in your chest.

“Do you even know what you’re asking for?” he teases, but there is a strain in his voice now, as if he’s struggling to hold onto something.

“Please,” you repeat louder, unable to fully grasp the meaning of his question.

Arthur’s thumb is back on your lip and then he pushes it inside your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the tip eagerly, then suck on it, grazing your teeth over his skin. His breathing turns ragged, and the warmth of pride erupts in your chest. With a wet sound, he pulls his thumb out from between your lips and pushes his hand between your bodies until it comes to rest on that small spot you were toying with earlier. You howl and twitch and your whole body erupts. You spill over, you lose sense of where and who you are, you’re shaken by forces beyond your control. All the while, Arthur pounds into you, strokes you inside and out, and you think you hear him say, “That’s it, just let go. You’re so fucking beautiful – just let go.”

As soon as you feel like you can breathe again, he pulls out of you, leaving you aching and empty and cold. Through hooded eyes, you watch as he moves his hand up and down his cock fast until he spills all over his hand and the edge of your bedroll, gaze not directed downwards, but staring at you with insatiable hunger in his eyes. And you return that gaze just as hungrily, wondering what it would feel like to taste his release on your tongue.

Arthur stands unsteadily and retrieves his coat from the other side of the campfire. You feel the cold of the night now and hug your knees to your chest, still trying to make sense of the world. “Now, no more of that,” he says when he gets back, draping his coat over you, the weight of it making your limbs grow soft. He lies down next to you, pressing his front to your back, one arm possessively slung over your chest, the other shoved under your head for you to use as a pillow.

*******

The morning sun is warm on your face as you ride through a slowly thinning forest. The plains and your destination cannot be far from here. Your thoughts are though; they’re still somewhere behind you, stuck at a campfire, busy chasing the feeling of the man next to you between your legs.

When you reach a fork in the path, you stop your horse and look off to your right, back into the forest and the mountains. “What’s back there?” you ask.

Arthur stops his horse next to yours and looks down the path. “Never been over that way,” he answers.

“Do you want to find out?” Your voice is firm, but you don’t look at Arthur.

He’s quiet at first. “Your father –”

“– already paid you,” you finish the sentence.

Arthur nods. “Alright,” he says, then looks back at the path you just put behind you, then off to your right again. “Let’s find out what’s over there.”

***

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #embers

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sunshinehaze1 · 2 months ago

Text

So Long, Too Soon

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: It’s been so long since you and Joel have had sex. When you finally find the time to reconnect, things happen a little too soon.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI. No outbreak AU. established relationship (married), use of pet names (darlin’, baby, big guy), allusion to m!masturbation, Joel in grey sweatpants and a plain white T 🫠, f!oral, fingering, use of vibrator, unprotected PiV, creampie, no use of Y/N

a/n: This was written for @justagalwhowrites Joel Miller Birthday Celebration. I picked a combo of dad!Joel and a lil bit feral!Joel (he’s horny, y’all) with the theme of premature ejaculation. I had been noodling on the idea of a “dry spell” within an established relationship for a bit and thought it would work with this challenge. Thank you to @80ssong for the beta and constant encouragement! 😘

word count: 3,608

ao3 | ml

“SARAH! Hurry up, your dad is waiting in his truck!”

“I’m coming!” you hear her call from her bedroom. “I had to get my math homework,” she huffs as she bounds down the stairs and into the kitchen.

She gallops toward you and wraps you in a bear hug. Instinctively, your hands wrap around her and kiss the crown of her head. “Love you,” she says as she hurries to meet her dad; having been with him for the last fifteen years, you know his patience is hanging on by a thread. He has a short window to drop Sarah off at school to beat the worst of Austin’s morning rush hour and make it to the job site on time.

“Love you too!” you shout back. You wince as the front door slams behind her. You’ve lost count of how often you’ve asked her not to do that.

With your first coffee down, you drag yourself to the life-giving machine to pour another cup into your favorite mug. It was a Mother's Day gift from Sarah when she was six. Joel took her to a paint-your-own pottery studio during one of their “daddy-daughter” days. When they came home, Sarah barreled through the door with a mischievous glint in her eyes and a massive smile. You watched, amused, as your daughter bounced around, unable to contain her excitement. Animatedly, she tells you about her day with Joel, which started with a large stack of pancakes for breakfast and a movie. She recounted the day so quickly that Joel was worried that if she kept going, she’d accidentally spoil the surprise. He rested his hands on her shoulders with a low shush. His calm demeanor and soothing touch instantly relaxed her. He reminded Sarah that she had to be patient and, for the time being, had to keep a secret. You looked at him questioningly, and he shrugged. He smirked as he moved his index finger and thumb across his lips, motioning that they were sealed. A few weeks later, you would finally unwrap your surprise. Since then, it has been like no other mug ever existed. It delights you every morning, admiring the colorful hand-painted flowers and “World’s Best Mom” scrawled across the mug’s surface.

For six months or so, you and Joel have been like ships that pass in the night. Joel’s contracting business continues to grow and has him running around all over Austin. Some weeks, he’s put in seventy hours and has just enough energy to shower before he climbs into bed where you’re sat upright with your laptop, working tirelessly on your latest project with a looming deadline. He graces you with a peck on the cheek before he rolls on his side, and within minutes, you hear the low drone of his snores. In the mornings, you exchange kisses and “I love yous” when he comes downstairs to grab his coffee before he’s out the door with Sarah, and you relocate to your home office for the day.

You hope there is a light at the end of the tunnel soon. Even if you have to dig the tunnel yourself to find it, it’s been too long since you and Joel have had sex, and you’re not sure how much more you can take. You crave the intimacy of being close to your husband, skin-to-skin. It invigorates you, seals your love, and makes you feel more connected. You worry he could be losing his attraction to you. You’ve been together for over a decade, which is a long time for your bodies to change. He seems to have only gotten more annoyingly handsome while your body has grown and pushed out a healthy, brilliant, funny girl, and things aren’t as tight as they once were. Parts of your body are softer and have a tendency to spread a little more when you sit down.

You and Joel have always had a fulfilling sex life. When you first got together, there was hardly a day where you didn’t fuck. Even after you got married, and all your friends had warned you your sex life would change and frequency would lessen, you and Joel still managed to keep a healthy schedule in the bedroom. Things did slow down a bit when Sarah was born. Caring for a newborn is exhausting, and you and Joel could barely keep your eyes open. As Sarah got older, things in the bedroom began to pick up again. Tommy would come over and watch Sarah so you and Joel could have regular date nights to keep the romance alive. At the end of the night, you’d go home and fuck like you used to. It helped keep the passion alive amid the stress of your jobs, maintaining the household, and getting Sarah to and from school, soccer practices, and playdates. This has been the longest dry spell you’ve experienced in your relationship with Joel, hopeful it is temporary.

After your work project finally wraps up and Joel’s current job has slowed while he waits for permits, you arrange a sleepover for Sarah at her friend’s house tonight. She’s finally at the age where she feels comfortable with overnights where you and Joel aren’t just down the hall. You log off work early, having already put in close to sixty hours for the week, and head to the mall. You want to find something to knock Joel’s socks off and re-energize you both. After an hour of perusing your favorite lingerie store racks, you find a few sets to try on. You fumble around in the fitting room, trying on your selections until you find a winner. Joel won’t know what hit him—an emerald green negligee with lace cups and trim, fly-away opening, and matching thong panties. You feel a tingle of excitement imagining his reaction.

You’ve already dropped Sarah off at her friend’s house, and the dinner table is set by the time Joel gets home. Joel walks into the smell of roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans. It’s one of his favorite meals that you make. He finds you standing over the stove, putting the finishing touches on dinner. He comes over to greet you, wraps his arms around you from behind, and leaves a kiss on the sensitive area where your shoulder and neck meet. You sway in his arms, relishing in his embrace, inhaling his scent of sweat and sawdust—the smell of a man who works hard to provide for his family.

“I’ve missed you, darlin’. How was your day?”

“Pretty good. I’m glad you’re home.”

“Me too. Do I have time for a quick shower before dinner?”

“Yup, the chicken still has to sit before I cut into it.” He pulls away from you and places a playful swat on your ass before he heads upstairs.

Joel hops in the shower, looking forward to a quiet, relaxed evening with you. It’s been so long since you’ve had an opportunity to be alone together. He hopes tonight he’ll be able to rekindle the passion you both have craved from each other these past months; he’s missed being intimate with you. It’s just been hard to find time to connect with how busy you’ve both been lately. He’s thankful there’s a lull at his current job site, which has relieved some of his stress. While he’s in the shower, he debates whether he should fuck his fist so he can last longer with you. Eventually, he decides against it because there’s not enough time, and he wants to ensure he has enough stamina for you. When he steps out of the shower, he changes into a pair of grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt and heads downstairs for dinner.

You head upstairs while Joel finishes cleaning up the kitchen after dinner. When you hear the kitchen faucet shut off, you scramble to finish getting dressed for Joel. A few minutes later, he appears in the doorway of your shared bedroom, mouth agape. He’s at a loss for words; you are a vision. His eyes travel your body to find you wearing his favorite green plaid flannel, with your legs bare. It also happens to be your favorite green plaid flannel. He always looks incredibly handsome in it. The shirt hugs him in all the right places, stretching across his broad shoulders and tapering at his slim waist. Any time he wears it, all you want to do is take it off. Joel imagines he probably looks like The Mask when he sees Tina for the first time—eyes bulging out, jaw dropped, and tongue rolled out in front of him. He lifts his jaw off the floor and finally remembers how to speak; he exhales, “I think that looks better on you than it does me.”

“Hmmm. It’s possible.” You slowly unbutton the shirt as you saunter towards Joel. “But, I think it may look better off of me.” You let the flannel fall to the floor.

Joel is going to lose his mind. He’s the luckiest guy in the world. He has an incredible life—an intelligent, generous, and beautiful wife who gave him a caring, witty, and beautiful daughter. His time with you has been the best years of his life. The wisest decision he made was asking you to be his wife. And now, you’re standing in front of him in this green silk number that has caused all the blood to rush to his cock. His cock, which is now stretching the fabric of his sweatpants with a pronounced bulge. You take notice and grin, pleased at his reaction. “So, I guess this was a good pick?”

He steps closer, now within arms reach. Trailing his fingers down the smooth fabric, he responds, “Baby, it’s perfect. You’re perfect.” He pulls you in for a searing kiss. “I’ve missed you so much. I’ve missed us.”

You melt into his arms and feel his cock press against you, and arousal pools in your silk panties. Joel’s hands trail down the back of your body slowly. He teases at the lace trim before sliding his hands under your negligee to rest on the soft, round globes of your ass. His calloused hands explore your supple skin, and he lets out a grunt as he grabs hold and thrusts his stiff cock into your center. The contact causes him to suck air in between his teeth with a hiss. It’s been too long since he's had you this way, and he’s not sure how long he’ll last. Your kissing becomes a mix of frantic tongues and wet lips devouring each other. The intensity at which he takes over is overwhelming. You love it when he gets this way like he could eat you alive; he wants you so badly.

“You feel so soft, baby.” He pants between kisses. “Mmmm, I need you.”

“I know, Joel. I need you too…so bad.”

It’s a frenzy of hands groping at each other. Neither of you can hold back. He begins to drag the hem of your negligee up and prompts you to lift your arms as he pulls it over your breasts, which tumble out of the fabric. He watches them bounce with rapt attention, practically drooling. They aren’t as perky as when you and Joel first met, but he’s always been obsessed with them. With you standing in front of him, bare except your thong, he takes one of your breasts in his mouth, the other held in a firm grip as he massages and lathes at them. You moan in pleasure as he takes his time covering every inch, leaving a trail of licks and soft bites across your chest.

Joel moves up your sternum, trailing over your collarbone and neck, nipping at your jaw, locking your lips with his once he reaches his destination. The noises emitting from Joel’s are animalistic. He needs to consume you in every way possible. He begins to grind into you, pressing his cock into you. You let out a needy moan as his hips propel forward into your soaked panties. Joel’s eyes widen at the last press of his hips into you, and he realizes he’s about to come. Oh fuck. No, no, nononono. This can’t be happening. Not tonight. He was so in the moment that he couldn’t catch the signs. Maybe he should’ve jerked off in the shower. Shit. Joel’s mind begins to run through his playbook of thoughts he uses when he wants to stave off an impending orgasm. The latest delivery of lumber, the Longhorns’ upcoming season, and the leaking faucet in the half bath that he wants to fix this weekend. But it’s too late. He grunts and moans, his thick fingers gripping your hip for balance as he explodes into his pants and lets out an exasperated sigh. It takes you a moment to realize what happened as you watch a wet spot bloom on the front of his pants. He hasn’t cum in his pants since he was a teenager.

“That hasn’t happened to me since high school,” he admits, embarrassed.

You lift Joel’s head, your hands tenderly holding the sides of his face, and look into his eyes. “Baby, this is probably the best compliment ever! I may have trouble getting through the doorway with how big my head is right now.” you chuckle.

He lets out a short laugh, and a small smile forms across his handsome face. Gripping your upper arm, he leads you to walk backward until your legs hit the bed. “Well, my recovery time isn’t what it used to be.” He pushes you gently until you collapse onto the bed, ogling your breasts as they bounce in response. “I hope you’re ready to come for me a few times before he’s ready to go again.”

“I think I can manage that.” You giggle as his broad body hovers over you, and he leaves a path of wet kisses down the plane of your chest, in between your breasts, and over the soft rolls of your stomach. As he approaches your center, he shimmies your panties over your hips and down your legs, exposing your wet cunt to the cool air of the bedroom. Joel moans, “There she is. God, I’ve missed her.”

He dropped to his knees in front of the bed, his broad shoulders spread your legs apart, giving him a perfect view of the arousal coating your folds. His fingers travel up your thick thighs, inching closer to your core. You’re writhing in anticipation of his touch where you need him most. He takes his time, teasing you until you almost break. Sensing your need, he gives in and runs his finger over your clit and down your seam. He looks up at you with a devilish grin before he dives in. His tongue glides through your folds, lapping up your arousal. Your back arches, shoving your pussy in his face when he reaches your clit. He circles his tongue over the hardened nub, wraps his lips around it, and begins to suck and flick his tongue, sending shockwaves up your body, causing a moan to tumble from your mouth. He smirks without letting his lips leave you, pleased with your response.

You’ve been together long enough that Joel knows precisely what you need and where you need it to make you see stars. His forearms grip around your thighs to hold you in place, not letting you pull away from his tongue ravishing your clit. He’s devouring you like a man starved. Because it’s true, he has been starved. The last six months have been brutal, not being able to taste your sweet tang. He lets out a feral groan as he continues to eat at you. He knows you’re close and groans into your pussy. The vibration reverberating through your body is enough to send you over the edge. Your thighs shake, a harmony of moans and curse words barreling from your lips while you cum all over his patchy beard. He laps up your slick while he gazes at your blissed-out face. Joel ascends the bed and leans in to kiss you, and with a devilish grin, he teases, “That’s one!”

You laugh, a broad smile across your face as Joel admires you, so much love and lust in his eyes. “So, big guy, what’s in store for number two?”

With a mischievous look, his eyes never leave yours as his hand travels down your body. His fingers dance over your soft stomach until they reach your entrance. He breaches your wet folds with two fingers, knowing you’re more than ready to receive them after you just came on his tongue. They slide in easily as his thumb meets your clit. He’s slow with his teasing because you’re still a little sensitive. He thrusts in and out, bumping into that spongy spot that sends electric volts through your body. It doesn’t take him long to build you back up to another orgasm. He feels you clench around his fingers and continues his pace until you erupt with a cry, your orgasm gushing out of you, soaking his fingers. Joel pulls his fingers up to his mouth to clean up your juices and then leans forward with a peck on your nose, “That’s two!”

He feels his cock begin to stiffen. He’ll be ready to go soon; he just needs you to come again for him. He pulls out a vibrator from the nightstand. You look at him incredulously, unsure if you have another one in you, feeling so overstimulated already. Joel flicks the purple toy on and smiles as it hums. He begins on the lowest speed, dragging the tip up and down your pussy lips. You feel yourself getting wet again with his teasing. He increases the speed and watches as you thrust your hips up, your body’s natural response to the change. It’s almost too much, but you feel your orgasm drawing closer and grip his forearm as he drags the tip of the vibrator through your folds until pressing it up against your clit, moving to the highest speed. Your eyes roll back as your body flails with your release. Joel watches as you come down from your high. He shifts his eyes to his pants and returns to yours with a smile. His cock is rock hard now. “I guess the third time’s the charm!”

You lift from the bed and eagerly grab at the waistband to pull them down over his hips. His dick springs out, and you lick your lips. He would love nothing more than to watch his cock slide through your luscious lips, but he’s not risking it. He knows he won’t last long in your wet mouth, and he wants to come inside you. Joel lifts your chin, and you look at him with doe eyes, “He needs to get inside your pussy, baby.”

With unbridled enthusiasm, you lay back on the bed as Joel pulls off his pants completely, and he crawls up your body. Holding your gaze, he lines up and begins to feed his cock into you. You are pressed so close together, and with him now inside you, it's as if you two have become one person. He thrusts into you, slowly at first, and gradually increases his speed. He doesn’t feel deep enough and has to give you all of him, so he lifts and moves your legs to rest your calves on his left shoulder, his cock never leaving the clutch of your pussy. With your thighs now pressed together to make your pussy feel even tighter, he grabs onto your hips, thrusting in earnest. His pelvis slapping into your ass with each drive of his cock inside you. Feeling his orgasm build, he pushes his body forward, folding you over and driving even deeper. When he hits the spot, it sends you into a frenzy, and you cum, wailing his name. Joel’s jaw tenses as he grunts and follows after you, flooding your walls with his seed.

As you both catch your breath, trying to recover from the immense euphoria, Joel looks down at you and sees tears fall from your eyes. He kisses them away as they slide down your temple. When he leans back, he thumbs at a new tear that’s formed and wipes it away before it has a chance to fall. “You ok, hon?” he asks, concerned.

“Oh, yes, Joel. I’m fantastic. I’m just so fucking happy.”

Your favorite Joel smile appears—the one that is so full and wide it makes his eyes disappear and wrinkle at the corners. It feels like your heart will burst from your chest. He slams into you with another toe-curling kiss. When he finally pulls away from your lips, he looks into your eyes, “I love you so fucking much.”

“I love you, too, Joel.”

He pulls his softening cock out of you with a hiss, and you whimper at the loss of him. He keeps your legs up so he can watch as his cum drips out of your swollen lips. Satisfied with his work, he shifts your body to the side and sidles up behind you, wrapping his arms around you. He hums while he peppers soft kisses over your shoulder, and you let out a sated sigh. You’ll worry about cleaning up later. You don’t imagine you’ll have difficulty convincing him to hop in the shower with you. But for now, you want to stay in the embrace of your strong, handsome, and loving husband for as long as possible.

Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to know what you think. Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. 🫶🏻

#joelmillerbirthdaycelebration #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #so long too soon

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scarlethexelove · 11 months ago

Note

How about a WandaNat fic where both are slightly dark and kidnap R. R isn't too worried about it though and soon grows to actually love both of them. Maybe something angsty with a happy ending 🙂

We'll Keep You Safe

Pairing: WandaNat x Reader

Word Count: 1546

Warnings: Domestic violence, kidnapping, allusion to drugging, murder, I don't think there is much else.

Part 2 Save You

A/N: First I want to thank @abbyromanoff for the help on a bit of the story idea. I was struggling to come up with how they get to the point so thank you Abby. Hope this is what you wanted I'm not really sure how much I like this one myself but I hope you enjoy.

NO ONE IS PERMITTED TO STEAL, COPY, OR REBLOG MY WORK AS THEIR OWN

You run from your house. Your wife is screaming at you to come back but you don't, you just run to your neighbors house. They told you if you ever needed anything that you could come to them. So that is what you did. Tears streaming down your face, your right eyes almost swollen shut and a gash on your cheek. You cradle your right arm with your left pretty sure that your wrist is broken.

This wasn’t the first time she hit you, but this was the worst. You said you would leave but every time you were about to she promised to change to never hit you again. All she did was give you broken promises. So this time you ran her anger being heard even as you got to the front door of your neighbors.

You banged on the door with your left hand as you looked back, scared she would follow you. You kept knocking even as the door opened, startling you and almost hitting the woman at the door. “I-I’m sorry.” You stuttered out.

The beautiful brunette looks at your concern and anger swirling in her eyes. “S-sh-she” you stutter more, not able to form words. “Help” your voice sounding so small, your legs giving out as pain starts to spread through your body. The adrenaline wears off making you feel the full force of your injuries. Wanda catches you in her arms slowly helping you to the ground and pulling you into her.

“Natasha!” Wanda calls out to her wife. Natasha comes around the corner, as soon as she sees you there is fury in hers. Your face is buried in Wanda’s neck as you cry. Natasha tries to make her way past you both so that she can teach your wife a lesson but Wanda stops her. Instead Wanda passes you to her wife. Sharing a knowing look. Natasha cradles you in her arms and carries you into the living room sitting down with you on the couch. Burying yourself into her she holds you tightly as you cry continuously apologizing to her as you soak her shirt in your tears.

Natasha shushes you as she rubs her hand up and down your back. Wanda making her way into the kitchen. A few minutes later as you start to calm down Wanda returns with a tray. A tea pot and some tea cups sit on the tray. She pours a cup for you. Natasha coxes you out of her neck as Wanda extends the cup of tea. You take it hesitantly and take a few sips. Both women give you a sad smile.

“Honey, do you want to tell us what happened?” Wanda speaks gently as she sits down on the edge of the coffee table in front of you. You lightly nod your head before speaking. “I-I came home and Lila was pissed. S-she found the divorce papers I had hidden. I tried to tell her I wasn’t going to but she s-started hitting me. I-I ran here as soon as I could get away.” You tell the woman. “I’m scared.”

“We won’t let her hurt you again.” Natasha says. You can feel her anger but also her concern. You lay your head on her shoulder starting to feel sleepy and your body feeling numb. The pain fading away. Your body feels heavy as you try to speak again but no words come out. That is the last thing you remember before everything goes black.

You blink your eyes open, your body feeling weak and heavy. It’s hard to keep your eyes open but you're able to look around. You are wearing different clothes which freaks you out. Did someone change you? What the hell happened? Why are you here? And where is Wanda and Natasha? All these questions run through your mind. Panic setting in.

You start to look around again. This room is not one you are familiar with. The walls are wooden and a few paintings scattered around. There is a bedside table next to the bed you are laying on. It is soft, softer than anything you have been on in a long time. One of your wifes punishments for a long time has been sleeping on the ground. You notice the water on the bedside table which makes you realize how thirsty you are. Your mouth feels as though you have cotton in it. So you reach out grabbing it, but as you bring it to yourself you drop the glass and it shatters on the ground.

Just then the door swings open and you see a panicked Wanda with Natasha behind her. They both quickly rush towards you. “Are you ok? Did you hurt yourself?” Wanda questions quickly come up next to you grabbing your hands and looking you over to see if you have any new injuries. “Where am I? What are we doing here? Why am I wearing different clothes?” You send out a rapid array of questions to the woman.

Wanda gives you a soft look. “We brought you here.” She told you, placing a hand on your check which you flinch from before letting her touch you. “We had to get you away from her.” Natasha added as she bent down cleaning up the shattered glass. “H-her, y-you mean my wife?” You question starting to push Wanda away and scrabble out of the bed. She grips you tightly and doesn’t let you up.

“Ow, Wanda you're hurting me.” You tell her as her grip loosens on your good wrist. That is when you realize that they have tended to your injuries and cleaned you up. “Sorry detka. We just want to keep you safe. We never want to hurt you. You deserve so much better than that woman can provide you. We just want to keep you safe and give you the love you deserve.” Wanda gently tells you, holding your hands in hers. You let yourself relax and stare at her. “She can never hurt you again.” Natasha adds sitting down next to you.

You can’t help but admit that you have had a crush on the women since you met them, but you have a wife and they were married to each other. So you always push down those feelings, but sitting here with the woman feels just right. Natasha’s words echoing in your head which causes you to think. “What do you mean she will never hurt me again? You can’t know that. W-what if she finds me?” You quickly panic at the thought.

“She won’t be a problem anymore Y/n I promise you that.” Natasha reassures you, but something still doesn’t sit right. “Did you hurt her?” You question the woman sitting next to you. You can see an evil glint in her eyes. “No one will ever hurt you again and no one will ever find her.” Natasha said, trying to lessen the blow to the fact that she inadvertently admitted to killing your wife. You should be scared and you should try and run from them. They did kidnap you and murder your wife but you can’t find it in yourself to do any of that. They seem to care so much about you and you wouldn’t be surprised if they actually love you.

“I-I I don’t know what to say.” You stutter out. They have already done more for you and made you feel so safe in such a short amount of time. So you accept it. You accept that they have killed your wife and brought you somewhere to keep you safe. They have taken care of your injuries. Your wrist has been set, they cleaned your cheek. Your eye doesn’t seem to be as swollen anymore. They really care for you.

“You don’t have to say anything Y/n we love you so much already and we just want to give you everything you deserve.” Wanda gently strokes the back of your hand with her thumb. Natasha leans in and kisses your forehead. “You mean the world to us detka.” Natasha adds. Tears spring into your eyes at their words. They do love you and they are gentle with you. A stark contrast to the life you have been living. So you let the rational part of you go and you listen to the warm feeling in your chest. Leaning your body into Natasha as she wraps her arms around you.

You feel tired again, your body relaxing with the safety you feel for the first time in a long time. You can’t remember the last time you felt like this. As you relax into Natasha she starts to guide you to lay down. She shuffles you and herself back on the bed pulling your body fully into hers. Wanda slides in behind you and wraps her arms around your waist as she gently kisses your shoulder.

“We have you sweet girl and we promise to never hurt you.” Natasha kisses the top of your head. Your tired eyes closing as you nuzzle into her chest. You can get used to this. Living safe and sound with two women who love and care for you. “I love you.” You whisper as you drift off into a deep sleep.

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atenea585 · 28 days ago

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Let Me Know First!

Pairing: Sam Winchester x Female Reader

Summary: You thought you were alone in the bunker, but something in you told you otherwise. Where is Sam when you need him most?

Word Count: 2,023

Tags/Warnings: allusions to sex, established relationship, mask on

You were with your headphones on, listening to music while reading one of the many books in the bunker. Although it had been a little less than a year since you had entered the supernatural world, you had not stopped wanting to learn about the different creatures and everything it meant to date a Winchester. It took a while for Sam to confess to you the dangers in the world (besides the ones you were already aware of, of course), and you understood (after a few minutes of not believing him at all and thinking that you were really bad when it came to tastes in men).

"Oh, hell, not again."

"What?"

"Forget it.”

You were alone, the Winchesters having to attend a case despite your desire to want to spend Halloween with your boyfriend. And you looked for a way to distract yourself. Coffee on the side and a book about the history of vampires while you listened to calm music to focus.

But as soon as you turned the page, frowning as you concentrated, you thought you heard a noise that didn't seem to belong to your music. You looked away from the book and lifted one of your headphones, looking around you. There was nothing and the aforementioned noise was not heard again.

You shook your head and put the earphone back into place. Maybe reading so much about the supernatural had driven you to madness. You sighed and put the book aside, getting up with your coffee cup in hand, noticing it empty, and heading to the kitchen. You hummed the rhythm of the song as you placed the cup to wash. It was at that moment when you heard that noise again, and this time, you decided to listen to your instincts and took off your headphones, leaving them aside while you looked around. You walked slowly, straining your eyesight and hearing for anything unusual. You peeked your head out of the kitchen, looking up and down the hallway before leaving.

But what the hell…?

On the floor you noticed small drops of something red that made a path towards the library where you were recently. How is it possible? That wasn't there a few seconds ago. You arrived at the library and it occurred to you to grab the book you were previously reading. You knew it wouldn't do you much good, but at the moment it looked the closest and would give you some advantage.

The lights went out, turning on the red emergency lights, causing you to have to squint to see anything.

"Fuck this." You mumbled, pulling out your phone and calling Sam. After a few seconds, his answering machine rang. You called him again, getting the same result. "Oh, come on, Sam!" At this point you started to get nervous, feeling paranoid as your breathing became more labored, but you tried to stay calm, just like Sam had taught you.

"No matter how stressful the situation is, you must remain calm."

"How could anyone stay calm when they are about to be killed?"

"Just think that if you don't calm down and make a plan you will die."

"Oh, yeah, that… That definitely helps."

"To serve you."

You took a deep breath and counted backwards in your mind when a loud noise was heard behind you, causing you to jump and turn around. To hell with staying calm. You were never good at it and you won't start now. There was another noise at the end and you looked at that one. Your hand shook as you decided to call Dean, your gaze lowering for only a few seconds.

Serious mistake.

Because when you looked up again (the phone already dialing) you saw it. Near your face the mask of the killer from a famous slasher movie franchise stared at you, without moving.

"This is Dean’s other other cell... So you must to know what to do."

You hung up the call and slowly lowered the phone, Ghostface's head tilting to the side. You noticed he was holding a knife with a red tip dripping with red liquid. He was tall, really tall, in a way that made you remember Sam. He was wearing a black shirt and his muscles were causing the fabric to tighten, although you couldn't focus too much on that. You couldn't really think about anything at that moment, fear and panic had paralyzed you.

He seemed to notice your state, because he slowly moved his hand and grabbed your cell phone gently, as if not to make you react. He put it in his pocket and you yelled at yourself to react.

He raised his hand again, but this time resting it on your cheek. And something in you lit up, your boyfriend's words returning to your mind.

"Just think that if you don't calm down and make a plan you will die."

Maybe not the words one would think of at a time like this to react to, but they were enough for you. You raised the book you still held firmly in your hand hard and fast, hitting it on the side of his head. You heard him grunt in pain and you hit him again with more force, causing him to hunch to the side and giving you the chance to run.

Although Sam had taught you how to fight hand to hand you had never used it in a real situation. You preferred to help the guys by staying in the bunker and searching for information on whatever they were hunting. Likewise, you weren’t going to confront someone with bare hands who had a weapon, whatever it may be. You didn't even know if he was human, even though he looked like one, but you preferred not to risk it.

You ran through the hallways, your thoughts racing past your head, but you focused on one.

"What happens if I don't have any weapon?"

"Then you run away until you get one."

"Well, sure, but what if there aren't any in sight?"

"In that case, you turn any object in sight into your weapon."

You walked into the room you used with Sam. Little by little it began to have your style, like the floor lamp that you saw through a display case one day when you were out with Sam for a walk through town. You grabbed it with both hands and stood behind the door, a bead of sweat running down the side of your cheek as you closed your eyes and tried to control your breathing.

Be calm, make a plan. Breathe, in and out, make a plan. Relax your body, make a plan.

A rustling sound was heard and you opened your eyes. When you don’t have a plan, it’s time to improvise.

You landed a blow with all your strength on the stranger's back, the first blow knocking him off balance, but not enough to make him fall, which was your goal. You gave him another one, this time causing him to fall against the bed and drop the knife.

"You fucking psychopath, I'm going to kill you!" Adrenaline coursing through your body as you delivered the third blow with the lamp to his stomach. And you were prepared to give him the fourth, not even feeling the exhaustion of your actions, when he placed one hand in front of him, the other on his stomach while his body was twisted into itself.

"W-wait, wait!" He said quickly. "It's me!"

You frowned, the voice vaguely familiar, but that wasn't going to stop you, not when you had reached a point of pure rage.

"Fuck you, I don't know you!" You lifted the lamp to give him another hit.

"No, wait!" Did he beg? Did he think he had the right to do it?

He moved a hand towards his mask, slowly removing it so as not to scare you. You opened your eyes in surprise.

"But what the…?"

Sam looked at you nervously, pursing his lips at the pain he still felt in his body.

"Yeah…Hey..."

"Hey?!” You exclaimed in disbelief, still holding the lamp firmly. "You come here, with that freakin' mask, chasing me with a blood-stained knife... And all you can say is Hey? What the hell, Sam?!"

"Listen, I know it looks bad-."

"Oh, it looks terrible!"

"But everything has an explanation!" He nodded, sitting up on the bed, stretching with difficulty to grab the knife from the floor. "First of all, this knife is fake, and so is the blood." He placed it against the palm of his hand, proving that it was indeed a fake. You raised an eyebrow curiously, but you still looked annoyed. "Can you please lower that lamp?"

"Not until I decide whether to knock you out or just lightly damage you."

He took a deep breath, one arm extended around his torso.

"I did it ‘cause that's what you asked me to." At your confused look and noticing that you would recriminate him again, he continued. "It was after watching Scream. You told me you'd like to try something new. Something like putting on a mask and chasing you and then…" He trailed off and slid the fake knife to your feet.

"But not like this!" You remembered the conversation and lowered the lamp, placing it back on the floor. "I mean, yeah, I wanted this, but at least know when it would happen."

It's not like your sex life was bad (not at all), but that didn't mean you didn't want to try new things, experiment to see if both of you were comfortable.

"Yeah, well…" He took a deep breath. "I wanted it to be a surprise."

"Hell it was." You admitted. "Although in another way."

"But I'm glad you used what I taught you." He stood up, walking towards you. "We could say this was a test."

"Yeah, well, when a masked man as tall as a mountain shows up, I think it's pretty normal for your instincts to kick in." You shrugged. "What about Dean? And the case?"

"Dean knew about this and I asked him not to take any calls from you." He crossed his arms, looking at you carefully. "And there never was any case."

You huffed and looked around.

"Were the lights really necessary? I can barely see you."

He smiled softly and took another step forward, uncrossing his arms.

"Better environment."

"Wow, you really thought of everything."

"I'll admit that the idea excited me a little too." He placed his hands on your waist.

"Oh, really?"

"Mhm." He nodded, leaning slightly towards you until your faces were inches apart. "But I can turn the switch back on if you want." He was going to leave when you grabbed his arm, stopping his movement.

"No, I like this… Environment." You murmured, briefly looking down at his lips.

He smirked before kissing you, softly at first. You placed your hands on his shoulders and he wrapped his arms around you. He lowered his hands to your butt, giving it a squeeze, but before he could continue you pulled away.

"W-wait, wait."

"Something’s wrong?"

You smirked and walked towards the bed, grabbing the mask.

"Yeah… You don’t have your mask on." You threw it to him and he caught it out of the air. You sat in the middle of the bed, your eyes on him as you scooted until your back touched the back of the bed. "The knife too."

Sam smiled, clearly enjoying the change in the atmosphere. He bent down to grab the knife under your watchful gaze before standing back up. He put on the mask, his eyes radiating a playful lust, being the last thing you saw of his face. He closed the door behind him with his foot and flexed his shoulders, his neck creaking, and the mere sound made your thighs clench. You licked your lips, already loving where this was going and definitely noticing the change in his attitude to a darker one.

"What’s your favorite scary movie?" He asked in a deep voice before advancing towards you.

Sam Winchester One Shots

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pileofboneswrites · 3 months ago

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TAILSPIN_oneshot.sonsofanarchy

SUMMARY — after receiving an unintelligible call from jax, your rush back to charming to discover your son, abel, has been kidnapped by camerson hayes, and worst yet, he also killed your younger brother that you practically raised.

PAIRING — exhusband!jax teller x fem!halfsack'ssister!reader | juice ortiz x reader

WORD COUNT — 3.8k

WARNINGS — established relationship(s), kidnapping, murder, death, past child neglect (about reader and her brother), divorce, premature birth, pregnancy complications, agent stahl, swearing, fighting, angst, loss of loved ones, suicidal thoughts, contemplation of suicide, cheating, allusion to smut but no description, no use of y/n (she's actually only outwardsly referenced 2 times and is referred to as miss epps or epps).

AUTHORS NOTES — just to clear somethings up; jax married reader instead of wendy, and instead of drugs being the reason abel was born early it was just due to pregnancy complications.

MASTERLIST

your heart was slamming rapidly into your ribcage, panic rolling off your skin in waves. you push the pedal to the floor, the idea of a speeding ticket not even remotely close to crossing your mind. this was your fault, it was. leaving charming, even for a few hours always felt like it had consequences. something bad always seemed to happen the moment you crossed the county line. your tires squeal as you peel into the teller-morrow parking lot, slamming your car in park as you jump out, only barely remembering to take off your seatbelt as you go. clay, piney, and opie are standing by the entrance to the clubhouse, sad expressions creasing their features.

"what happened?!" you ask, your voice loud, panicked and harsh.

the surprise on their faces from your tone has silence ringing in your ears. you'd known them for years, opie, jax and you being quite the troublesome trio through most of your youth. they'd never heard you raise your voice before, let alone the venom behind your words.

"someone answer me!" you shout, your entire body vibrates from the panic working its way down to your stomach.

you're going to puke if someone doesn't tell you what the hell is going on, and soon. you'd received a rather frantic voicemail from jax last night and hadn't been able to reach him since, which is what made you turn your car around and head for the clubhouse. his voice was shakey, and you couldn't hear a damn thing that made sense. but you know jax, and jax doesn't panic. he's dealt with and seen it all through the years, he's not easy to shake. so hearing your husband–well soon-to-be ex-husband–in that state had your mind reeling.

"kiddo, you need to take a deep breath." clay starts, attempting to sling an arm around your shoulders.

you shrug him off, "no! you need to tell me what the hell is going on, and why jax called me in a panic, and where the hell he is!"

it comes out as one rushed sentence, barely comprehensible but opie steps towards you. he rests a large hand on your shoulder, a distraught look on his face.

"we need you to take a breath, seriously, epps. i'll tell exactly what's happening, but you've barely taken a breath since walking over here, and you look like you're going to passout."

you nod, sucking in some extremely needed air. you take a second to just regulate yourself, and in that time, opie steers you over to one of the picnic tables. you sit down, back to the table and once you've calmed a little, you cross your arms and look up at him expectantly.

"alright, now, tell me."

he glances back at clay, and at his dad, before looking back to you. they turn and walk into the clubhouse, giving you two some privacy.

"cameron hayes killed your brother because he thinks gemma killed edmund,"

"w-what?" you ask, bottom lip wobbling, your head is spinning

your baby brother is... dead? eddie is dead? cameron hayes killed your brother? you shake your head, wiping your eyes on the sleeve of your flannel. you'd practically raised eddie. your mom was a drunk, and your dad had left long before you could form any memories of him. so, from ten on, you were big sister, mommy and daddy all rolled into one. you taught him manners, how to use the toilet, how to cook, how to flirt with girls, and so many more things. you'd been there for every step of his life, cheering loud enough to drown out the naysayers.

when he left for the military you were terrified that you'd get that call every parent dreds. sure, you weren't really his mom, you couldn't be with the five year age gap, but in all the areas that mattered, you were. eddie was your first kid in a twisted sense, and knowing that he'd made it all the way home from iraq, only to die at the hands of someone affiliated with the club that he loved so much shattered your heart.

"n-no, that's not possible, i-i just sp-spoke to eddie, we-we just spoke this morning. h-he said he and-and-and-and," you're spiraling, mind and heart racing faster, and faster before your expression drops, and your mind clears. "abel. he was taking tara back to jax's to get some of abel's things. where is my baby? where's abel, harry? where is my baby?"

you're sobbing uncontrollably, your entire body shaking as you slide off the seat of the picnic table, onto the concrete. opie pulls you into his chest, and you sob into his shirt. it's another first for all of them, watching you breakdown, watching you cry.

"we're going to find abel," opie says into your ear, trying to calm you down, it doesn't help, you just cry harder.

it shouldn't have happened in the first place! the club was on lockdown. losing eddie is hard enough, but losing your son in the same span of minutes is devastating. it takes you twenty minutes, but when you finally pull yourself together again you pat opie's arm, and stand up.

"where is jax?" you ask quietly, taking a deep breath.

"he's at home, we're heading over there now, let juice drive you, you shouldn't be driving right now." opie says, and you nod.

normally you'd fight him, which he's well aware of, but knowing your son is god knows where has you in an anxious tailspin. you don't have the energy to fight with anyone right now. opie walks you over to your car, tucking you into the passenger seat and waiting by the door for the other's to come out of the clubhouse.

"what happened exactly?" your voice is barely a whisper, and opie looks worried.

"are you sure you want the run down right now?" he questions, and you immediately nod, your eyes on the hood of your car.

"please, ope," its the most desperate, pathetic sound to ever cross your lips, but you have to know.

he takes a deep breath, "what tara says happened, is that gemma took off while they were out, so she sent your brother to watch over her, and she went to jax's house. stahl freaked, shot edmund hayes, gemma shot polly, and stahl pinned the blame on her. half– eddie took off to find tara, and cameron must have followed him from their safe house. cameron was going to kill abel, but your brother stepped in, and got stabbed in the process. he tied her up in the nursery, and left with abel."

"the same man who killed my brother, has my son?" you ask, and he nods. "and tara just let him take my son?"

"well, i wouldn't say that—"

"everyone's ready," juice says, stepping up to the driver's side window, pulling the door open.

"hang tight," opie says, patting your knee before closing the door, and walking over to his bike.

"hey baby," juice says softly, "i'm sorry."

you nod, but don't say anything. you pull your seatbelt on, and lean back. you and juice had been together for a couple of months, with jax's blessing of course. he'd been great, amazing even. part of you would always love jax in a way that juice would understand, and he was okay with that. knowing you would be crawling into bed with him every night was good enough to ease any worries he might have had. juice had been rock solid in your life, a shoulder you privately cried on when jax had initially asked for the divorce.

you saw it coming from a mile away, while you'd loved each other greatly, it just wasn't the same kind. you knew that in the beginning, the middle and especially at the end. you also knew that if you didn't agree, or you tried to convince him to stay, that you'd lose him for real. he'd grow to resent you, and you'd grown to hate him for resenting you. you couldn't live in a world where jax wasn't at least a part of your life in some capacity. so that meant an amicable split, and seeing him when you dropped off abel. despite what most people think about your relationship, things haven't changed.

jax is still one of your best friends, and when you're not working, you're usually at his house. your relationship label may have changed, but your relationship hadn't. opie had been the most worried when you'd told him you were getting divorced. his two best friends splitting? nightmare. but when you told him there were no hard feelings, well, he actually didn't believe you at first. it took seeing you both in action to actually understand that you were serious. then, you found out you were pregnant.

it didn't change anything, you were still getting divorced, but jax was actually really excited. he'd told you about all his worries about becoming a father, and you reassured him that he'd be great. in turn he did the same for you. he joined you at every appointment, and played a very active role in your pregnancy. he helped you find an apartment close to his house, and spent a lot of time by your side helping you with nursery set up, moving, and everything in between.

gemma was probably the most heartbroken over your split. she loved you just as much as (and sometimes more than) jax. she helped you a lot over the years, especially when she found out about her grandbaby. gemma made the transition from wife, to ex and baby momma so much easier. she was a cheerleader for you, and always in your corner. you were incredibly lucky to have them, and be in the situation you were in. tara on the other hand... she was the opposite. gemma clocked it the moment you went into labour prematurely.

you'd been stressed over work, being the only manager on an already understaffed team was difficult but so was being pregnant. you'd never planned on getting pregnant, so there were a lot of things at work you decided were to be dealt with later. the moment you found out, you were trying your damnedest to get things ready. the stress got to you, and manifested itself in making your pregnancy high risk, and then landing you in the hospital way earlier than you should have been. it was obvious to you the moment jax came to see you after abel was born that tara thought it was your fault.

later it became clear to you that she just didn't like you, something you didn't notice in your teen years. you'd never really spent any time with her then, but the more time you spent with her after your son's birth, because lets face it anytime you went to visit jax she was there. all smiles, and cooing at your son until jax left the room, and then a scowl and general disinterest in you reared its ugly head. now things were different. she let a terrorist kill your baby brother, and kidnapp your son. karma was about to take her ass for a ride, and you were going to be driving.

"hey," juice says, his warm hand finding yours over the center console, snapping you from your thoughts. "we're here,"

you turn your head, and see clay speaking to tara in the doorway. your vision goes dark. you don't even remember getting out of the car, let alone walking over to tara and grabbing a handful of her hair. you're yelling is incomprehensible, but it's obvious to onlookers that you're sobbing as you beat the shit out of her. you come to again with juice's arms around you, pulling you into the house, and opie pulling tara inside into a different room. your only injury is three claw marks across your cheek, but tara is quite a bit worse for ware.

"what the hell were you thinking?!" jax snaps at you, upon pulling you away from juice, and into abel's nursery.

"i was thinking about how that bitch let some guy take my fucking baby and kill my baby brother!" you scream at him, breaking down all over again. "my baby..."

his expression softens, and he wraps an arm around you, pulling you into a hug. you sob into his shoulder, loud, heartbreaking, borderline violent wails.

"i'm sorry about your brother, i really am, but you can't blame tara."

you pull back, weaseling away from his grip, "can't i?"

"it could have happened to anyone, it could have happened to you."

"i would have died, jackson, and i think you better than anyone knows that. i would have died for abel. for eddie. i would not have let that man get away with everything i love." you say, sobering, violent, hot anger courses through you. "i would have died or killed him. i wouldn't have let him walk out the door."

he just stares at you. his once bright blue eyes dark, like the light behind them died. you know he knows exactly how you feel. that he blames tara to some degree. but you don't really care. you're numb. your heart aching in a way you've never felt before. in a way you'd never wish upon your worst enemy. tara included, despite what she did. the worst part is you don't have the one person you want to talk to about it. eddie died protecting her, and his nephew. what did tara do? she let herself get tied up, let cameron take your baby, let cameron kill your brother. tara lost nothing, and once again, you've lost everything.

"i want to kill her jax," you say finally, after what feels like an eternity of silence, his sad eyes just staring back at you. "that's not rational, not right. but i've just lost the two single most important people in my life, and i want to kill her for it."

"i understand what you're saying, why you're saying it," he says slowly, "but you're right, it's not rational."

"when abel comes home, she's not allowed to be around him by herself. i don't care what that means. i don't feel comfortable with her being alone with our son." you tell him, fingers grasping the cool leather of his kutte to pull him in closer. "i don't want to see, hear or think about her until then, and you bet your ass, i'm coming with you to bring him home, whatever, and wherever that takes us."

jax briefly looks scared of you, but he collects himself just as quickly as you let him go, and brush past him back out the way you came.

"you're lucky you're not dead," you seeth, flipping tara off with both hands as you walk back out to your car.

worried about your well-being and your mental state, jax sends juice home with you when you leave. the drive to your apartment, albeit quick, is silent. how does one comfort someone who lost both their only child, and only brother in a matter of minutes? besides, juice knows you well enough to know that you'll talk when you're ready. if you're ever ready. and right now? you don't know if you'll ever be. the fear of unraveling that far scares you. so for now, you think positively, and you keep moving forward.

it takes four hours, before agent stahl is in your living room, sitting on your couch. juice stands in the kitchen, watching the exchange from the sink, where he's washing your lunch dishes.

"so, mrs teller, where were you yesterday afternoon?" she asks, and you immediately understand why the club hates the woman so much.

"the divorce might not be finalized yet, but it's miss epps, and i was half-way to seattle."

"ah, yes, i forgot about that... why were you heading to seattle?"

"i don't really see how that's going to get my son back, seeing as you know who took him already."

"we need to get a picture together of everyone's movements."

"i got a phone call a few days ago, my mother's in the hospital there. she wanted to see me, so i was going."

"as i understand it, you aren't close with your mother?"

"no. look, agent stahl, this isn't helping. get your ass out there and look for my son. you're the reason my brother died, i'm not interested in you being the reason my son dies too. do your fucking job." you abruptly stand up, and walk into the kitchen.

you want to throw something. you want to scream. you want to be violent and aggressive. you miss your brother. you miss your baby. you want them back. most of all, you want this nightmare to be over.

when jax tells you they're heading to ireland, you pack light, but take abel's favourite stuffed animal, a white bear with a blue hat, mitts, scarf and booties. you carry the bear with you, hugging it tightly when you worry you're about to fall apart. jax's reassuring hand on your knee, and juice's hand in yours keeps your grounded. you lose yourself a little every time you think you're going to see abel, and then are denied at the last moment.

when father ashby finally drops the bomb on you and jax; that he'd been adopted, sold to another family, you break down. father ashby tries to comfort you, but nothing he says changes anything.

"i don't care about your fucking god, i don't. i don't care about your promise to john teller. i want my fucking baby back. your cousin has caused me enough pain; by killing my fucking brother. don't make the mistake of keeping my son from me." you scream, uncaring who hears you. "i'm sure you know the saying desperate people, do desperate things. desperate doesn't even begin to cover what i am, and what i'm willing to do to get abel in my arms, and back home."

you lay in bed all day, the blanket pulled up over your head, your eyes squeezed closed, the bear tucked under your arm. you've felt sick from the moment you'd heard that abel might be gone. whisked away by some—in their defence, probably oblivious, but lovely—couple, about to be taken god knows where. the very notion, that you could go home empty handed hurts, burns, stabs at your heart. you feel like someone's cut you open, and taken a knife to your chest. poking and proding at all the parts you should never poke and prod at.

you've never felt worse in your life; physically, mentally, and emotionally. you're drained, exhausted, and contemplating ending your life. you've never felt so low. you're almost embarrassed as the idea crosses your mind, but the longer you stew, the longer it seems like a really appealing idea. incredibly selfish, but desperation is like that. you weren't sure how jax was downstairs, enjoying the night, the party, the people... how he wasn't suffocating, like you were. everthing is falling apart, collapsing around you, and he's acting like everything's a-ok.

you don't hear the bedroom door open, but you startle when you feel the bed dip behind you. fight mode activates, and you leap from the bed, eyes scanning for a weapon. then you see jax's face in the reflection of the window, your heart rate slows.

"you asshole, make some noise when you move around. i thought i was about to get murdered..." you close your eyes, hands dropping to your sides. "why are you here?"

"i'm so sorry," his voice is barely a whisper, you vaguely make out the trembling of his bottom lip, and the tears streaming down his face. "this never– never should have happened."

your expression softens, and you sink back down on the small bed. you pull jax in, his head resting on your shoulder as you hold him. you'd only ever seen him cry a few times, but that was usually how you could tell he was past his breaking point. jax always perseveres, pushing forward. you're the slightly unstable, completely unhinged one. he's the calm, rational thinker.

"i don't blame you." you tell him, "i don't even blame tara, anymore. i blame stahl. it's her fault all this shit happened. had she not shot edmund, none of this would have happened."

he nods against your shoulder, then lifts his head. the kiss is unexpected, but not unwelcome or unwanted. the sex is fantastic, it always is with jax, but it just further complicates an already complicated situation. it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what happened come morning when juice pops his head into the room to see how you're doing. he's hurt, but he understands to an extent. he loves abel. he loves you and by extension abel is part of you, so what's not to love? under normal circumstances, he knows this would not be an issue, but nothing about what's happening is normal.

he knows you're grieving, he knows as abel's father, jax can relate to your struggles more than anyone. what he doesn't understand, is why, even while in the midst of a divorce, the pair of you would do something like that. how despite this, he shoves his concerns aside, and closes the door, banging heavily on it to wake the pair of you. he doesn't avoid your eye, or not take your hand when you reach for his, or walk out of every room you walk into. he instead, keeps his mouth shut, and supports you. the guilt gnaws at you, and you spend the majority of the day avoiding jax, and he you (and juice).

after your night with jax, you brush your hair, actually get dressed, and spend the afternoon playing cards with juice, opie and happy, and try really hard to feel normal. it works for a few hours, until you find out that your son has been taken, again from his new adopted parents, and that they were brutally murdered in their hotel room. discovering jimmy was behind it surprises no one, but sets you into yet another tailspin. terrified of what could happen to him, terrified that jimmy would kill him if he got too annoying.

luckily, your fears never play out, because father ashby trades himself for abel. when jax walks back through the doors of the apartment you'd all been staying in, with abel in his arms you can't help the happy tears. shaky, holding your breath, hand over your mouth, you stare at your unharmed baby in jax's arms. seeing abel for the first time in what feels like an eternity is like a cold water shock to your system. when jax hands him over to you, letting you finally hold your son after weeks without him.

he smiles up at you, cooing softly, and reaching for your hair. it's like every bad, anxiety moment slips away. it doesn't matter that he was gone, all that matter's is that he's home, in your arms, surrounded by all the people who fought to bring him home, his family.

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thetriumphantpanda · 1 year ago

Text

I'll Crawl Home To Her | Marcus Pike

Fic Summary | Marcus Pike had been the man of your dreams until a promotion tore your away from him. Four years later, a wedding brings you back together, but it the bubble you've built over this one weekend going to crash and burn just like it did before?

Pairing | Marcus Pike x Bridesmaid F!Reader

Fic Warnings | Explicit. Exes to Lovers, themes of second chance love, references to food and alcohol, descriptions of a wedding, Marcus Pike being a dirty talking menace, talk of contraception, unprotected PiV sex, creampie, semi-public sex, oral sex (F), overstimulation if you squint, allusions to oral sex (M) and mentions of a facial cumshot, mutual pining, flirting, two idiots in love, a touch of angst, basically two idiots who never got over each other have a lot of sex over a weekend.

Word Count | 7.9K (I can only apologise lmfao)

Authors Note | So, two weekends ago I was a bridesmaid and spent the entire time messaging @undercoverpena about how I wished Marcus Pike would whisk me away to the bathroom, tell me how pretty I was and give me a good time.... and this is what's come of this. Entirely self-indulgent but we love that for me sometimes. If you enjoy this, please consider commenting or reblogging - I'd love to know what you think of it! And if you'd like to support me further, you can donate to my Ko-Fi.

Moodboard is for aesthetic purposes only - reader is a blank slate. Although if you're interested in the dress I chose for her - it's this.

Divider by the amazing @saradika

Please follow @thetriumphantpandanotifs for writing updates.

Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi.

“I’m sorry, Mike,” Marcus is still out of breath as he clutches the champagne flute in his hand, chest heaving as his sucks in air to his lungs, “I didn’t mean to be so late.”

“Marcus, buddy, it’s fine,” His friend puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder, he knows Marcus gets anxious when things outside of his control happen, like the delay to his flight from D.C. to London, and then the delay in getting from London to the wedding venue, “You’re here now, that’s all that matters.”

Marcus nods, chugging down half the champagne in one go, hoping it’ll calm his anxiety a little. He had cursed Mike and Cassie for choosing to have their wedding in England, but Mike’s family, most of them ageing now and unable to make the long trip to D.C. had insisted on it. As he looks around the large reception room, he muses internally to himself that it was beautiful. A huge room, semi-decorated for tomorrow’s reception and dinner. It’s a smaller affair tonight, immediate family and friends for the rehearsal dinner, but he can imagine that tomorrow, once all is said and done, it’ll be the perfect backdrop for their wedding.

“Where’s Cassie?” Marcus asks, looking around the room, finding a distinct lack of the bride and the bridal party Mike hadn’t shut up about over the last few months.

“She’s just sorting the last of the decorations for the ceremony room,” Mike explains, waving a hand to the waitress currently doing the round with a refilled tray of champagne, “She’ll be here soon.” He finished with a wink, which, although is odd, Marcus doesn’t question, just picks up another glass of champagne and stands talking to his friend and whoever is milling around offering their congratulations.

There’s a flurry of conversation that has Marcus turning around a few minutes later, he can see Cassie and her mother, who are pulled to the side by someone from the venue holding up two different types of ribbon, asking which one they want to drape around the columns and which one to tie around the chair backs. It’s not Cassie that Marcus is interested in though, it’s the bridesmaid that follows behind her.

He can feel his throat constrict, a small pit opening in his stomach that’s somewhere between the feeling of dread and excitement. He can feel the palms of his hands starting to get clammy, so he drains his glass and sets it down on the nearest table to avoid an accident. Then, he thinks he might actually pass out when you finally look at him, eyes searching his face and then the glimmer of recognition that you know exactly who he is, remember exactly the last time you’d seen him, and exactly what had happened when you had.

Your leg is bouncing underneath the dining table, food somewhat eaten regardless of the fact that it’s your favourite. You’ve dug half-moon shapes into the palms of your hands and bitten the inside of your mouth enough to taste blood.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” It’s Marcus, sitting across from you, plate cleared, completely oblivious as to what’s about to come.

“I got offered a promotion.” You tell him simply, running one hand up and down your opposite arm in an attempt to soothe yourself.

“Darling!” He exclaims, “That’s amazing!” He doesn’t move to get up, but reaches his hand out, palm up for you to take, which you do, letting his hand softly clasp yours in his own, “Why are you so upset then?”

Taking a deep breath in, biting your bottom lip, you decide it’s best to rip the band-aid off sooner rather than later, “It’s not here, Marcus,” You sigh, “The job is in D.C.”

The smile, the light of his eyes, everything on his face that had just seconds ago been showing joy, had faltered. Much like you imagine your face would have when you’d been offered the job. A significant pay rise, governmental opportunities, bigger clients, a shot at being a proper lawyer for once, but with the caveat that you had to uproot your comfortable Austin life for D.C. and with it, Marcus Pike.

“I don’t have to go,” You follow up with, “I haven’t accepted yet, I’ve got some time to think.”

You feel him squeeze your hand, his other palm coming out to rest on your wrist, slowly tracing the blue veins he can see there, “Look at me,” He asks softly, which you do, the tears that had been forming in your own eyes starting to spill down your cheeks when you find Marcus’ eyes glassed over too, “Baby, this is such an amazing opportunity, you can’t say no because of me.”

Because that’s what you would be doing. Marcus, brilliant, funny, intelligent Marcus, wouldn’t be able to follow you to D.C. There had been some talk about his work in the Art Crimes team with the higher ups, people who were impressed at his success rate, people who wanted to keep him here, send him off to California even. He was at too much of a crossroads to be able to follow you to D.C.

“I don’t want to lose you though,” You sniff, free hand coming to wipe away some of the tears that are falling from your eyes, “I love you.”

Marcus hums, finally pushes himself off his chair, letting the legs scrape across his kitchen floor, until he’s sat right in front of you, knees touching, his palms on the tops of your thighs, warm and soothing, “I love you too,” He says, bringing one hand up to cup your cheek, making sure you’re looking at him, “But this is what you’ve wanted, you’ve been working so hard baby and I’m not going to let you stay here just because of me.”

It’s killing you inside, because you want so badly to ask him to follow you. To drop everything and come to D.C. You’ve been together two years, you’re comfortable together, he makes you so happy, you’ve talked about moving in together, starting a life together, but you know deep down you’re asking him to do something unfair.

“So, I guess your stance on long-distance relationships hasn’t changed?” You ask, tone soft and sad, tears falling down your cheeks.

You watch him as his own tears fall, his hands clutching your own so tightly as he gives you a soft smile, “Baby, I wish I could say yes, I wish I could drop it all and follow you, or promise you we’d talk on the phone every day and see each other every weekend, but you know we can’t do it.”

Biting at your lip, you nod, because you know he’s right. You’re a lawyer, you barely have free time as it is - weekends more often than not spent sat on the couch with him, tapping away at your laptop whilst he looks over case files. It would never work.

Marcus leans forward, presses a kiss to your forehead, then pulls you into a hug. You clutch your hands to his back, inhaling the smell of him on his shirt , watching the light blue turn darker as it catches your tears.

“When do you go?” He asks quietly into the crook of your neck, soft kiss placed to the skin right after.

“A few weeks, probably.”

“Well, let’s enjoy them while we still can, hey?” You nod silently, “And maybe one day, we’ll find each other again.”

“And maybe one day, we’ll find each other again.”

Those words still echo in your ears four year later, like they have at various different points since you last saw Marcus Pike. Leaving had been hard. He’d helped you pack everything up, driven you to the airport, kissed you before security and promised he wouldn’t forget you. You’d text a for a few weeks before life dragged you in one direction and him in another. No-one had quite been able to live up to him either. Sure, you’d tried dating, seen people for a few months before deciding they weren’t quite the man who had almost been able to give you everything you ever wanted.

And now here he is, standing in front of you, pale as a ghost as if he’s about to keel over and have a heart attack. You want to run to him, to fling yourself into his arms and make sure he’s real. You want to press your lips to his, let him kiss you like he always used to, to clutch you to his body and whisper sweet things into your ear, but you have no idea what he’s been doing these past four years - for all you know, you could get closer and find a wedding band across his left finger.

It’s a blessing when Cassie’s hand wraps around your wrist and pulls you over to the side.

“Do you prefer the dusky rose or the blush pink?” She asks, holding up two ribbons that look identical to your eye.

You want to tell her does it really matter, they both look exactly the same. You want to tear your wrist away from her and go to Marcus, but instead you settle for a warm smile and “It’s your wedding Cass, you choose what you want.”

And when you turn around, looking back over to Mike, Marcus Pike is nowhere to be found. Like he was a mirage. A figment of your hopeful imagination. Something conjured up after your mother had set you down at the airport and said, “Bridesmaid’s always get lucky at weddings, you might find your own husband.”

When everyone is called to sit down for the rehearsal dinner, you jump at the opportunity to let Cassie sit down and eat, whilst you get pulled away by the staff to advise on which candles to use for the ceremony room and where exactly to place the flower arch for the best photos tomorrow. When you make it back, everyone is standing, milling around, getting drinks from the bar, which you decide you desperately need.

“A negroni, please.” You ask for after taking a few seconds to peruse the cocktail menu set out. The stronger the better.

“I see your tastes haven’t changed in the last few years.”

You’re pretty sure that if there was a mirror in front of you, the look of shock on your face would be comical, as Marcus Pike sidles up to the bar next to you. Up close, he’s just as handsome as he always had been, except now, he’s got a beard and more fine lines in the corners of his eyes, which means he’s been happy, smiling, whilst you’ve been gone. It makes your heart swell that he’s been happy.

“I wonder if yours have.” You counter, tilting your head towards the bartender who is waiting for him to order.

“Just a beer for now.” He smiles, but at you, not the bartender.

“That’ll be a no then.”

There’s a moment of silence between the both of you as you sip the cocktail given to you, and Marcus takes a swig of his beer. His left hand is wrapped around the bottle, no sign of the wedding ring you were convinced you’d find. You want to say something, anything, but when you go to open your mouth, he beats you to it.

“You look well.”

You can’t help but chuckle. Of all the things he could have chosen to say to you, you hadn't thought it would be that.

“So do you.” You compliment back.

There’s another silence, the two of you just looking at each other. You’re soaking him up, committing him to memory to replace the old Marcus you knew so well.

“Are you here alone?” You ask, playing with the glass in your hand.

You watch as he runs his tongue over his bottom lip, “Are you?”

“I asked you first, Agent Pike.”

He tilts his head towards his shoulder in a movement that says he’ll give you that one, “I’m here alone.”

You can’t help but smile a little, biting at your bottom lip to try and hide how pleased you are, “So am I.”

Looking up at him through your lashes, you notice the exact moment those brown eyes that you’re so used to getting lost in darken, watching you as you sip your drink, tip of your tongue jutting out to catch a drop from your bottom lip.

“Is your room completely over the top?” You ask, watching as he swallows deeply, “Because mine is, I’d love to know what the honeymoon suite must be like.”

“Depends what you mean by completely over the top?” He quirks an eyebrow.

“Do you want me to show you?”

He doesn’t even respond. He sets his half-finished beer down on the bar, takes your almost-empty negroni from your hand and does the same. Then he’s taking hold of your hand, lacing your fingers together like he always did, dragging you out of the room. You turn to find Cassie and Mike, looking at you both as you have to jog to keep up with Marcus’ pace. Both of them are winking, smiling, and Mike even throws a thumbs up your way. You can feel heat rising on your cheeks as you turn your head away from them.

“Which floor?” Marcus asks then you reach the grand staircase in the lobby.

“Second.”

He doesn’t let go of your hand, but takes the stairs two at a time, meaning by the time you reach the second floor, you’re out of breath from running behind him, trying to keep up.

“Which room?”

It’s your turn to lead him now, stepping in front of him to walk down the hallway to room 212. You fish the keycard from the back pocket of your jeans, wasting no time in pushing the door open when the tiny light turns green.

It’s dark inside, but you don’t care. Marcus Pike pins you against the wall, his thigh between your legs, both hands on your waist, and then his lips are on yours. The way he kisses hasn’t changed a bit. His mouth slants over yours, softly at first, but when you open your lips against his, hands clutching at the collar of his shirt, it’s just like you remember from all those years ago. He tastes the same, mint from the gum he always chews, the tang of the beer on his tongue, and that distinct taste that’s just him.

He swallows a groan from you as your pitch your hips down, denim rubbing on denim as he devours your mouth. His hands on your waist trail down just a little, finding the top of your jeans, floating under your shirt just a little to touch the bare skin underneath. His hands are warm and strong as they start guiding you to move against his thigh as his tongue works against yours.

Marcus pulls away from your mouth just as a particularly breathy moan leaves your mouth. It makes you both stop. Stand still. Eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room as you both realise exactly what’s happening. You know you should stop, talk about what’s clearly about to happen, but when did talking ever help anything.

“Don’t think about it,” Marcus sighs, leaning down to trail kisses along your jaw, “We talk after.”

“We talk after.” You say, mainly to the room more than anything else.

Your hands are still clutching at his shirt when his fingers find the button on your jeans. Still as adept at it as he’d always been, he pops the button open and pulls down the zipper, letting his hand trail down, settling across the lace of your underwear, cupping your pussy, letting his fingers trace along skin through lace.

A hiss leaves your mouth as you work your body in time with the slow, teasing movements of Marcus’ hand, “You’ve changed,” You manage to breathe out, your hand coming to the back of his neck to pull his mouth nearer to yours, “When you were desperate for me you’d never tease.”

You can feel his lips smile against the skin of your neck where he’s tracing wet kisses along the skin, hand still feather-light between your legs, “I’ve learnt to be more patient, honey.”

“And if I asked you not to?”

“In all the years I knew you, never once did you beg for it.” He pulls back, your eyes now accustomed to the dark, able to see him better, his voice is low, “Unless you’ve changed, you’ll have to put up with it.”

You grasp his cheeks in your palms, his hand still teasing you, pull his attention to you fully, “Marcus Pike, I swear to all that is holy that if you do not spread me out on my bed and fuck me in the next five minutes, I will die.”

He makes a ‘tsk’ sound, his head shaking in your hands, “That’s not begging for it honey,” He coos, “You gotta ask nicely for it.”

You let out a grumble of frustration, but you have to admit, this new version of the man you knew so well before is enticing. You can feel the way wetness is settling between your thighs, you’re sure if he dipped his fingers down he’d have some smart comment about how soaked you were for him already.

So you swallow your pride, you know it’ll be worth it in the end, “Please.”

“Good girl.”

It all happens in a flurry. One moment you’re against the wall, the next your back is against the mattress, Marcus’ hips pressed to yours as his hands work to push your shirt up and off your body. Your back hits the mattress again and his mouth is on you almost instantly, his lips trailing down your sternum, between the valley of your breasts. Pushing himself back on his knees, he brings his hands to the cups of your bra, pulling them down. Your nipples pebbling against the cold of the air.

His lips are back on you almost immediately, nipple enveloped into the warmth of his mouth, tip of his tongue flicking at it, making your back arch off the bed, pressing further into his mouth. Your hand comes to tangle in the curls at the back of his head, anchoring him to your body. As his mouth works across your chest, you can’t quite believe what’s happening to you. The man of your dreams, the person you always thought you were destined for, back, right here between your thighs, the bulge in the front of his jeans all too familiar to you.

Head tipped back in pleasure, you breathe out into the air, “I can’t believe you’re here.”

He tears off your breast with a wet pop, looking up at you through his lashes, mouth kissing down your body, across the soft of your tummy, he taps at your sides, lifting your hips up to drag your jeans and underwear down your legs, flung behind him and forgotten when you plant the flat of your feet onto the bed and let your knees fall open.

Marcus isn’t a religious man, he never has been, but knelt between your thighs, hands flying to rid himself of his clothes, watching as you gingerly trail your hand between your thighs, eyes on him as you play with your clit, he thinks he might have to start believing. As he stands to take the last of his clothes off, standing at the foot of the bed, naked with his cock in his hand, watching your face, he thanks the Lord for whatever mischief they had to concoct to get you back here with him.

He crawls back up your body, kissing from ankle to thigh, settling himself between your thighs, cock sliding through your slick folds as he lays his body down against yours, one of his hands slipping under your neck, cradling the back of your head, the other cupping your cheek, moving your face to look right into his eyes. He’s so fucking close to you, lips barely a hairs breadth from your own.

“I have to be inside you,” He pants against your mouth, “I promise I'll spend hours between your thighs later baby, but I have to be inside you.”

He doesn’t give you any time to respond, just shifts his hips a little, sinking himself into your aching cunt. You arch up into him, moaning against his mouth as he stills. The hand clutching at your cheek trails down your neck, thumb flicking against your nipple as it travels to rest on your hip.

“Stop squirming,” He pleads, “Please.. Just stay still a minute.”

He feels so right, nestled inside your pussy. The weight of his body pressed against yours takes you right back to all the nights before, locked away in his Austin apartment in the dead of night, making each other feel good, making promises at the height of your combined pleasure to each other that never materialised. You can feel tears settle in your eyes as he starts moving, pulling himself out of you slowly, pushing back in even slower.

Marcus leans down, kissing the salty tears from your cheeks, shushing you, “Don’t cry baby,” He whispers into your ear, “I’ve got you now.”

Your hands are clutching at his shoulders, nails digging small, half-moon shapes into his skin there. He feels just as incredible moving inside you as he always did, but there’s something settling in your tummy, the feeling that you knew so well with him, that you’ve only really known with yourself since.

“I can feel you baby,” Marcus groans into your ear as the thrusts of his cock get a little faster, a little harder, “Clenching all perfectly around me,” He takes hold of one of your wrists, dragging it between the both of you, resting it right where you need it, “I won’t last baby,” He admits, “Touch yourself and we’ll do it together?”

So you do, you rub tight, precise circles over your clit as Marcus pushes himself up, takes your thighs in his palms, pushing your legs back as far as he can. The change in angle makes you cry out as he really starts fucking you now. The only sounds in the room are the slapping of his skin against yours, your whimpers and his groans. You can feel the tightening coil across your abdomen, breath hitching in your throat, you’re so fucking close to coming undone on him.

“Marcus,” You whine, “I’m gonna-” You trail off as he shifts a little more, pressing your legs further back, cock hitting that unholy sweet spot inside you, “Gonna come.”

“Go on baby,” He encourages, “I’ll be right behind you.”

And that’s how it ends. Eyes shut so tightly you can feel tears pooling at the corners, cunt clenching around his cock as you cry out his name. It’s so familiar, the way it feels, the way he sounds, like no time has passed at all and you’re exactly the same as you’d both been four years ago. He’s pounding into you as your body convulses underneath, thighs shaking and toes curling as his hips start to stutter.

“Where?” He manages to choke out, his tone reminiscent of all those times before when he was holding on, teetering on the edge, wanting to know what you wanted.

“I’m s-safe,” You manage to choke out, head reeling from your own orgasm, “The pill.”

He doesn’t need to hear anymore, finally giving in, knowing you’ve fallen apart for him, he’s groaning your name into the dark, you can feel him spilling into you, claiming you, marking you as his own in a way only the two of you could ever understand. He lets go of your thighs, letting your legs drop back into comfort as he slowly drags himself from you, collapsing onto the bed next to you.

There’s a few moments of silence. Your arm is draped across your face, chest rising and falling as you try to suck in enough air to calm your breathing, Marcus doing the same across the bed. You roll over, putting yourself on your side so you can look at him. He’s led on his back, head turned to look at you in the dull light of the room - the moonlight through the window the only thing illuminating the two of you. He reaches out, traces your face with his hand.

“I can't believe you’re real.” He speaks softly, rolling over to face you, pulling your warm body to his.

“I know we said we’d talk after,” You whisper, hand trailing over his waist to rest across his back, “But can we just stay like this for a while?” It’s a soft plead, you don’t want to be reminded that this was probably a bad idea, you want to hold this man in front of you and forget that in a few short days it’ll all be over, he’ll go back to wherever he is now, and you’ll go back to D.C. lonelier than ever.

“I’ll stay here as long as you’ll let me, honey.”

Marcus, against his better judgement, stays with you all night. You don’t talk. You curl up into his side, settle against his body as he wraps his arms around you. It’s inevitable that he casts his mind back to how things used to be. To the history you share with each other. He still, to this day, hasn’t stopped thinking about you, about what would have been if you’d stayed. Would you be married? Probably, he thinks. He’d thought of it often towards the end, before your promotion. Stopped outside jewellery shops, tried to imagine which kind of ring you’d want – he’d even slipped one of your rings onto his own finger, figuring out where it stopped so he could pick the right size when the time came. Would you have children? He isn’t sure, neither of you had ever spoken about it, you’d never expressed a want to have them, but he’s certain if you’d have asked, he’d have given them to you.

He falls asleep, waking up hours later, darkness still pervading. He turns on his side, spooning his front to your back. You’re half-awake when you press yourself back into him, bring your hand up to clutch at his head as he slips inside you once more, his hand holding your thigh up. He breathes into your ear, whispers filth to you as he rocks his hips against you. When you feel his teeth trail over your shoulder, he chuckles when you tell him off.

“I can’t walk down the aisle with bruises on my shoulders, Marcus.”

It’s soft, and he tips you over the edge, feeling you clench around him as his fingers trace circles over your clit, following just behind you, filling you up once more. He doesn’t pull away from you, just settles your thigh back down, resting himself inside of you as you both fall back to sleep.

Then, he’s awake before your alarm. He wakes you with a kiss to your forehead, tells you to go back to sleep when you protest and try and coax him back to the warmth of your sheets. He has to shower he says, has to help Mike get ready, but he’ll be waiting for you, watching you all day. Marcus smiles, really smiles, when you curl over back onto your side, soft breaths and mumbles as you fall back to sleep, and as he walks to his own room and stands waiting for the shower to warm, there’s a feeling of content that spreads through him – should he have fucked you last night? Probably not. Should he have encouraged you to talk more? Probably yes. He knows he’s got his cards hidden, he’s not letting on that this might not have to just exist here, but he’ll keep that to himself for just a little longer.

“So,” Cassie smirks from her place in the make-up chair, artist flitting around her, pressing all number of products into her face, “You and the groomsman?”

“Shut up,” You mutter to her, trying not to scratch at your face, make-up already settling uncomfortably across your skin, “A momentary lapse of judgement.”

She hums, and then moves her focus back to the make-up artist who is tilting her face to put on some blush, “You don’t have to lie to me, you know,” She says to you as you pass her a mimosa, “I know that was Marcus. The Marcus.”

There’s a moment where you feel like a deer in headlights, like you’ve been caught being up to no good, even though you know that’s not the case. Then you turn slowly to her, eyebrow raised, and see her smirking, much to the chagrin of the make-up artist who urgently wants to get her lipstick on her so she can move onto the final bridesmaid.

“He’s Mike’s friend, they went to school together, see each other quite often these days – apparently he always talks about a girl from Austin, no-one could ever compare, he’s tried moving on, done this, done that, but always came back to thinking about the one who got away,” She stops talking to take a drink, “Which sounded oddly familiar to someone else I know.”

She’s not wrong really – Cassie had been a lifeline when you’d moved to D.C. a work colleague turned best friend, who has been the shoulder to cry on whenever dates had gone badly, or even when they’d been good, but you just couldn’t get Marcus Pike off your brain. She told you, like most good friends would, that it would take time, you’d find someone right for you, someone who would take your mind right off Marcus, but it never happened.

“You did this on purpose!” You accuse, but its friendly, because really, her and her soon-to-be husband have only done what you had always wanted to do yourself, pick up the phone, no matter how long it has been and tell the man you still loved him.

“Of course we did,” She chuckles, “Don’t think about it too much,” She adds, “Just enjoy this today and most of all, behave yourself.”

When Cassie walks down the aisle, it’s not her that Marcus is looking at – it’s you. He hadn’t thought it possible for him to find you more beautiful than he had before, but in your dark green dress, slit cut into the fabric to show off one of your legs as you walk, dress cut perfectly to sit on all the curves of your body that he always did love, he can’t deny you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He spends the entire ceremony making eyes at you, smirking when you meet his gaze. He wants to tell you how lovely you look, lean down and plant a kiss to your lips in front of everyone, but he doesn’t get a chance until cocktail hour, once you’ve had your pictures taken and Cassie has insisted on you finally having a drink and enjoying your day instead of flapping about whether she needs anything from you.

“Has anyone told you how beautiful you look today?” He asks, hand settling on your waist as you lean against the bar waiting for your drink.

“Funnily enough, it’s not me most people have been looking at.” You quip back, taking the margarita from the bartender when it’s handed to you.

“I’ve been looking at you.”

“I know,” You smirk, “Pretty sure I ruined my panties stood at the top of the aisle.”

“Because the ceremony moved you so much?”

“Because I couldn’t stop thinking about your face between my thighs, actually.”

He looks exactly like he always used to when you flirt with him like this. Eyes low and dark, mouth slightly ajar like he can’t quite believe you’ve just been so forward. He’s not thinking straight anymore, and much like he had done last night, he grips around your wrist and starts dragging you from the reception room, this time there are considerably more people so you manage to slip out unnoticed.

Instead of heading up the stairs, taking you to your room or his, he turns left down a hallway, tearing open the door to one of the bathrooms. It’s a single stall, lock clicking behind him. You press your back against the wall, setting your drink down on the sink.

Marcus takes three steps towards you, hand slipping around your waist, pulling you flush against his body, lips so close that you can feel his breath on your skin.

“Do you know how sinful you’ve looked all day?” He asks, “Walking around looking all innocent, but I know you’ve been begging to get fucked all day, haven’t you?” You whine at him in response, trying to chase his mouth as he pulls back, “Don’t think I didn’t see you rubbing your thighs together during the ceremony.”

“It’s only because you wouldn’t stop looking at me.”

His hand finds the skin of your thigh, the slit of your dress making it easy for him to trail up to the hem of your panties.

“If I put my fingers on you,” He breathes, “Will you be wet?”

“Why don’t you find out?” You cock your head to the side, biting your lip as you look at him, his hand pulling your panties to the side, thick fingers slipping between your folds.

“Baby,” He moans, finally taking your bottom lip between his, nipping your skin with his teeth a little before he pulls away, fingers slipping inside you, pulling a groan from your throat, “Soaked for me?”

“Always, Marcus.”

He drags his fingers from you, spins you around, and reaches down to bring your palms up to rest against the wall in front you. He puts his hands on your hips, dragging your ass backwards until you can feel him through his trousers. His hands shuck your dress up to your waist and instead of tearing your panties off, he pushes them to the side. You look over your shoulder at him, as much as you can, and watch as he undoes his belt, pulls the zipper of his trousers down and reaches in, pulling his cock out. His trousers are pushed down just enough to let him free himself, and you don’t think you’ve seen such a beautiful sight in your life, than Marcus Pike with his fist around his cock, running his hand up and down himself as he moves to nudge the head of his cock at your soaked core.

Unlike last night, he isn’t gentle when he pushes into you. He’s buried inside your cunt in seconds, setting a pace that punches the air from your lungs. You know that even though you’re locked in here, away from the party, there’s still every chance someone is going to walk past, try the door handle, and hear exactly what’s going on in here, so you’re trying your best to keep the noise to a minimum.

“Needed you so badly, baby,” Marcus chokes out behind you, hands gripping your hips hard enough that you’re sure you’ll have his fingerprints embedded onto your skin, “Always so pretty for me, aren’t you?”

He’s hitting that sweet spot inside you, over and over again, and you have to bite your lip to keep yourself from crying out. You feel one of his hands trail up your spine through the material of your dress, coming to rest with a grip around the nape of your neck, his fingers itching to slide up into your hair and grip it.

“You can’t,” You plead, “Don’t mess my hair up.”

“I won’t baby.” He pants out from behind you, trailing his hand down just a little so he’s not tempted to take a fistful of it to pull you back, arch you into him even more.

It’s fast and it’s hard, everything Marcus never really used to be. He liked to take his time, spread you out and have you crying for him before he slipped inside you, slowly, watching every contort of pleasure on your face. You think you like this new version of him, the one so desperate to have you he couldn’t make it up the stairs, couldn’t even pull your panties down your legs.

“Marcus,” You moan out, “Please.”

“What’s that, baby?” He asked, mouth right by your ear, “You begging for something?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“What do you want?”

“Make me come?”

You think maybe he might try and tease you some more, but mercifully he takes the hand he’s got resting on your hip and snakes it down your body, letting his fingers find your clit - he had always been good at that. He drags the gathered slick where he can, cock still moving into you, pulling whimpers and moans whenever you feel his skin slap against yours, circles your clit quickly with the pad of his finger. You can feel your walls tightening around him, your thighs starting to shake as he continues doing exactly what he’s doing.

It’s no secret to either of you that making you come always took time. He’d never shamed you for it, always been more than happy to do whatever it took, for as long as it took, to get you there. But the mix of desperation for him, elation that he’s waltzed right back into your life, and the fact he’s fucking you in a public bathroom, have that coil tightening inside you quicker than ever.

“Can feel you getting tight around me baby,” He groans into your ear, “You gonna let go for me?”

You don’t have time to tell him yes. The tight coil snaps inside you, your eyes closed so tightly you’re sure the make-up around your eyes is dragging down your cheeks on tears. You can keep your voice down now as you flutter around his cock, you cry out his name, feeling his hands holding onto your hips to keep you steady as your legs threaten to fall out from underneath you.

You’re only half aware of him speaking into your ear, telling you he’s close. You can feel him start to pull himself out of you, so you reach behind you quickly, fingernails digging into the part of his thigh you can reach to keep him inside you.

“I swear to god if you get cum on my dress Pike, I’ll kill you.”

He lets out a deep, throaty chuckle behind you, slams himself back into you, “You just want an excuse for me to come inside you, don’t you?” He hisses into your ear, teeth nipping at the skin behind your ear, “You just have to ask nicely for it.”

“Please, Marcus, please.”

Never one to deny you, he does, having held out as long as he could, he thrusts once, twice and then he’s moaning your name into your ear. You can feel him spilling inside of you, filling you up, then you can feel him dripping down your thigh when Marcus starts pulling away from you, not quite quick enough to put your panties back on. He tells you to keep still, fumbling behind him for some paper he can use to clean your thighs up.

He speaks to you as he lets the material of your dress fall back down over your legs, “Walking around full of me for the rest of the night.” He coos as you turn around, reaching out to pull his mouth to yours in a chaste kiss.

You stay like that for a moment, both attempting to fix the others clothes. Marcus brings his thumb to his mouth, letting his tongue jut out to wet it, before he drags it under your eye, getting rid of the worst of the black marks he’s caused.

You reach behind him, unlock the door, but take hold of his hand as you push the door open. Thankfully there’s no-one waiting outside to use the bathroom as you drag him back down towards the party.

It’s late. Or early depending on how you look at it. Marcus had dragged you from the dance floor at midnight, walked you slowly up to his room instead of yours. He’d helped you out of your dress, let you shower and wash yourself clean, then, before you could put your robe on and insist on going to sleep, he’d taken your hand, led you to the chair near the balcony doors and he’d made good on his promise of last night to spend hours with his face between your legs.

“I can’t,” You whine, Marcus hand’s pinning your legs open, his tongue flicking against your clit, “It’s too much.”

He pulls off you just enough to speak, “Believe in yourself baby,” He says, sinking two fingers into you, curling them upwards, “I know you can, just one more for me.”

Your whole body feels like its on fire. You’ve lost count of the amount of times he’s made you come tonight. There had been a small reprieve when you’d begged to suck his cock, Marcus obliging, painting your face and your tongue, before he settled right back to his knees. It’s almost as if he thinks if he stops you’ll disappear.

Your fingers are tangled in his hair, battling between tugging his face closer and pulling it away as he sucks your clit into his mouth, the added pressure along with the flicking of his tongue setting your skin on fire even more than before. Your hair is sticking to your forehead and the back of your neck, rivulets of sweat gathering at various points across your body as Marcus tips you over the edge once more.

Your mouth drops open in a silent scream, body feeling boneless as your whole body convulses at his touch. Almost like he knows, he pulls himself away from you gently, knowing that any more would be too much, saving you the need to beg him to stop. He presses soft kisses to the skin of your tummy, kissing up your body until he’s sitting up on his knees, kissing into your mouth, letting you taste yourself on him.

Marcus clambers to his feet, takes hold of your hand and pulls you to your feet, guiding you over to the bed to settle you under the sheets, the air peppering your sweaty skin with goosebumps. It’s a sad realisation that you have to go home tomorrow, that the bubble you’ve caught yourself up in over the past few days is about to burst. You think this might break your heart even more than the first time around.

“What are we going to do?” You ask against the skin of his chest as he pulls you into him.

“What do you mean?” He asks back, kiss pressed lightly to your forehead.

“With us, after this?” Your fingers are tracing over his skin, trying to map the feeling of him before he leaves.

“Well, I thought maybe we could go for dinner sometime?”

You look up at him, face contorted in confusion, “You’re going to come all the way from Austin to take me for dinner?”

“No baby,” He chuckles a little, “I don’t live in Austin anymore, I live in D.C.”

You push yourself up in bed, one hand on the mattress to keep yourself upright, looking down at Marcus, who reaches up to cup your cheek in his hand, thumb rubbing soft lines across your skin, “Since when?”

“Two years?” He offers, “I would have-” He trails off a little, “I would have told you but I wasn’t in a great place when I first moved, had no idea what your life would have even looked like either, I didn’t just want to turn up out of the blue if you’d moved on, found someone else.”

Your hand comes up to clutch at the wrist of the arm cradling your face, “I’ve waited so long for you,” You sigh, “I tried, tried to find someone else, but none of them were ever you Marcus.”

“I tried too,” He admits, because Lord knows he did, and for what? “I promise I’ll tell you everything one day, but right now, I want to fall asleep with you right here.”

You settle back down in bed, curling up against his side, arm draped over his waist, “Where in the city do you live?” You ask, sleep starting to make your eyes heavy.

“I’m on 4th street, in Petworth.”

You can’t help but laugh, because of course he fucking does. Marcus Pike has been living four streets over from you for the past two fucking years.

“You’ve been living four streets over from me for two years, Marcus.”

He runs his hands up and down your spine, gently, soothing you, “Well, that’s convenient, isn’t it?” He asks softly, “I can be at your front door in five minutes.”

“You want to be my booty call, Marcus Pike?”

“If that’s what you want,” He speaks, “I’ll be whatever you want me to be.”

“What are you doing Wednesday night?”

“Nothing, as far as I’m aware.”

“How about you take me on a first date?” You offer, “Let’s learn each other all over again and take things from there?”

Marcus colts your chin up to his face with a finger, leaning down and giving you the softest kiss you think you’ve ever received, “I would love nothing more.”

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