#NO LONGER WILL IT LOOM AND TAUNT ME | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

goldenstring6123 · 6 months ago

Note

a quickie request LISTEN LISTEN HEAR ME OUT…… sylus fingering reader so so so hard and fast with his long ass fingers and you’re arching up in pleasure and he’s breathing into your mouth, hard against your thigh….. 🌚 (sometimes my own thoughts remind me i have no shame 🙏)

Sylus: Putting you to sleep

Warning: 2.3k word Smut, 18+ only! MDNI, AFAB!reader, reader may or may not be the mc, Fingering, Nipple play, slight begging, quickies (?)

Author's note: hehe, this ain't a full blown sex yet but here ya go!

"How long do you plan on staring, sweetie?" the tall silver-haired man lowered his balled fists to his hips, promptly turning towards your figure, which leaned by the doorpost. You dawned on messy hair, a tight black undershirt, and night shorts. It took him no less than a second to piece that you just woke up.

"Couldn't sleep." You stated.

Sylus shifted his weight to the other leg. "Would you like me to do something about it?" sincerely, he offered, yet his ruby red eyes flickering with roguish intent.

"Is there anything you can do?" You can't help but ask. With Sylus offering to aid your sleepless fatigue a million thoughts raced through your mind. He could knock you out to sleep, or maybe he'll ask you to spar with him. Whatever it was, you were ready to turn him down.

"Of course. What kind of lover would I be?" He took his sweet time undoing his wrist wrap; meanwhile, you took your sweet and ample time to approach the boxing ring. Everything else was by far dim apart from that platform.

It was silent. Any sound echoed in the combat room, reverberating against the metal posts and cement walls. It was 2 am, and not a single soul was in sight. You weren't sure if you were scared that you were both alone or at peace because Sylus was with you.

He took off his black undershirt and threw it aside shortly after; he hopped down with a large thud and stood before you, his broad figure looming ominously.

"Sylus?" you called. He moved his hand and flicked his fingers behind you. The only source of light that made you see is now gone. A few seconds more, as you feel Sylus' hands slither around your exposed waist, a silver moonlight peering through the windows turning red.

You wanted to say something, but you dared not do it.

His touch was warm as it dragged against your skin, leaving a stinging heat in its wake. Soon enough, another hand landed on your body and thighs, gliding like paper. Softly, Sylus' fingers traversed the top of your thighs, sliding lower and lower until he grasped the underside of your thigh.

Sylus yanked you closer, your thigh upwards. A muffled gasp erupted from your lips the moment your chest pressed against his torso. The heat that emanated from his body made yours tingle, yet to the touch, it was wet and slippery from the sweat of his workout.

"You're unusually quiet," He whispered against your ear. His teeth nibbled the lobe of your ears. A shiver traveled down your spine, sensitivity only then being realized. You didn't want to reply. You were on a thin thread between tiredness and lasciviousness; you no longer had the energy to deal with other feelings.

Once in a while, it was all right to let Sylus take the lead.

He grinded his body against yours, rubbing every surface of your body. The thin strap of your undershirt falls down to your shoulder as if taunting your partner to pull it off further. Sylus could feel your breasts against his abdomen. Supple and soft, your nipples slowly work themselves against the cloth.

You heard shifting from around you, and you could hear the clothes and cushions gather near your footing. Sylus buried his nose in the crook of your neck, placing a wet kiss near your collarbone. He pushed you back, and you fell onto the soft mattress and fabric. Sylus knelt in between your parted legs, one hand on your knee and one on the side near your waist.

Your chest heaved up and down, cleavage well exposed as your undershirt became more and more rumpled against your body. Your stomach was exposed, and your shorts were rendered practically useless with how you felt, as if you had nothing on. You couldn't help but blame it on your lover as well, his glowing eyes staring at every crevice of your body as he methodically planned on how to devour you.

Sylus didn't want to waste any more time. He took advantage of your parted lips and crashed it against his own. His tongue asked no permission and entered your mouth, the sluggish muscle probing, prodding against your tongue. He tasted like wine. You were intoxicated. He needed to explore you again. As if it was his first time. Grunts escaped his mouth, reverberating as he savored the taste of you.

Your chest burned. It yearned for air, yet the depraving sensation sent your body on edge, sending pulses to your very core. You let out moans as Sylus parted his lips from yours. His hands were back to where it was: on your body. Teasingly, his long fingers slid under the stretchy cloth of your cloth.

He was taking his sweet time. But you were impatient.

You hurriedly lifted your undershirt over your chest, the chilly yet dry air finally blowing on your breasts. You grabbed your lover's big hand and guided it to your left breast, the thing fitting in his grasp all too well. You could see him smile even in the dark. "Don't tease," you demanded.

His hands began to work, to knead. Sylus basked at the feeling of your lithe tits. He brought his mouth lower and lower through the sloppy and wet kisses, from your collarbone to your cleavage, and in one second, he suckled on your breast.

"haah…" You let out, arching your back at the electrifying cold of his tongue against your perked nipple. His tongue flicked up and down, threading lightly on your sensitive tip before sucking. That was enough to make you elicit another moan.

His spare hand traveled lower and lower, this time slipping underneath the garter of your shorts. He used his EVOL again, and the piece of apparel slipped off in one swift motion, leaving you in your underwear.

Two fingers danced on top of your lingerie, circling your pelvis before languidly trailing lower, just above your clit. "Hng…" you could feel the finger brush past it, pressing your entrance lightly through the cloth. "Why do you…Ah—" He flicked at your clit and nibbled at your nipple. "—Keep on teasing?"

He hummed, offering no form of response. His two fingers finally showed some generosity, fully pushing against your clit while ever so slightly rubbing left and right. Your muscles tensed every time he rubbed; you couldn't help but puff out your chest as well, feeding it onto his mouth more.

The rubbing turned circular, fast, rushed, meant to make you nearly scream from the electrical bolts of pressure that traversed from your pussy, down to your legs, up to your breasts, and to your neck. You were trying your best to keep still, but with Sylus playing with you, it seemed like a farfetched goal. "Ah…Mhn!" He pulled his finger away and tore off the last remaining cloth that covered your lower parts.

You felt his fingers glide up and down the inside of your folds, brushing lightly on your entrance while also hitting your clit. He was doing it lightly to slather your own slick across your cunt and let a thick coat of slimy translucent liquid form a thin sheet over it.

You twitched at every sensation— Sylus had always been good with his hands. Be it with a weapon or with you. His long fingers can make you heed his command; at times like these, you let yourself submit. Then, without warning, Sylus slipped his middle finger in your hole, burying it until his knuckles touched your entrance.

"AH?!" Long. His fingers were fucking long!

In some sort of way, when he pierced inside you, it rubbed your g spot, which made you arch your back once more. The finger inside you curled up, pressing against that overly tender and hot walls of flesh that hugged it tightly. Your lover was generous enough to start with shallow thrusts. Yet, you could still hear the crude, squelching noises. As a few seconds pass, his light, shallow thrusts become more and more aggressive, pulling in and out, stretching the ring of your entrance.

Mewls and moans escaped your throat no matter how hard you tried to swallow it in. It did not help that the sounds you were making echoed around the training room, making you hear how you sounded.

Another finger slipped in, and that's when you felt the stretch. Sylus' finger moved in sync, hooking onto that one sport that made you tremble. He scissored his fingers and opened them wide, stretching you out too. The palm of his hand slaps against your skin, imitating a weak slapping sound, yet with it comes the squelch of your juices, overflowing out of your womanhood and trickling down to the mattress.

You gripped the cloth and cushion, hoping it could anchor you down, and it did its job somehow. Waves of pleasure overcame you as he continued to thrust, occasionally rubbing your clit with his thumb. You twisted and turned, even threatening to close your thighs at the sheer pleasure, but Sylus wouldn't let you.

He kissed you in between actions, muffling out your cries and slipping in his tongue without consideration. You were on the verge of your own sanity, the only sensation left being the quick pooling of pleasure at the bottom of your stomach. You were nowhere near your climax when he pulled out of you quickly.

"No! Sylus!" You cried, pushing yourself up to look at him. Under the red light, you saw him move his hand again, and you were suddenly enveloped by the dark mist of his evil, pulling you up and settling you on Sylus's lap.

You rested your arms on his broad shoulders, placing your weight on your knees, which were spread to his side. Slowly, the discharge in your pussy began to trickle down your thigh as nothing was plugging it up.

"Sylus—fingers." You demanded, biting his ear. He happily obliged with your requests, and soon enough, three fingers were pumping up your hole. His movements were erratic, switching between shallow and deep thrusts while simultaneously applying pressure on the tip of his fingers against your G-spot.

Your body twitched, and your eyes watered. To hide your scandalous moans, you kissed Sylus over and over again, him breathing into your mouth as you cried out his name. You could feel his Cock tight against his boxing shorts, yet you didn't want to take it out.

You were more than sure that you couldn't take it. With the state of your body and what your lover was doing to you, you were going to pass out the moment you hit your peak.

Sylus wasn't slowing down. Rougher and rougher, his hands worked with a rigorous desire to help you come. His whole hand was slathered with your juices, his ears filled with your delightful moans, which you failed to hide. His mouth sucked on your breasts, and his nose savored the raw scent of your body. Sylus never gets enough of these, and as much as he would've wanted to pound into it, he was too entranced by the moment.

The tips of your fingers began to heat up, your muscles turning tense as a cold sweat scattered through the back of your neck. Hurriedly, the pleasure pooled in your stomach overwhelmed you, filling you up and churning your core, "Sylus…" You called, almost begging. "I'm close….Mhng!" You throw your head forward, your mouth against his ear, as you no longer hold back your cries of pleasure.

"Ah! Ahnm! Hnng!" You let out.

You felt his thumb rub your clit again, and you bucked your hips forward, his fingers ramming your beloved spot roughly, repeatedly, torturously. You feel yourself well up, the heat in your stomach growing larger and larger the more Sylus rubs your clit. "Sylus…Sylus, Please, Sylus— I'm almost there!" You grabbed onto his hair for dear life, yanking it back before sloppily kissing him.

An electrifying ripple bloomed out from your pussy, making your lower region jolt at his continuous movements. You throw your head back and let out a scream laced with pleasure and desire— You can only see white as your insides throb, clutching onto the fingers that made you feel full.

God, that felt fucking amazing.

As you savored the high of your orgasm, Sylus looked up at you as he pressed his own face against your breast, marveling at the sight of you reaching your peak, reveling the loud and unconcealable thumps of your chest. He kissed your breasts and then your heart, slowly supporting your weight as you come down from your high.

He laid you down on the mattress ever so gently, brushing the sweat-riddled hair that stuck onto your face. Your eyes can't help but flutter shut, still savoring the last remnants of your orgasm. Tiredness washed over your body like the sea crashing onto the shoreline; with it, it brought relaxation and ease.

"Thank you," you whisper as you finally fall asleep.

Using his EVOL for the last time, Sylus gathered the clothes scattered around you and chucked them with his own. His towel from the wooden benches floated, promptly spreading and covering your exposed body. He picked you up, disregarding his own stiff manhood tucked in his pants.

He can deal with that later. For now, he should bring you back to your room and clean you up. The last thing he wants is for you to get sick.

Of course, Sylus didn't do this for free. He never does anything for free. You'd be a fool if you think he did.

Whether you know it or not, he'll make you compensate, and just your luck: he's getting up early tomorrow and more than eager to hear your cries again in the morning.

Author footnotes: With the amount of Sylus smut that I read, I wanted to write him without speaking much, y'know? just focusing on you and not coming up with witty replies to every word you say.Layout by me, using canva premium | Do not repost | Dividers by cafekitsune & me!

#lnds #lnds sylus #lads xavier #love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #sylus #lads sylus #l&ds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus love and deepspace #l&ds #sylus lnd #SYLUS

1K notes · View notes

thef1diary · 18 days ago

Note

team principal!carlos fucking the reader to sleep !!! she’s tried everything but can’t seem to go to bed 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

— a classic sleep aid, I love this! Also this turned out to be less of a drabble and more of a fic (1.6k words) oops 🤭 18+ content below

You stared at the clock on the nightstand, the numbers taunting you with every passing minute. The hotel bed that was once comfortable and took you to the depths of sleep within minutes now brought sudden aches in your body with every turn. Tomorrow’s race loomed over you like a storm cloud, and the harder you tried to relax, the tighter the knot in your chest became.

Your fingers hovered over your phone screen, and you hesitated for a moment longer before shaking your head and finally giving in. Dialing Carlos felt like a last resort, one you almost regretted as soon as the first ring echoed in your ear, but his voice had always been your anchor.

“Qué pasa, nena?” he answered on the second ring, his voice rough with sleep.

“I can’t sleep,” you confessed, your words a rushed whisper as if it was childish to say out loud. “I’m so nervous and worried about tomorrow.”

You half-expected him to stay on the phone, offering reassurance and calm words to lull you into sleep. Instead there was a soft rustle, and then:

“Open the door.”

“What?” you asked, startled.

“I’m here,” he said, and before you could process his words, there was a knock at your door.

You scrambled out of bed, opening it to find him standing there, dressed in sweatpants and a plain t-shirt—seemingly tossed on in a rush—with his hair adorably tousled from sleep. His dark eyes were warm, concerned, and he glanced at the hallway before stepping inside, immediately cupping your cheek.

“You should’ve called me sooner,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Didn’t want to disturb you, sir,” you replied, and he lightly chuckled, shaking his head. “For you, princesa, it’s not a disturbance.”

Heat creeped up your cheeks as you turned around, climbing back into bed and he followed without hesitation, pulling you into his arms as he settled behind you. His body molded perfectly to yours, his warmth slowly chasing away the chill of your anxiety.

He whispered sweet nothings into your ear, his voice low and soothing. “You’ve done everything right this weekend, mi amor, you just need to trust yourself.”

His hand rubbed gentle circles on your hip, his touch grounding, comforting. But even as his words melted some of the tension, your body remained taut against his, your mind refusing to quiet down.

“Still no?” he asked softly, sensing your lingering unease.

You shook your head, refusing to turn around to face him as frustration welled up in your chest. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Carlos. I just—”

“Nothing’s wrong with you. It’s okay,” he interrupted, almost surprised at the way you spoke about yourself. He pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, murmuring against your skin softly, “turn around.”

You hesitated, but his voice was firm yet soothing, coaxing you into trust. Slowly, you turned in his arms, your eyes meeting his in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. His gaze softened as he cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing against your flushed skin.

“You’re too hard on yourself, princesa,” he whispered, his lips just a breath away. “You’re the best driver on the grid. No one works harder than you. And you don’t have to carry this weight alone.”

Your lip quivered, the self-doubt threatening to spill over, but Carlos silenced your protests with a kiss. It was soft and reassuring at first, but when you melted into him, he deepened it, his tongue slipping past your lips to claim you fully. His hand slid down your hip, pulling you closer until there wasn’t an inch of space left between your bodies.

“You’ve been overthinking all night,” he murmured against your mouth. “Let me quiet your mind, nena.”

When you nodded, his hand slid under your shirt, fingertips brushing your bare skin. The cool air of the room kissed your torso as he pushed the fabric up, exposing you to him. His lips travelled down your neck, trailing fire across your skin before latching onto one of your nipples, rolling it between his lips and teeth while his hand teased the other.

A soft whimper escaped you as he worked you up, his ministrations both careful and consuming. His free hand wandered lower, sliding beneath the waistband of your panties, and further still to press against your pussy.

“Sir…” you breathed, but he silenced you with a firm press of his fingers against your clit.

“You’re so tense,” he murmured against your skin, his voice filled with quiet determination. “Relax for me, mi princesa. Let me take care of you.”

Carlos was both gentle and commanding, his touch a perfect balance of softness and control. He was careful with you, mindful of your upcoming race, yet there was a rough edge to his movements—a desperation to erase every ounce of tension from your body.

He settled between your legs, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, his hands gently spreading you open and pulling your panties to the side. “I’ll be careful,” he promised, his lips brushing against your pussy. “But I’m not stopping until you’re too tired to think.”

The first swipe of his tongue made you gasp, your hands fisting the sheets as he worked you over with slow, deliberate strokes. Carlos knew your body better than anyone, and he used that knowledge to his advantage, alternating between gentle flicks and firm pressure that had your hips bucking against his mouth.

Each flick, each press of his tongue against your clit sent sparks of pleasure coursing through you, your breaths turning into soft, breathy moans that only encouraged him further.

“Carlos,” you whimpered, your voice trembling as the tension in your body coiled tighter.

He hummed against you, the vibration sending a fresh wave of heat through your core. “That’s it, nena,” he murmured, pausing to press a kiss to your inner thigh. “You’re so sweet and wet for me.”

Carlos kissed his way back up your body, his lips soft and warm against your flushed skin. He reached down, tugging your panties off and tossing them aside before shedding his own clothes in one fluid motion. His body was warm and solid against yours as he positioned himself above you, his hand stroking gently along your thigh.

His dark eyes searched yours for any signs of hesitation, but instead, you muttered a plea, urging him to fuck you.

Carlos guided his cock to your folds, his gaze never leaving yours as he slowly pushed in. The stretch was delicious, his size filling you completely as he moved with deliberate care, giving you more time to adjust than usual.

“Perfect,” he rasped, his voice strained as he fought to keep his composure. “You feel so perfect, nena.”

He set a slow, sensual rhythm, each thrust deep and unhurried, his movements designed to draw out every ounce of pleasure. His hands roamed your body, caressing your hips, your waist, your tits, as if he couldn’t get enough of you.

Your body responded instinctively, meeting his movements with your own as the two of you found a rhythm that was unhurried yet all-consuming. The room was filled with the soft sounds of your breaths and the gentle creak of the bed, your thoughts and the world outside fading into nothingness as Carlos focused solely on you.

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was equal parts tender and possessive, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as his hips rocked against yours. The connection between you was electric, every touch, every kiss, every thrust designed to remind you of his love and devotion to you, to your career.

You felt yourself reach the edge slowly, the heat pooling low in your belly as Carlos kept his pace steady, his thrusts deep and deliberate. You moaned against his lips, tangling your fingers in his hair, tugging gently as he slowly coaxed out the energy within you.

“Please,” you gasped as you pulled back, your voice barely audible over the sound of your own labored breaths and skin slapping against skin.

“Go on, make a mess,” he murmured, his breath grazing the shell of your ear. Your only response was a moan, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer. Carlos groaned at the motion, his rhythm faltering for a moment before he picked up the pace, his thrusts growing deeper and more deliberate.

He set a punishing rhythm, his hands gripping your hips as he buried himself in you over and over. The room was filled with the sound of skin against skin, your soft cries mixing with his low groans. Your nails raked down his back, and he hissed at the sensation, his thrusts growing erratic as he chased his own release.

Your body trembled as the pleasure built to an unbearable peak, and he whispered again, “now let go, cum for me, nena.”

With his words, you came with a cry that echoed through the room, your body arching off the bed as waves of ecstasy washed over you. He followed soon after, his release spilling into you as he buried himself to the hilt.

Carlos collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms as he caught his breath. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back, his lips pressing soft kisses to your temple.

“Better?” he murmured, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

You nodded, whispering a “thank you,” as your eyes fluttered shut as the tension that had gripped you all night melted away. Carlos held you close, his warmth and presence grounding you as sleep finally began to take over.

“Sweet dreams, mi amor,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your forehead as he settled beside you, his breathing evening out as sleep claimed him too.

want more team principal!carlos? send me an ask with your filthiest thoughts and it’ll get answered during one of my dirty drabble days

655 notes · View notes

bueckets · 2 months ago

Text

Prophecy | Finale

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Parts: Part One | Two | Three (you're here)

Description: Following the viral video of Paige and Azzi, you spend the next three months redefining what perfect means. Each shot becomes a statement, each swish echoing with something colder than precision. Your teammates watch you stay late every night, turning heartbreak into headlines, until even UConn's dynasty seems breakable.

The game approaches like destiny. Harvard versus UConn in the Final Four, a collision course that ESPN calls "The Game Women's Basketball Has Been Waiting For." Twenty thousand tickets sell out in minutes. The whole sport holds its breath.

You haven't spoken to Paige since that night in the snow. Haven't read her texts or opened her letter. Instead, you let your game speak - 47 against Princeton, 51 against Yale, perfect shooting in both. They call it The Revenge Tour, though you never bother correcting them.

Now Dallas looms like a storm on the horizon. One game to prove that some things break you, and some things make you unbreakable.

This is the story of which one you become.

WC: 11k

WEEK ONE

After that night in the gym, you don’t miss. Not once.

Every shot is a calculation, a release, a fury of physics and heartbreak. Each arc is perfect, each swish feels like vengeance. The ball obeys because it has to. Because it’s the only thing left that makes sense.

Paige’s texts come in like a storm. Desperate, raw, and relentless:

Monday (3:47 AM): please just let me explain.

Monday (4:15 AM): it wasn't what it looked like.

Monday (4:22 AM): i miss you.

Monday (4:45 AM): please answer.

You sit on your bed staring at the ceiling, the blue glow of your phone lighting the room like a taunt. Sierra grabs it from your hands and sets it face down on your desk. “Nope.”

By Tuesday, the messages get sharper, more frantic

Tuesday (2:13 AM): i know you’re mad. i’d be mad too.

Tuesday (3:01 AM): rocket, please. you mean everything to me.

Tuesday (3:45 AM): i never meant to hurt you. i’d do anything to take it back.

By Wednesday, she calls. Seventeen times. Sierra’s thumb hovers over the block button. Jasmine glances at you, but you just lace up your shoes and head for the gym.

Thursday, the texts shift to something softer, almost pleading:

"i know you're reading these."

"just tell me you're okay."

"god, i miss you."

"please just talk to me"

Sierra and Jasmine take turns deleting the messages before you can see them, but you know. You always know.

“She’s hurting,” Jasmine says carefully one night, her voice soft like she’s walking a tightrope.

"Good," you respond, and sink another three.

WEEK TWO

The texts get longer, more rambling.

"i know i screwed up. i don’t even know how to start fixing it. all i know is that i want to."

"i miss how you made me feel like the best version of myself. like i could do anything."

"i miss you solving equations while watching film. i miss your voice. i miss you."

"rocket, i love you. i don’t care if you don’t believe me right now, but it’s the truth. i love you."

"please just tell me to fuck off or something. anything is better than this silence."

You don’t read them, but Sierra does. She updates you with clipped summaries: “She’s still apologizing. Still desperate.” You just nod, focusing on your form. Release. Swish.

“She says she loves you,” Sierra says one day, her voice careful.

“Doesn’t matter,” you reply, grabbing another ball.

WEEK THREE

Thursday evening, it snows. Heavy, wet flakes that stick to the ground and blanket campus in white. You’re in the gym, as always, the only sound the steady rhythm of the ball hitting the floor, then the net.

Sierra bursts in, out of breath, snowflakes clinging to her jacket.

“She’s here,” she says, voice strained.

You pause mid-shot, the ball resting heavy in your hands. “What?”

“Paige,” Sierra says. “She’s outside. Just standing there. She’s not leaving until you talk to her.”

You blink, your pulse quickening. “In the snow?”

“Yes. In the snow,” Sierra snaps. “Want me to handle it?”

You glance at the door, at the faint glow of the snowstorm through the windows. Your chest feels tight.

“I’ll do it,” you say quietly.

Sierra looks surprised but doesn’t argue. “You sure?”

You nod, dropping the ball onto the rack. “Yeah. I’ve got it.”

You push open the gym door, and the cold hits you like a slap. The snow is coming down hard now, heavy flakes swirling in the wind and catching in your hair, on your lashes, melting instantly on your skin. The air bites at your face, sharp and unforgiving, and you pull your sweatshirt tighter around you as you step into the storm.

Paige is there.

She’s standing under the dim glow of the parking lot light, a lone figure against the blanketed white. Her coat is too thin for this weather, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as if that could keep the cold out. Snowflakes dust her hair, her shoulders, even her lashes, sticking there like delicate glass. Her nose and cheeks are red, raw from the wind, and her breath comes out in uneven clouds that catch the faint light before disappearing.

Your heart pounds as you take her in. It’s not fair, how seeing her still makes your chest tighten, how her very presence feels like it could knock you off balance. You feel your feet ache against the frozen pavement, the sting of cold air in your lungs, but it’s nothing compared to the burn in your chest.

She looks up as you approach, her eyes locking onto yours immediately. They’re red, glassy, the unmistakable sheen of unshed tears making them glisten. She uncrosses her arms, her hands trembling, and takes a single step forward.

“Rocket,” she says, and her voice cracks. Just that one word, and it’s enough to make your knees threaten to buckle.

You stop a few feet away, planting your sneakers firmly into the snow to keep steady. Your throat feels tight, your tongue heavy. For a moment, you can’t speak. You just stare at her, the silence between you as thick as the snow falling all around.

“What are you doing here?” you manage finally. Your voice is sharper than you intended, but the lump in your throat makes it hard to sound anything but cold.

She shifts, wiping her hands on her coat as if that’ll stop them from shaking. “I—I had to see you,” she stammers. “You weren’t answering, and I just—” Her voice breaks again, and she swallows hard, trying to steady herself. “I just needed to try.”

The words hang in the air, weighty and raw. You bite the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to stay grounded, to not let your emotions spiral. The wind picks up, whipping snowflakes against your face, and you blink hard against the sting.

“You’ve said enough,” you say, your voice flat.

“I know,” she says quickly, stepping forward again. Her boots crunch against the snow, and the sound feels deafening in the quiet. “I know I’ve said everything wrong. I don’t even know if there’s anything left to say. I just—” She takes a shaky breath, her hands balling into fists at her sides. “I need you to know how sorry I am. How I got into my head leading up to it. I was scared. I’m sorry. For everything. For ruining us.”

Your breath catches at that, and your chest tightens even more. Her words hit like a weight, heavy and suffocating, and for a moment, you don’t trust yourself to respond. You feel the sting in your fingers, the way the cold air pinches your ears, the dull ache in your feet from standing still too long.

“It wasn’t just a mistake, Paige,” you say finally, your voice trembling despite your effort to sound steady. “It was trust. It was everything we had.”

She nods quickly, tears finally spilling over. She swipes at her face with the sleeve of her hoodie, trying to hide it, but her hands are shaking too much. “I know,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the wind. “I know I broke it. And I hate myself for it. I hate myself for hurting you.”

The tears keep falling, streaking down her red cheeks, and she doesn’t bother wiping them anymore. Her shoulders shake, but she doesn’t look away from you. You want to turn away, to stop seeing her like this, but you can’t. Your eyes burn, your throat feels raw, and the weight in your chest only grows heavier.

“I loved you,” you say softly, the words slipping out before you can stop them. Her breath catches audibly, and you see her shoulders slump further, like the words are knives she’s been bracing for.

“I love you,” she says, her voice breaking entirely. “I still love you. I’ll always love you.”

The snow falls harder now, coating everything in a thick, suffocating white. You feel it collect on your shoulders, your hair, melting down your neck. Paige shivers, wrapping her arms tightly around herself, her breaths coming out in ragged clouds.

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you as you stare at Paige. The snow falls heavier now, landing on her lashes and melting against her flushed cheeks. Her nose is red, her hands trembling as they clench at her sides. The cold bites at your skin, your ears pinching, your feet aching, but none of it feels as sharp as the weight in your chest.

“Go home,” you say, your voice cracking slightly despite your attempt to sound firm.

Paige doesn’t move. Her wide, red-rimmed eyes stay locked on yours, brimming with fresh tears. Her lips part, but no words come, just a soft, shaky breath. Then:

“Please,” she whispers, barely audible over the wind. Her voice is raw, broken, and it hits you like a punch. She takes a step closer, her boots crunching in the snow, her hands twitching at her sides like she wants to reach for you but knows she can’t. “Please,” she says again, the word shaking with everything she’s trying to say but can’t.

You inhale sharply, your chest tightening as you force yourself to stand your ground. “Paige,” you say, softer now, almost pleading yourself. “Go home.”

She flinches, like the words physically hurt, but she doesn’t argue this time. She nods slowly, blinking hard against the tears streaming down her face. Her shoulders slump as she turns away, her steps hesitant, dragging in the snow like she’s leaving pieces of herself behind with every step.

You watch her walk toward the far end of the parking lot, her figure blurry through the curtain of falling snow. She stops once, just for a moment, her back to you. She swipes at her face with the sleeve of her hoodie, but the motion is weak, almost futile. Then she moves again, trudging toward the lone car parked under the faint glow of a streetlamp.

The driver’s side window rolls down as Paige approaches, and you see KK leaning out, her face a mix of concern and frustration. KK says something—low and sharp, the words lost in the wind—and Paige shakes her head, opening the passenger door and climbing in without another glance in your direction.

The car idles for a moment, exhaust puffing into the frozen air, and you catch a glimpse of KK glancing your way, her gaze hard but questioning, like she’s debating whether to come out and say something. But she doesn’t.

The brake lights flare as the car shifts into gear, and then they’re gone, disappearing down the snow-covered road.

You stay rooted to the spot, the cold seeping through your clothes, the sound of their departure fading into silence. You don’t move for a long time, staring at the empty space where they’d been, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath.

You stand there long after the car disappears into the swirling snow, the cold seeping into your bones. Your feet ache from standing still, your fingers sting from the frost, and your chest feels like it’s caving in on itself. You force yourself to turn, your legs heavy as you walk back toward the gym, the door looming like a safe haven you don’t feel like you deserve.

The moment you push it open, the heat rushes out to meet you, thick and suffocating. It hits your face like a wall, and suddenly, you realize how cold you were—how raw your skin feels, how your ears throb with the warmth sinking in. You blink against the hot air, your vision blurring, and that’s when you feel it. The damp streaks on your cheeks, the burning in your eyes.

You were crying.

The thought stuns you for a moment, but there’s no time to process it. Your feet move automatically, carrying you deeper into the gym. The echo of your footsteps bounces off the empty court, the sound sharp and hollow in the stillness. You make your way to the locker room, the familiar scent of sweat and rubber hitting you like a memory you didn’t ask for.

Inside, Sierra and Jasmine are waiting. They’re sitting on one of the benches, their expressions tight and unsure, like they don’t know what to say—or if they should say anything at all.

Your eyes meet Sierra’s first, and the look she gives you is soft, pitying, like she’s trying to hold you together with just her gaze. Jasmine looks away quickly, her hands fiddling with the strings of her hoodie, her shoulders tense with unspoken guilt.

Neither of them says a word.

You don’t either. You don’t have the energy.

You walk past them, your legs threatening to give out, and sink onto the bench in front of your locker. The cold from outside is still in your body, lingering in your muscles, making everything ache. You press your hands to your knees, trying to ground yourself, but the weight in your chest is too much.

It breaks.

You bury your face in your hands, your shoulders shaking as the sobs finally come. They tear out of you, raw and uncontrollable, and you can’t stop them even if you wanted to. The locker room fills with the sound of your crying—ugly, unfiltered, and nothing like The Prophecy at all.

Sierra shifts behind you, and for a moment, you think she’s going to say something. But she doesn’t. Neither of them does. They just sit there, giving you space to break apart, their quiet presence the only thing holding you from completely falling apart.

Your tears soak into your palms, your breath coming in gasps, and for the first time in weeks, you let yourself feel the full weight of it all. The cold, the betrayal, the way her voice cracked when she said, “I love you.” It crashes over you, relentless and unrelenting.

And you let it.

Because in this moment, you don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to calculate the pain away or turn it into fuel.

For now, you just let yourself break.

WEEK SIX

Her last attempt comes in the form of a letter. Handwritten. Twelve pages. Sierra finds it slipped under your door one gray morning, the paper just slightly bent, as though it had been clenched tightly before being left there.

“Want me to burn it?” Sierra asks, holding it up like it’s fragile, like even touching it too long might do damage.

You don’t answer at first, your eyes fixed on the envelope. Your name is written in Paige’s handwriting, unmistakably hers—soft, looping, careful. It looks like she spent a long time on just that one word. The ink is smudged in places, faint blotches where you know she must have paused, maybe wiped her eyes.

“Rocket?” Sierra asks again, her voice gentler this time.

You reach out, hesitating before your fingers brush the paper. The weight of it feels heavier than it should, like it’s holding every unsaid word she couldn’t force into those desperate texts, every plea she couldn’t voice the last time she saw you.

“No,” you say quietly, your voice firm despite the knot in your chest. “Don’t burn it.”

Sierra doesn’t press. “What should I do with it?”

You swallow hard, still staring at the envelope like it might crack open on its own. “Keep it,” you murmur finally. “For after March.”

The corner of her mouth twitches in a faint, understanding nod. She tucks the letter carefully into her bag without another word.

Because that’s what this has all been about, hasn’t it? Every ignored call, every perfect shot, every breath you’ve taken since that night in the gym has been leading to one thing: March.

Two weeks later, the bracket drops.

Harvard vs. UConn. Sweet Sixteen.

You hear whispers everywhere—teammates speculating, reporters asking veiled questions about how you feel about the matchup. You stay quiet, dodging the noise with an unshakable focus that keeps the world at bay.

Paige doesn’t text. She doesn’t call. But one night, you see it.

It’s subtle, so subtle you almost miss it: a photo on her Instagram story.

She’s sitting on the floor of her dorm, the soft golden light of a bedside lamp pooling around her. Her knees are drawn to her chest, her head resting on her arms. There’s no caption, no obvious sign of you. But in the corner of the frame, hanging off the back of a chair, is your Harvard hoodie.

The air leaves your lungs.

It’s so small, so quiet, but it feels loud in your chest.

Sierra notices you staring at your phone and gives you a sharp look. “Don’t,” she warns.

“I’m not,” you reply, locking your phone and sliding it across the table.

And you aren’t.

Instead, you lace up your sneakers and head to the gym.

30 DAYS TO MARCH MADNESS

The bracket predictions start rolling in. Every analyst has the same storyline: Harvard and UConn are destined to meet in the championship.

ESPN calls it "The Game Women's Basketball Has Been Waiting For."

You don’t watch their coverage. You don’t need to. You just shoot.

Paige’s last text comes at 2 AM:

“i still miss you.”

You delete it without reading. (Sierra tells you about it later anyway.)

25 DAYS

“Did you hear?” Jasmine says as she slides into the locker room after practice, her voice quieter than usual.

You don’t look up. “Hear what?”

“Paige was at some party last night. Someone saw her with... someone.”

You pause mid-lace, your fingers tightening. “And?”

“She’s... moving on. Or trying to.”

Later, Sierra shows you the photo: Paige with her arm around a tall blonde, both laughing like the world doesn’t hurt them.

You close your phone, drop it in your bag, and hit the gym for 200 straight shots. Each one lands, clean and precise, but your chest tightens with every swish.

At midnight, Sierra finds you still there. “She’s doing this on purpose,” she says softly.

“Doing what?”

“Trying to make you feel what she’s feeling.”

You grab another ball, square your shoulders. “Bold of her to assume I still care.”

(You do. God, you do.)

20 DAYS

Your game is evolving. Whatever limits you thought existed don’t anymore. You’re not just making shots—you’re erasing boundaries.

Reporters ask Coach about it after Harvard crushes Penn by 30 points. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

She shakes her head, her voice filled with awe. “She’s playing like someone who has nothing left to lose.”

Because you don’t.

15 DAYS

Another photo surfaces: Paige dancing at a club, the same blonde close enough to blur the line between friendly and intimate. The image spreads through whispers, not headlines, but it’s enough to reach you.

The next morning, Jasmine deletes all your social media apps. “Focus on what matters,” she says, her tone leaving no room for argument.

So you do:

47 points against Princeton.

51 against Yale.

Perfect shooting in both games.

The whispers around you grow louder. People call it The Revenge Tour, though you don’t bother correcting them.

You let your game speak for itself.

10 DAYS

Harvard enters March Madness ranked #1 for the first time in school history. UConn is #2.

The narrative writes itself:

Ice vs Fire.

You hear the buzz but tune it out. Paige posts a hype video for the tournament. There’s no sign of you in her clips, but you don’t need to be.

That night, you shoot until your arms shake. The sound of each swish reverberates through the gym, the echoes cutting through your chest like heartbreak.

5 DAYS

The tournament begins, and you burn through the first two rounds like wildfire:

45 points against Florida State.

52 against Tennessee.

You still haven’t missed.

UConn advances too. Paige plays like she’s on fire, dropping 38 against Duke and 41 against LSU. But she misses. She stumbles. She’s human. She’s flawed.

You tell yourself that’s why she couldn’t keep you. Because perfection is lonely.

2 DAYS

The Final Four is set: Harvard vs. UConn. The matchup everyone’s been waiting for.

Your teammates feel the weight of it, the buzz of history swirling around them, but you stay quiet. Focused.

“Are you ready?” Coach asks after practice.

You glance at her, your expression steady. “Always.”

1 DAY

The press conference is brutal. Every question is a thinly veiled attempt to dig into the drama. Paige. The rumors.

You give them nothing.

“I’m here to play basketball,” you say flatly. “Nothing else matters.”

Later that night, alone in your hotel room, you stare at the letter Sierra saved weeks ago. It sits on the desk like it’s daring you to open it.

Your hands shake as you unfold the pages.

The first three lines hit harder than you expect:

"I know I don’t deserve forgiveness. I know I broke something perfect. I know I lost the best thing that ever happened to me."

You stop reading. You don’t need to see the rest.

The paper burns easily in the sink, the edges curling in on themselves like the words are folding into ash.

Tomorrow isn’t about forgiveness.

It’s about proving that some things break you.

And some things make you unbreakable.

Time to show her which one you are.

THE FINAL FOUR: HARVARD VS UCONN

The arena in Dallas feels alive, like it has a pulse of its own. Twenty thousand fans pack the stands, and the roar of the crowd is more than sound—it’s energy, crackling in the air, vibrating through the floor. You can feel it in your chest, in the way your heart beats a little faster as you stand in the tunnel, waiting.

This is the game. The one people will talk about for decades.

“Harvard vs. UConn,” ESPN’s voices echo faintly from the screens overhead, carrying over the din “The Game Women’s Basketball Has Been Waiting For.”

“Harvard’s perfect season against UConn’s dynasty.”

“Two programs. Two stars. One unmissable collision course.”

You don’t look at the screens. Don’t let the noise creep in. You focus instead on the rhythm of your breathing, the weight of the ball in your hands, the perfect arcs playing out in your mind. Force vectors, trajectories, momentum. The physics of what’s about to happen.

Sierra steps up beside you, her face all business, her game face as sharp as you’ve ever seen it. “You good?”

You nod once. She doesn’t ask if you’re sure. She’s seen you these past weeks—seen the extra hours, the obsession, the way you’ve turned heartbreak into something almost unrecognizable. She’s seen you rewrite what’s possible when perfect turns to steel.

“They’re out there,” Jasmine says quietly, stepping up on your other side.

Your stomach tightens, but you don’t let it show.

“You’re sure you’re good?” Sierra presses, glancing at you out of the corner of her eye.

“I’m perfect,” you say flatly, the word cold and sharp.

The crowd’s roar deepens, and you know UConn must be taking the court for warmups. You can picture it without looking: Paige leading them out, her stride confident, her expression poised. She feeds off this energy, always has, like she was built for these moments.

You think about everything—every ignored text, every late-night practice, every time Paige’s name appeared on your phone screen and you turned away. You think about the letter, folded and burned, its words turned to ash: "I know I broke something perfect."

“I’m ready,” you say, voice steady.

Coach nods. “Good.” She turns to the team. “Ladies, listen up. Everything we’ve worked for comes down to tonight. They’re bigger, they’re stronger, and they’ve got more banners in their gym than we’ll ever see. But we’ve got something they don’t.”

She looks at you, and there's something fierce in her eyes.

"We've got perfect."

The team huddles up, hands in. But before they can do their usual chant, you speak. It's the first time you've addressed them all day.

"When we take that court," your voice is quiet but carries weight, "you're going to hear a lot of noise. They're going to talk about everything except basketball. But that's not why we're here."

Your teammates lean in closer.

"We're here because I made you all a promise three years ago. That we'd make history. That we'd show the world what Harvard basketball really is. That we'd be perfect when it matters most."

You look each of them in the eye.

"Tonight, we keep that promise."

The tunnel erupts in fierce agreement. Your teammates are ready for war.

"One minute!" calls the official.

You close your eyes for a moment, center yourself. Think about all the shots that led here. All the nights in empty gyms. All the physics problems solved between free throws. All the moments that built The Prophecy.

And yes, you think about her. About early mornings in her dorm. Late nights watching film. The way she said your name like it was something precious. The way she looked at someone else the same way.

The anger rises, cold and precise. You use it, let it sharpen your focus until everything else falls away.

The tunnel lights flicker as the official signals. It’s time.

"Ready?" Sierra asks one last time.

You step toward the light of the arena, toward the noise, toward destiny.

"Perfect," you say.

And then you emerge into madness.

The sound hits you like a wave the second you step onto the court. It’s not just noise; it’s a force, a physical thing that presses against you, vibrating in your chest.

"THE PROPHECY! THE PROPHECY! THE PROPHECY!"

The chant rolls through the arena like thunder, swelling as the crowd rises to their feet. Signs wave above the sea of faces:

"PERFECTION WEARS CRIMSON"

"847-2: THE PROPHECY SPEAKS"

Your entrance stops UConn's warmups cold. Every player freezes mid-drill, even the legendary Geno Auriemma turns to watch. You catch Paige's reaction in your peripheral vision—the way she stumbles slightly, ball slipping from her fingers. But you don't look at her. Won't give her that.

The Harvard section is delirious, but it's more than that. The neutral fans, the media, even some UConn supporters are on their feet. This is what happens when you spend three months turning heartbreak into headlines, when you take "perfect" and make it look easy.

Your teammates hit the court, their warmups sharper, fueled by the energy of the crowd. But your routine is different. Quieter. Singular.

You start at the three-point line, the ball resting in your hands. The noise fades as you focus, your heartbeat steadying. One shot.

Swish.

The explosion of noise is deafening. You don't react. Just catch, shoot, swish. Again. Again. Again.

On the other end, UConn's trying to maintain their composure, but you can feel their eyes on you. Feel the way their usual swagger has been replaced by something else. Something that looks like doubt.

Your teammates are feeding off the energy now. Sierra drills a corner three, the ball cutting through the net with a satisfying snap. Jasmine blocks one of Taylor’s layups in a mock defensive drill, both of them grinning fiercely.

"Focus on our game!" Geno barks, but even he keeps glancing your way.

The media's having a field day. Every camera in the building is trained on you, catching every perfect shot, every ice-cold expression. ESPN's commentary carries over the speakers:

"We're watching something unprecedented here, Rebecca. The Prophecy isn't just perfect anymore—she's transcendent. Look at the way UConn's players are watching her. They're supposed to be the dynasty, the standard-bearers, but right now they look shook—"

And still, you don’t look at Paige.

The crowd's volume keeps building, impossibly louder with each perfect shot you make. NBA players sitting courtside are shaking their heads in disbelief. Olympic champions in the stands are filming on their phones. This isn't just a warmup anymore—it's a statement.

Finally, mercifully for UConn, the buzzer sounds to clear the court for final preparations. As the teams head to their benches, you allow yourself one glance at their side. Just one.

Paige is standing near the sideline, her hands resting on her hips, her gaze fixed on you. For a split second, your eyes meet. Her expression shifts—shock, pain, something that might be regret.

You hold her gaze for a beat longer, then turn away, your face unreadable.

You turn away, face impassive. But inside, the cold fire burns hotter.

Because this isn’t about her anymore.

This isn’t about heartbreak or revenge.

This is about showing the world what happens when perfect stops trying to be loved.

And starts trying to be legendary.

The starting lineups are about to be announced, and the arena hums with anticipation, the kind of energy that makes the hair on your arms stand on end. It’s not just loud—it’s electric, like the walls themselves are holding their breath. Every cheer, every chant, every flash of a camera feels sharper, brighter, heavier. History is about to be made.

The announcer’s voice booms, reverberating through the cavernous space, calling out names that blur into the roar of the crowd. You barely hear them—don’t need to. You’re locked in. You can feel the ball’s weight in your hand even though you’re not holding it, the phantom rhythm of your dribble steadying your pulse.

The Prophecy is about to speak.

And everyone—Paige, UConn, the world—is about to listen.

Sierra wins the tip with authority, the ball snapping to Maria like it’s been rehearsed a thousand times. Harvard’s ball. The crowd leans forward collectively, the sound dropping to an expectant hum as you cross half court, their energy feeding into the moment.

UConn’s defense is already set. You see it as soon as you step over the timeline: box-and-one. Four players sagging into a tight zone, leaving Paige on you.

Of course they’d make her guard you. Of course.

She’s close, closer than you expected, the kind of tight defense that borders on personal. Her eyes flicker for a moment, uncertainty bleeding through her usual focus.

“Please…” she whispers, so quiet it almost gets lost in the noise. “Can we just—”

You don’t let her finish.

A crossover—quick, precise, lethal—cuts her off mid-sentence. The crowd gasps, a collective intake of breath, as Paige stumbles, her footing faltering for just a second. But a second is all you need.

You rise up from 25 feet, the motion as natural as breathing. Perfect form. Perfect rotation.

Swish.

The crowd detonates.

3-0 Harvard.

"THE PROPHECY STRIKES FIRST!" The announcer can barely contain himself. "ICE COLD FROM DEEP!"

UConn pushes the ball upcourt fast, their transition game as polished as ever. Paige has that look now—the one that used to make your chest tighten, the one that once made you believe she could do anything. Now, it’s just data to process, another variable in the equation you’ve already solved.

She drives hard to the right, her speed and body control flawless. She’s counting on you to back off, to avoid contact, to give her just enough room for the pull-up jumper she’s perfected.

But you don’t.

Your body stays with hers, every step mirrored, every shift anticipated. When she rises for the shot, your hand is already there, contesting at the perfect angle. The ball leaves her hands, spinning slightly off-axis.

Clank.

The sound of the ball hitting the rim feels louder than it should, the miss reverberating through the arena like a misstep in a symphony.

“REJECTION!” The crowd erupts again, their voices rising to a fever pitch. “THE PROPHECY WITH THE PERFECT DEFENSE ON THE PRINCE!”

Maria grabs the rebound and pushes the break. You trail deliberately, your movements fluid, waiting for the play to unfold. The ball swings to you on the wing. Another catch. Another perfect release.

Swish.

6-0 Harvard.

Geno Auriemma doesn’t hesitate. Timeout, 47 seconds in. His voice carries across the court, sharp and commanding as he pulls his players in, trying to steady a ship that’s already rocking.

The ESPN commentators are incredulous. “I’ve never seen anything like this! The Prophecy isn’t just scoring—she’s controlling the entire game. And having Paige Bueckers guard her it’s psychological warfare at its finest.”

In the huddle, Coach Matthews stays calm, her voice steady amidst the chaos. “Keep executing. They’re rattled.”

Your teammates nod, feeding off her composure. You don’t say anything, don’t need to. The look in your eyes says enough.

Back on the court, UConn shifts their defense. KK Arnold takes over guarding you, her physicality immediately apparent. Paige shifts to Jasmine, but you feel her eyes on you anyway, like a weight pressing against your back.

You make her pay for it.

A quick backdoor cut—sharp, timed to perfection—leaves her a step behind. Maria sees it instantly, the lob arcing perfectly into your hands. You lay it in cleanly, barely breaking stride.

8-0 Harvard.

The UConn section is restless now, the nervous energy rippling through their chants.

From the crowd you hear, “She's not that special! Lock her up!"

The next time down, you catch the ball at the top of the key, KK’s hand pressing into your hip. You rise anyway, unfazed. The ball barely brushes the net on its way through.

11-0 Harvard.

Geno is furious, calling out defensive adjustments. But there's something different about UConn's energy—they're not just trailing, they're shook.

Paige tries to take over, driving hard to the rim with an intensity that feels more desperate than controlled. Her first step is sharp, her movements calculated, but there’s something frantic in the way she moves—like she’s trying to match you shot for shot, trying to prove something to herself as much as to the crowd.

Her floater arcs high but catches the back iron and rolls out.

The crowd groans, the sound rippling through the UConn section like a wave of disbelief. Paige’s jaw tightens as she sprints back on defense, but you’ve already moved on, focused, untouchable.

On the next possession, she pulls up for a three. It’s a clean look, her form textbook, but the ball rims out again, drawing a gasp from the fans and a loud clank that echoes through the arena.

Then she drives again, barreling into the paint, trying to force her way through Sierra’s perfect positioning. The ball pops loose, Sierra’s quick hands stripping it clean, and the Harvard section explodes in cheers.

Meanwhile, you’re somewhere else entirely.

Athletes talk about it, but few ever get there: the space where time slows, where the game feels less like competition and more like art. The roar of the crowd fades into a low hum, the edges of the court softening as everything sharpens around the ball in your hands.

It’s not just instinct—it’s control, precision, the physics of perfection in every step. Each shot feels inevitable, each movement unfolding like an equation you’ve already solved.

On defense, you can feel the tension radiating from UConn, their movements tighter, their communication louder. When Emma finally scores off a put-back—muscling through a sea of Harvard defenders—the UConn section celebrates like it’s a game-winner.

11-2 Harvard.

You glance at the scoreboard, then at your teammates, your calm focus unshaken. They know what’s coming next.

You show UConn what victory really looks like.

KK Arnold presses into you as you bring the ball up the court, her hands swiping aggressively, trying to throw you off balance. You shift your weight left, plant your foot, and cross over so quickly it sends her stumbling, her arms flailing for balance as the crowd gasps.

You take one step back, rising effortlessly over Caroline’s outstretched arms as she contests, her fingertips barely brushing the air beneath the ball.

Swish.

16-2 Harvard.

The Harvard bench leaps to their feet, arms raised, while the UConn section sits frozen, unsure of how to react. Geno is pacing now, barking orders to his team, his sharp voice cutting through the tension.

"We're watching history," the announcer's voice trembles with excitement. "The Prophecy isn't just winning—she's rewriting what's possible in this sport."

Paige is pressing harder, trying to shoulder the burden of momentum, but it’s slipping through her fingers. She forces another drive, this time straight into Sierra, who holds her ground like a wall. The whistle doesn’t blow, and Paige stumbles as the ball goes loose again, Maria scooping it up and feeding you on the wing.

The moment your hands touch the ball, you already know what’s going to happen.

Perfect rhythm. Perfect form. Perfect swish.

UConn tries everything: double teams, traps, full-court pressure. Nothing works. You split defenders like they're standing still, find teammates for open shots when they sell out to stop you, and when they give you any space at all.

The quarter ends with one final dagger. UConn tries to hold for the last shot, but you read Paige's eyes—you always could read her eyes—and jump the passing lane. The steal leads to a breakaway with three seconds left.

Most players would lay it in. Safe. Smart.

But The Prophecy isn't most players.

You take off from just inside the free-throw line, rising up as the buzzer sounds. The ball leaves your hands at the perfect angle, with the perfect spin, following the perfect arc.

Swish. As time expires.

29-10 Harvard.

The arena absolutely detonates. Your teammates mob you as you walk calmly to the bench. Even Coach Matthews cracks a smile.

In their huddle, you can see Geno gesturing frantically, see Paige's head hanging.

But none of that matters.

Because this isn't about them anymore.

This is about perfect.

And perfect is just getting started.

The second quarter opens with UConn desperate to change the momentum. Their energy is sharp, frantic, the kind that comes from a team not used to being punched first. Geno has abandoned the box-and-one, switching to a triangle-and-two defense. It’s designed to suffocate you—two defenders shadowing your every step, cutting off your air, daring the rest of your team to beat them.

You glance at Paige and KK as they close in, their feet shuffling in sync. Paige’s jaw is tight, her expression unreadable, but there’s tension in her shoulders, the kind you’ve seen in every film session this week. KK is louder, her movements brash, barking orders at the rest of the defense.

The first possession, you take the ball at the top of the key, waiting for the defense to swarm. KK gets there first, her hands low and active, trying to force you left. Paige closes in immediately after, her presence suffocating.

You don’t flinch. You shift just enough to pull both defenders with you, then flick a no-look pass to Sierra cutting baseline. The ball drops into her hands, and she lays it in cleanly, untouched.

31-10 Harvard.

"The Prophecy showing she can dominate without scoring!" ESPN's excitement builds. "This is basketball genius at its finest!"

Then it happens.

Four minutes into the quarter. Harvard up 37-15. You shake loose from the double team, slicing through the defense like a knife through fabric. Sierra's screen creating the perfect angle of separation (47 degrees, optimal for catch-and-shoot scenarios), your feet set precisely shoulder-width apart, knees bent at the textbook 110-degree angle.

The ball feels good leaving your hands—perfect, even. The rotation is clean, the arc flawless, the trajectory straight out of a physics textbook. It’s the kind of shot you’ve made thousands of times. The kind of shot you don’t even need to watch to know it’s good.

But sometimes, the universe has other plans.

The ball hits the back rim, bouncing straight up, a little too high, a little too slow. It hovers for an agonizing second.

The entire arena holds its breath. Twenty thousand people frozen, watching the impossible happen. The ball hangs there, defying gravity for one more precious second, before falling away.

You’ve missed.

The UConn bench explodes, their cheers wild and unfiltered, like they’ve just won the championship. Their fans echo the celebration, chants swelling and overlapping.

"SHE’S HUMAN! SHE’S HUMAN!”

Paige takes a step toward you, instinct guiding her more than logic. It’s the same look you’ve seen in practices, in dorm rooms, in quiet moments when her guard was down. She wants to reach out, to say something, to bridge the gap between who you were to each other and who you are now.

But she stops herself. Her foot hovers for half a second before she steps back, her hand falling limp at her side. She remembers where she is. Who she’s supposed to be to you now.

And still, everyone waits.

Your teammates glance at you nervously. They’ve seen what happens when you miss. They know the last time you broke. They know why.

But you're not the same person who broke in that dark gym.

Instead of shattering, you do something no one expects.

You smile.

It’s small, controlled, more ice than warmth, but it’s enough to send a ripple through the arena. The silence shifts into something sharper, heavier.

The message is clear: Missing doesn’t break me anymore.

Nothing does.

"Oh my," the ESPN announcer’s voice is barely above a whisper. "That might be the scariest smile I’ve ever seen in basketball."

Next possession.

You take the ball at half court, KK and Paige closing in again. Their energy is different now—more cautious, less certain. They’re waiting for you to pass, waiting for you to hesitate, waiting for the doubt to creep in.

But it doesn’t.

You glance at the defense sagging just slightly, expecting hesitation, and then you do the thing no one else would.

You rise from the logo, the shot pure and effortless, the ball spinning through the air like it was destined to fall.

Swish.

40-15 Harvard.

The arena erupts.

Your teammates are screaming, their hands raised in disbelief. Coach Matthews stands for the first time all game, clipboard forgotten, her face a rare mix of awe and pride.

"THAT'S HOW YOU RESPOND TO ADVERSITY!" ESPN's voice cracks with excitement. "The Prophecy isn't just perfect anymore—she’s unstoppable!"

UConn calls timeout, but it's too late. They've lost whatever psychological edge they thought they'd gained. The rest of the quarter becomes a masterclass:

You hit threes over double teams.

Thread passes through impossible angles.

Turn their defense into a highlight reel of broken ankles and shattered hopes.

By halftime, the score is 52-27 Harvard. You've got 31 points, 8 assists, and a message that's louder than any perfect streak:

Some things break you.

Some things make you unbreakable.

And sometimes, becoming unbreakable is better than being perfect.

The teams head to their locker rooms, but the story of the second quarter isn't the score. It's the smile after the miss. The logo three that followed. The moment when The Prophecy proved that she's not just a perfect player.

HALFTIME

The locker room feels like it’s vibrating, the energy practically bouncing off the walls. Your teammates are loud, voices overlapping in a chaotic chorus of disbelief and celebration. Sierra’s pacing, too hyped to sit, while Jasmine reenacts your logo three for the tenth time, miming your shooting form with exaggerated flair.

"DID YOU SEE THEIR FACES?" Sierra's practically dancing. "When you smiled after that miss? I thought they were gonna pass out!"

"That logo three was DISGUSTING," Jasmine adds, mimicking your shooting form. "The disrespect!"

You let their voices wash over you, grounding yourself in the chaos without joining it. Sitting on the bench, you pull a water bottle to your lips, its coolness a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from your skin.

But Coach Matthews raises her hand for quiet. "They're going to come out desperate. Geno's never been down this much in a Final Four. Expect everything."

You nod slightly, her words steadying you. She’s right. The storm is coming. You can feel it brewing beyond the walls, the hum of the arena like distant thunder.

Through the locker room door, the halftime show filters in faintly. ESPN’s voices carry over the noise of the crowd:

“Harvard leads UConn 52-27 in the most lopsided first half of a Final Four in recent history…”

“31 points, 8 assists, 12-of-13 shooting, 5 steals. These aren’t just numbers; they’re history in the making…”

“And it’s not just the stats. That smile after the miss? That was the moment The Prophecy stopped being perfect and became something more. Something immortal.”

Sierra catches you listening and grins, holding up her phone. “You’re trending worldwide. Again.”

You wave her off. You don’t care about that. You’ve never cared about that.

But then Jasmine nudges you, her expression shifting from playful to serious as she shows you another text. This one’s from KK.

Paige is crying in the bathroom. Whole team’s shook.

Good.

THIRD QUARTER

The second you see UConn retake the court, you can tell they’ve changed. There’s a new energy to them—sharper, more desperate. Paige’s eyes are slightly red, a telltale glint betraying her earlier tears. But there’s also something dangerous in her expression, the kind of desperation that makes even the best players reckless.

Geno’s thrown everything at the wall. UConn opens with a full-court press, their defenders swarming like bees, aggressive and chaotic.

It’s laughable.

You slice through them on the first possession like they’re standing still. A quick pass to Maria in the corner. Perfect release.

55-27 Harvard.

Paige tries to respond immediately, driving hard to the basket with her head down. The play is pure determination, her shoulders hunched as she barrels into the lane, but you’re ready.

Sliding over, you plant yourself perfectly, your feet set, your body immovable. When she crashes into you, the impact reverberates through your chest, but you don’t budge.

The whistle blows. Offensive foul.

Paige hits the floor hard, her hands slapping against the hardwood. For a split second, instinct kicks in—the memory of a hundred practices where you’d help her up, offer her a hand, a joke, a smile.

But that was then.

Now, you simply turn and walk away, your expression colder than the ice under her feet.

“Ice. Cold,” the announcer breathes, the disbelief palpable.

On the next possession, Paige picks you up full court, her body language bristling with frustration. She presses in close, practically stepping on your toes, her voice low and cracking.

“Please,” she whispers. “Just look at me. Just once.”

You don’t respond.

Instead, you hit her with a combination that feels less like basketball and more like poetry:

Crossover right.

Behind the back left.

Through the legs.

Step-back three.

The crowd doesn’t even wait for the ball to hit the net. The moment Paige stumbles backward, they’re on their feet, screaming.

The shot, of course, is perfect.

58-27 Harvard.

The UConn section is dead silent now. Even Geno has stopped pacing, his arms folded as he stares helplessly at the court. Paige glances toward their bench, her eyes briefly meeting Geno’s, but he has no answers either

Next possession, you wave off the screen, motioning for everyone to clear out. The court feels impossibly wide as Paige crouches in her defensive stance, her body coiled with tension. You can see the tears threatening at the corners of her eyes, the way her breathing hitches as she exhales.

Time slows.

Can see the tears threatening at the corners of Paige's eyes.

Can feel twenty thousand people holding their breath.

Perfect isn't about not missing anymore.

Perfect is about what you do next.

The move is pure poetry.

Crossover so quick the cameras barely catch it.

Through the legs at half speed, letting her think she's got you.

Then the acceleration – zero to legendary in a heartbeat.

Paige lunges, trying to stay in front.

The crowd rises as one.

But they don't matter.

Nothing matters except the physics of this moment.

You rise up from 30 feet, Paige's hand right in your face.

Time stops.

The ball arcs through the air like destiny.

Swish.

The arena detonates.

Your teammates mob you as you jog back, their faces alight with disbelief. Even the referees exchange glances, one shaking his head like he’s just witnessed the impossible.

61-33 Harvard.

Paige doesn’t move. She stays rooted to the spot where you left her, her head bowed, her hands on her knees. The weight of the game—of the moment—presses her into the hardwood.

The UConn bench looks like a graveyard.

Perfect breaks back.

The quarter ends with Harvard up 73-41. You've got 45 points on a shot chart that looks like abstract art. Each bucket more impossible than the last. Each move designed to teach them all the same lesson.

FOURTH QUARTER

Ten minutes left in the biggest game in women’s college basketball history. Harvard up 73-41. The crowd buzzes with anticipation, sensing the inevitable.

Paige opens the quarter like someone with nothing left to lose. Her movements are sharper now, more fluid, like she’s untethered from the weight of expectation. There’s desperation in her eyes, but also glimpses of what made her special.

What made her yours, once upon a time.

She hits a deep three. Then another. Her teammates respond, pressing full court, fighting for every inch, clawing for one last stand.

On the next possession, UConn doubles you at half court, but you see the opening before they do. A quick bounce pass threads the needle, hitting Sierra in stride for an uncontested layup.

75-44 Harvard.

The press comes hard again, but you stay poised, letting it collapse around you before sending a no-look pass over your shoulder to Maria in the corner. She drains the three, and the crowd explodes.

78-44 Harvard.

Paige tries to answer with a contested jumper at the other end, and it rattles in. She’s pressing now, forcing every play, trying to drag her team back into a game that’s already slipping away.

Back on offense, you hesitate near the arc, drawing in the defense before flipping a behind-the-back pass to Jasmine cutting baseline. The ball barely touches her hands before it’s in the net.

80-46 Harvard.

Coach Matthews calls timeout to sub you out with 1:32 left. The ovation is deafening—every single person in the arena on their feet, cheering until their voices crack. You’ve got 34 points, 15 assists, and 7 steals, but the numbers barely scratch the surface of what just happened.

You jog to the bench, your teammates mobbing you, their hands slapping your back, their voices a chaotic blur of celebration.

As you pass Paige one last time, there are no words. No need.

You both know what this moment is.

The final buzzer sounds: Harvard 89, UConn 51.

Confetti falls, a blizzard of crimson and gold, as your teammates tackle you in a storm of laughter and tears. Cameras flash everywhere, their lenses capturing history in real time.

You stand at center court, calm amidst the chaos, the weight of the moment settling over you.

Because you did it. You won.

The locker room is a storm of joy, the kind that only comes from rewriting history. Music blasts from a speaker in the corner. Sierra’s leading a conga line with the championship trophy hoisted high. Jasmine and Maria are filming every second, screaming into their phones about being “FINAL FOUR CHAMPIONS, BABY!”

You should be reveling in it. You are, to an extent—smiling as Sierra shoves a bottle of sparkling cider into your hands, laughing as Jasmine accidentally sprays half the team with the foam.

But deep down, there’s an itch you can’t scratch.

You made the statement. You dominated the game. You won the war.

But the battle inside you—the one that started long before tonight—is still unresolved.

Later, when the celebration starts to wind down, you find yourself leaning against a corner of the locker room, still clutching the now-empty bottle of cider. The room feels quieter, though the energy still hums faintly in the air. Your teammates are scattered—some FaceTiming family, others sprawled on benches in blissful exhaustion.

Sierra catches your eye from across the room. She doesn’t say anything, just tilts her head slightly, a silent question.

You shake your head. Not yet.

An hour later, you’re back in your hotel room, the championship hat still perched on your head, your phone buzzing endlessly with texts and notifications. Most are from reporters, friends, family. A few from Jasmine and Sierra, who are probably still partying somewhere downstairs.

You scroll through them aimlessly, not sure what you’re looking for until you see her name.

Paige.

She hasn't texted. Not since before the game. Her name sits there like a ghost in your messages, daring you to make the first move. To break the silence that's grown between you like a wall.

For a while, you just sit there, staring at the empty message thread. You replay every moment of the game in your mind—the way her voice cracked when she guarded you, the way she pressed harder and harder as the score slipped further out of reach. The way she nodded, warrior to warrior, as if she knew what you’d just written into history.

And yet, it doesn’t feel complete. Not entirely.

Before you can overthink it, you start typing.

you can come by if you want

The message is simple. No explanations, no context. You don’t even wait to see if she reads it before tossing your phone onto the bed and heading to the bathroom to wash off the night.

When you come back, the screen is lit with her reply:

where?

Your heart stumbles over itself as you type the room number. You sit on the edge of the bed, fingers playing with the hem of your sweatshirt, trying to ignore how your pulse picks up with each passing minute.

The knock, when it comes, is so soft you almost miss it.

For a second, you just stare at the door, your pulse thudding in your ears. The part of you that has spent months building walls tells you not to answer, not to let her in.

But tonight isn’t about walls.

You open the door.

She’s standing there, still in her UConn travel gear, hair tucked under a beanie. Her eyes are tired, rimmed with dark circles, but there’s something in them—something vulnerable, tentative—that catches you off guard.

“Hi,” she says softly.

“Hi.”

You step aside to let her in. She moves hesitantly, as if unsure whether she belongs here.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The room feels heavy with unspoken words, with everything the game couldn’t settle.

“You played…” Paige starts, then stops, biting her lip. “You were unbelievable.”

“Thanks.” You cross your arms, leaning against the desk. “You weren’t bad yourself.”

She lets out a breathy laugh, the sound awkward and raw. “I tried.”

Silence stretches between you again. The words you want to say stick to the back of your throat, stubborn and heavy. You watch her hands fidget with the strings of her hoodie, a nervous tell you used to find endearing. Now it just makes your chest ache.

Finally, it’s Paige who breaks the tension.

“I thought it would feel better,” she admits, her voice cracking slightly. “Losing, I mean. Seeing you win. It’s like I needed you to win. I needed you to be okay without me. But it didn’t make it hurt any less.”

Her honesty feels like a gut punch. You unfold your arms, suddenly unable to stay distant. “Paige…”

“I’m sorry,” she rushes out, words tumbling over themselves.“For all of it. For hurting you, for not fighting harder, for—”

“I know,” you cut her off gently, your voice quieter now. “I know.”

She looks at you, her eyes shiny with unshed tears. “Do you?”

You nod, stepping closer. “Yeah. I do. And I…” You take a shaky breath. “I’m tired of being angry. I don’t want to carry it anymore.”

Her shoulders slump, the tension leaving her body all at once. “I don’t either.”

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, the weight of everything unsaid filling the room.

And then, slowly, you reach out, your hand brushing hers. She looks down at the contact, her lips trembling, and you feel something shift.

Forgiveness isn’t instant. It’s not easy. But it starts here, in this quiet room, with the two of you trying to find your way back to something that feels whole.

“Sit,” you say softly, gesturing to the bed.

She hesitates, then sits down, and for the first time in months, the space between you feels less like a chasm and more like a bridge.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re ready to cross it.

She sits on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her shoulders hunched like she’s bracing for something. You grab a water bottle from the mini-fridge, needing something to do with your hands.

“Want one?” you ask, holding it up.

Paige glances at you, nodding slightly. “Yeah. Thanks.”

You hand it to her, and your fingers brush—just for a second. It’s such a small, fleeting touch, but it makes the air between you feel charged, like something fragile and important is hanging there.

She twists the cap off the bottle but doesn’t drink, just stares at it like it holds answers. “I wasn’t sure if you’d actually let me in,” she says softly.

“Neither was I,” you admit, sitting down beside her. The bed dips slightly under your weight, and for a moment, you’re hyper-aware of the small space between you.

Her lips curve into a faint, rueful smile. “Fair.”

The quiet stretches, not uncomfortable but heavy with unspoken things. You look at her out of the corner of your eye—the way her hands tremble slightly as she holds the water bottle, the way her hair falls messily over her shoulders, the way her shoulders rise and fall with each shallow breath.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Paige murmurs, breaking the silence. “You were… unbelievable tonight. I mean, you always are, but tonight…” She trails off, shaking her head like she can’t find the words.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

“I wasn’t just talking about the game,” she adds, her voice quieter now. “The way you handled everything—the pressure, the expectations, even me. It was like watching someone I didn’t even know existed.”

You glance at her sharply, caught off guard by the rawness in her voice. “You know me better than anyone.”

“I thought I did,” she says, her lips twitching into something that’s not quite a smile. “But I think I only knew the parts of you that let me in. And I don’t think I earned the rest.”

Her words hit something deep inside you, something you’ve been trying to bury. You look down at your hands, twisting the cap on your water bottle. “You didn’t need to earn it,” you say quietly. “It was always yours.”

She turns her head to look at you, her eyes wide and vulnerable, and you can feel her staring, feel her trying to read between the lines of your words.

“I should’ve fought harder,” Paige whispers. Her voice cracks, and she drops her gaze back to her lap. “For us. For you. I should’ve—”

“Stop,” you interrupt gently, surprising even yourself with the softness in your tone. “You don’t have to keep apologizing. I’ve already forgiven you.”

She lets out a shaky breath, her shoulders slumping like a weight has just been lifted. “Really?”

You nod, your throat tightening. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The sound of her breathing fills the room, slow and uneven, and the faint hum of the city outside filters in through the window.

“It’s weird,” you say after a while, breaking the silence. “I thought beating you tonight would feel like closure. Like I could finally move on. But it didn’t.”

Paige looks up at you, her brows furrowed. “What did it feel like?”

You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. “Like I was still waiting for something.”

She doesn’t ask what, doesn’t press, but the way she looks at you tells you she knows.

The silence stretches again, but this time it feels different—like the space between you is slowly shrinking, like the air is shifting.

You shift slightly on the bed, your knee brushing hers. The touch is small, accidental, but neither of you pulls away.

“Do you want to stay?” you ask suddenly, the words tumbling out before you can overthink them.

Paige blinks, her eyes widening in surprise. “What?”

“Stay,” you repeat, your voice steadier now. “Just for tonight.”

She looks at you, searching your face for something—hesitation, doubt, anything that might make her say no. But she doesn’t find it.

“Okay,” she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, standing up and grabbing a spare blanket from the closet. “You can take the bed. I’ll—”

“No,” she interrupts quickly, shaking her head. “I mean, we can… share. If that’s okay.”

You hesitate for a moment, then nod again. “Yeah. Okay.”

The bed feels impossibly small as you both lie down, the silence stretching between you like a fragile thread. You’re on your back, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about how close she is. Paige shifts slightly, the mattress dipping under her weight, and you catch the faint scent of her shampoo.

You try to focus on anything else—the faint hum of the city outside, the muffled sound of someone laughing in the hallway, the rhythm of your own breathing. But your mind keeps circling back to her.

“Hey,” Paige whispers after a while, her voice tentative in the dark.

“Yeah?”

“Can I…?” She trails off, and you turn your head to look at her. Her eyes are wide, uncertain, the soft light from the window catching the gold flecks in them. “Can I hold you?”

The question catches you off guard, but only for a second. Then you nod, shifting onto your side to face her.

She hesitates, like she’s still waiting for you to pull away, and then she closes the space between you. Her arms wrap around you carefully, like she’s afraid you’ll break, and you feel the warmth of her body settle against yours.

You exhale slowly, your head resting against her shoulder, your hand curling slightly against her chest. Her heartbeat is steady, grounding, and for the first time all night, you feel your own racing pulse start to calm.

“Is this okay?” she asks softly, her breath warm against your hair.

“Yeah,” you murmur, letting your eyes close. “It’s okay.”

For a while, neither of you speaks. The quiet hum of the room wraps around you like a cocoon, the world outside fading into the background. You focus on the small details—the way her fingers trace absent patterns against your back, the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the way her cheek brushes against your temple.

“I missed this,” she whispers, the words barely audible.

You don’t answer right away, your throat tightening with emotions you’re not ready to name. Instead, you shift closer, tucking your face into the crook of her neck. “Me too.”

Her arms tighten slightly around you, and you feel the faintest press of her lips against your hair. It’s not a kiss, not really—just a gentle, fleeting touch, like she’s afraid to ask for more.

You stay like that for what feels like hours, the weight of everything unsaid hanging in the air. But for now, it’s enough. Enough to share the silence, to let yourselves be close again, to let the cracks start to heal.

“I don’t want this to be the end,” she says quietly, breaking the silence.

You open your eyes, your gaze meeting hers in the dim light. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be.”

The faintest smile tugs at her lips, hopeful and tentative, and you let yourself smile back.

For now, it’s enough.

For tonight, it’s everything.

The End

A Note from the Me

Thank you for following The Prophecy's story through these three parts. Your comments, messages, and support have meant the world to me. You've helped shape this story of what happens when perfect meets human, when physics equations meet matters of the heart, when being unbreakable becomes more important than being flawless.

Thank you for being part of this journey (cornball moment lol). If enough people want I can do a 6 year time jump as a short story where they're married.

656 notes · View notes

chleem · 1 month ago

Text

One shot: rafe cameron x yn

Summary: overstimulated and naked in his bed, rafe decides to torture you more; by playing a dangerous round of Russian Roulette.

Genre: violence, angst, smut (unprotected sex

Warnings: swearing, sex, blindfold, tied up, drug usage, use of gun (read at own caution)

⋆.˚ dont copy or translate my work

⋆.˚ dont try this at home or anywhere

♡⸝⸝ inspired by squid game s2 | golf w/rafe

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“Rafe?...Rafe?”

You called out, hearing someone snort a line; most definitely Rafe.

With your hands tied to the headboard, you squirm on his bed, your eyes blindfolded, leaving you unable to see anything around you.

One moment, you were on the beach with your friends; the next, you’re in Rafe Cameron's bedroom, naked and resting your head on his pillow.

He’d already made you cum, using his fingers. But the warmth of him fades, and you start to wonder if he’s gone. You wouldn’t be shocked—he’s always a jackass—but this is a whole new level of low.

Due to the blindfold, your senses sharpen as you hear the sound of heavy footsteps approaching.

“Rafe?” You call out, feeling the bed dip under someone’s weight.

A warm hand slides up your thigh, making you flinch. "Missed me already?" Rafe’s familiar voice cuts through, deep and taunting. You hear a dry chuckle leave his lips, his hand grasping tightly on your inner thigh.

Your fucked-out state and vulnerability no longer finds it funny to be tied up; especially when you’re reminded of how crazy Rafe is. “Undo me right now, Rafe.”

“No- no, baby, we’re just getting started,” he says, command laced in his tone. Catching you by surprise, his hand fully palms your pussy, his fingers tracing lazy circles around it. The cold material of the ring occasionally rubs against your skin, adding to the sensation.

You moan out loud, showing Rafe how good his touches feel.

Then, lips come in contact with yours; kissing you hungrily and lustfully. Rafe’s tongue thrusts in, fighting for dominance in your mouth.

You melt into it, savoring the taste of his lips; sweet yet laced with the lingering flavor of cocaine.

His hand then pinches your clit hard, making you groan.

Rafe chuckles, pulling his lips away from you. As if not enough, you lean in to continue, your hands straining against the rough rope binding you. “Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, at the same time his hand stops.

“You…you wanna, um, play a game?”

The hand around your clit goes up and grabs your face, now tightening it’s hold on your jaw.

“W-what?” You breathe out, unsure of what kinky play is going on here anymore.

You feel a cold, metallic pressure against your temple, the sharpness of it sending a chill through your skin. The weight is undeniably heavy. "R-Rafe?" Your voice trembles, each breath shallow and rapid. "W-what is that—“

“God- shut up,” he snaps.

He drags the blindfold off your face, stuffing it into your mouth in a forceful motion. Your eyes widen, as it slowly focuses on your surroundings.

Rafe’s shirtless as he straddles you; his legs on either side. His eyes stare down at yours, a dark looming look in them. His mouth is slightly opened- and you don’t miss it, the white powder lingering at the bottom of his nose.

Then, from the corner of your eye, you see it; a gun.

Pressed to your temple.

Spiraling into panic, you squirm underneath Rafe, your screams muffled by the cloth.

The cold, unrelenting pressure of the gun against your temple causes tears to form in your eyes, the overwhelming fear making it hard to think.

Rafe chuckles lowly, as if finding this whole thing amusing.

“Shhh, shhh, baby,” he coos, his free hand slipping around the base of your neck, his lame attempt at calming you down. “Y’know Russian roulette?”

You freeze, eyes widening at his words. Your body tenses, the pressure of his hand around your neck making it hard to breathe. Fear floods your chest as the realization sets in, and you struggle against the restraints, your mind racing.

You scream yet again, and this time, tears start to stream down your cheeks.

“Hey, hey-“ His voice rises slightly, sharp with irritation, but strange calmness behind it too. "Relax... you’re not gonna die.”

Your eyebrows furrow at that; mumbling something behind the cloth.

“It’ll be fun, trust me,” Rafe lowers his voice, his eyes flicker with something dark, almost playful, as he watches your reaction, his lips curling into a faint smirk.

“…and if you’re lucky, I give you a little taste on the back end, okay?”

You gulp at his words, the tears flowing down like a waterfall, your body trembling with a mixture of fear and disbelief.

“…if you live,” he adds, his laugh cold and twisted, echoing in the silence that follows.

His hands leave you, just to click open the rotating cylinder of the gun. He turns it around and shows you, that out of the six, one bullet remains in it.

You scream yet again, hoping that someone, anyone, hears you. But Rafe remains unfazed, his focus unwavering as he spins the cylinder back into place.

“You wanna go first?” He asks casually, his tone unsettlingly calm.

You frantically shake your head, but he just smiles at your reaction. Without a word, he moves the gun closer, its cold metal against your temple once more. You feel his warm hand pressing firmly against your stomach, the sensation unnervingly intimate.

You hear the safety click off, your heart racing as you brace yourself, closing your eyes shut.

Click.

The sound echoes, and to your shock, you’re still alive.

Panting, you reopen your eyes, meeting with Rafe’s shocked ones. A breathless laugh escapes him as the same insane smile creeps across his lips, “you lucky bitch.”

The cold metal is gone, now, raised up to his temple.

Shit. Fuck dying, watching someone else die in front of you is worse.

You tug your hands again, wanting to escape, when Rafe leans forward, planting a sloppy kiss to your forehead.

Click.

“Told you it’s fun,” he whispers, replacing the gun to your temple.

Crying has started to take a toll on you; the cloth soaking up from your desperate yelling.

You feel Rafe’s hand slide up your stomach, until it completely cups your tit. He starts to massage it, the sensation confusing your senses.

Click.

Alive. You’re alive. You mumble the words, ‘let go of me’, struggling against him.

“Baby, it’ll be over real soon,” he murmurs, his voice soft but laced with a dark edge. His blue eyes lock onto yours, vacant and glazed, as if consumed by the chaos in his mind.

He pulls on your nipple, feeling your hips buckle up at the touch.

He then holds the gun back to his head.

Click.

He laughs, his hand moving to your other tit.

You feel his erection poking against your stomach, his boxers highlighting the huge dent. Fuck.

You hate how your pussy is purring his name, dripping wet at the sight of it.

“Shit…two more left,” Rafe mutters, a twisted grin tugging at his lips as he places the gun back to your temple, his eyes never leaving yours. “Got anything to say?”

You yell at him, even with the cloth in your mouth, your voice muffled but desperate. You curse him, your words a panicked plea, begging him to let you go.

“Right- you’re all…tied up and shit,” he chuckles, eyes drifting to your mouth.

Click.

Your eyes widen in disbelief at your luck, heart racing as you realize you’re still alive.

“Fuck- I lost,” he mutters, as he lowers the gun, gaze lingering on you with a mix of disbelief and amusement. His fingers tighten around the handle, but his expression shifts—almost as if he's unsure whether to be angry or impressed.

For a moment, there’s silence, the tension still thick between you two, before he scoffs and shakes his head, his smirk returning. "Didn't think you'd make it.”

You yell some curses at him, fidgeting underneath him.

“Okay-okay, I’ll undo this-“

His hand reaches up and undoes the cloth around your mouth; letting it fall lonely onto the floor.

“What the fuck-“ you take a deep breath, “-Is wrong with you -“

He shuts you off by kissing you again, rough and sloppy. His hand comes and cups your jaw again, angling it so he could get more of you. Your hand tugs against the restraints, trying to helplessly break free.

Rafe pulls away, a definite shift in his demeanor. There’s anger in his eyes, his jaw clenched tight as he looks down at you.

Your eyes flicker to the gun in his other hand, and you immediately regret insulting him.

“R-rafe?” Your voice comes out painfully hitched, “drop the fucking gun-“

“Hey—don’t, don’t tell me what to do,” he barks. But as his eyes scan your face that’s streaked with tears, breath shaky, lips trembling, his features soften.

He hesitates, and slowly, his grip loosens on the gun.

Rafe tosses it across the room, even the loud thud causes you to flinch. “It’s gone- alright? Now stop fucking crying.”

You nod, but the tears just keep flowing.

The harshness of his words pales in comparison to the unexpected gentleness in which he holds you. His hands move tenderly as he wipes the tears from your face, his touch almost apologetic.

Rafe leans down, and you close your eyes, expecting a kiss of some sort.

Instead, you feel his tongue swipe against the skin just below your eyes, as if tasting your tears.

“You still want me, y/n?”

His voice dips low beside your ear, carrying a tone that's dark and almost predatory.

No, you think. You’re a fucking psychopath and I almost died-

“-yes,” you breathe out, arching your back.

Rafe snickers, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as he senses the shift in you.

He sits his body up again, and your eyes glue themselves to the solid erection that pokes out his boxers. Rafe pulls it down slightly, just enough to let the huge length spoil out.

“Fuck,” you gasp at the size of him, the ache in your pussy purring louder than before.

He chuckles at your reaction, and his hand forces your legs open. He lets out one of those long exhalations that’s both cocky and disbelieving, “look at you- so fucking wet for me.”

Rafe adjusts himself between your legs, positioning his dick against your entrance.

When he fully hovers over you; it enters, and he buries himself into you in one swift motion. A gasp leaves your lips, your head sinking lower into the pillow.

Rafe doesn’t give you time to adapt to him; his hips slamming at a relentless pace to your core.

Your body jolts with every thrust, his lips coming to nibble on the skin around your neck. “R-rafe,” you whimper, your breaths catching in your throat.

He grunts against your skin, his rough thrusts causing the bed to squeak under him. “So- tight,” he mutters, as one hand slips down, and starts massaging a tit.

He fucks into you as if possessed, leaving you trembling and letting countless moans fall out your mouth.

Your legs wrap around his waist, angling your body to your g-spot.

Rafe chuckles at that action, his pace never faltering. “You like that, baby? Like how I’m fucking you like the slut you are?”

His length smashes itself to your g-spot, and your eyes roll back at the friction, feeling yourself close to the edge.

“Fuck- keep,” a light slap is delivered to your face, fluttering your eyes open. Rafe’s blue eyes pierce down at you, his plump pink lips opened wide at you, “-keep those eyes on me, okay?”

You moan as a response, feeling your climax building in your lower stomach.

The room fills with the harsh sound of wet slaps and urgent moans, the bed squeaking just another instrument added to the mix.

Then, you feel yourself clench around him, a signal that you’re coming.

Rafe doesn’t slow down, not even when you’ve dropped your legs around his waist, your breathing unsteady as he slams himself into you in punishing motions.

“R-rafe, I’m-“

Your words trail off as the knot inside you unravels, waves of pleasure crashing over you.

Your eyes drift shut once more, and you hoped that Rafe would slow down, but he doesn’t; each thrust harder than the last.

It’s now clear to you, he’s more focused on chasing his own high, trying to get deeper in you. “Shh, baby, I’m close too, okay?”

He slides his hand away from your tit, and rests it on the base of your neck. You lie there, soft moans escaping you as Rafe uses you for his own satisfaction.

A few relentless thrusts later, you feel the twitch of his cock inside of you, and before you know it, he’s pulling out, his cum flowing through the tip.

He’s breathless as he watches his own cum drip out, mouth apart in awe.

His eyes then flicker to yours, and you tug against your restraints.

You get ready to protest, hoping that he undos the rope around your wrist.

“What- you think I’m done with you?” Rafe’s throaty laugh leaves his mouth, his hand running through his hair, “this is just the start.”

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

word count: 2.1k

ִ ࣪𖤐 a/n: omg...my first time writing a rafe ff... how is it?? ignore any mistakes, wrote it in the heat of moment. thanks for reading!

other | golf w/rafe

#rafe cameron #rafe x reader #rafe x reader smut #rafe outer banks #rafe smut #outer banks x reader #outer banks x you #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe imagine #rafe obx

423 notes · View notes

whoskimii · 6 months ago

Text

I'M HERE !

★ comfort after a nightmare ft. geto, megumi, yuuji ! ★ (2)

˗ˏˋ geto suguru ´ˎ˗

“you know, i—” suguru cut himself off as he froze, watching the serene surroundings begin to twist. “mhm ?” you smiled, tilting your head. “what were you about to say, sugu' ?” your voice slowly became distorted.

he watched in horror as you morphed into a curse, the creature closing in on you. a terrific, grotesque smile appeared on your usually pretty face. suddenly, your expression was replaced by an exaggerated sad one. “what ? you don't find me... pretty anymore ?” you tilted your head.

he tried to reach out to you but his feet were heavy, glued to the ground, almost like he was wading through thick mud. no matter how hard he struggled, he didn't make it in time. the monster took a toll on your body.

he felt weak. useless.

you have always been sweet, but as the curse surrounded you, its malevolent energy suffocated you. “why didn't you save me, suguru ?” the vulgar curse played with his mind, his ears no longer filled by your gentle voice but by the curse's. “you were no better than them, after all.” he whispered, rage filling his being as he thought about all the non-sorcerers he despised. maybe it was a sign. he could never love a non-sorcerer.

why would you ever be different ?

suguru gasped as he jolted awake. his sweaty chest heaved up and down rapidly, his brain still replaying the nightmare over and over again. even after waking up, it haunted him.

he glanced over his shoulder, searching for your peaceful form. you were sleeping, snuggly wrapped in a warm, comfy blanket. he ran a hand over his face, attempting to calm down his breathing by taking deep, slow breaths. “a nightmare...” he sighed. “it was just a nightmare.” he tried to reassure himself.

he slowly laid back down, rolling on his side to face you. he observed your relaxed features before tracing your lips with his purple orbs. he lifted his right hand and caressed your cheek.

at his touch, you instinctively stirred awake. your pretty eyes fluttered open, still hazy with sleep. “sugu' ?” you managed to mumble. “yeah, it's me...” you snuggled into his side, which prompted him to wrap his arms around you.

even after long minutes, he struggled to find solace.

“i had a nightmare. about you.” he blurted, hoping to find peace after he admitted it. you lifted your head, searching for his eyes but he kept his chin on top of your hair. “you were... a curse. i didn't save you. i'm sorry.”

it was silly to apologize for a simple nightmare but he still felt the need to. “it was just a nightmare... 'm still here. i love you, suguru.” your words brought him the peace he had been craving since he woke up. “i love you too. more than you'll ever know.”

you were different.

˗ˏˋ fushiguro megumi ´ˎ˗

he couldn't even remember how he ended up here. or why. but megumi didn't care. he knew you were also here, he knew how dangerous it was for you, a non-sorcerer.

he ran through the endless forest, desperately searching for you. the trees loomed tall and menacing, making his search more complicated than he wanted. the only sounds filling his ears were his own ragged breathing and your distant pleas for help as you called out for him.

the more he ran towards the direction of your cries, the more he felt like he was getting further and further away from you. no matter how fast he ran, he could never quite catch up. the forest seemed to shift and change, the path twisting in on itself, leading him in continual, maddening circles.

suddenly, he burst into a clearing, only to find his darling surrounded by a group of curses. “megumi...” you whispered, desperate to be saved.

you were terrified.

just the sight made his throat tighten.

he attempted to run towards you as he looked into your eyes filled with despair. his mind was overwhelmed by the fact that he couldn't move. he couldn't do anything except watch as the curses taunted him for being too weak to protect you. his hands trembled as he tried to summon his shikigami but they didn't respond.

finally, you called out his name one last time before being entirely consumed by the creatures. everything faded to black and—

he jumped awake. he looked around, panicked, before realizing that he was in his room. he instinctively looked to his side and saw you, pretty lips slightly parted as soft breaths left you.

he sighed heavily and let himself fall on the mattress. as his back hit the bed, you woke up groggily. “mhm... 'gumi ?” you rubbed your eyes. he cringed internally, cursing at himself for waking you up. “yeah... yeah. sorry.” he breathed. you propped your head on your hand, staring at him with heavy eyelids. megumi could feel your gaze on him. you could easily sense that something was wrong.

“i had a nightmare.” he said before you could even question him. “these curses were around you and... you...” he sighed and rubbed his face. “shit...” he cursed, unable to say more. “hey...” you whispered and straddled him. his hands flew to your waist. “i'm here, 'gumi. forget about that stupid nightmare, okay ?” he hummed. “easier said than done.”

you leaned down and planted a kiss on his lips. “and now ?” he closed his eyes. “i think... i'll be able to forget about it if you keep going.”

˗ˏˋ itadori yuuji ´ˎ˗

“how does it taste ?” he smiled as he watched you sip on the milkshake he just paid for you. “good !” you beamed.

you two were walking through a quiet park. the world seemed safe and warm. for a moment, yuuji felt at peace. but the lovely moment was quickly ended by a cold presence.

as if on cue, the sky darkened and the warmth of the sunny day faded. you could also sense the sudden change in atmosphere as you looked around with growing fear. yuuji felt a sharp pain in his chest, almost as if something was trying to break free from within him.

sukuna.

the teen's eyes widened at the painful realization.

just a second after, he was no longer in control of his own body. he felt himself being overtaken by the king of curses.

of course he attempted to fight back. of course he wished to keep you safe and sound. but of course it was no use as his vision began getting blurred.

and when it cleared again, his worst nightmare laid before him.

there you were, on the ground. you were injured and you looked up at him, your eyes filled with pure fear. he couldn't believe it. it was the first time you looked at him like that.

blood stained the ground around you. your blood. he glanced down at his hands.

his hands were covered in your blood.

he wanted to speak, to reassure you that everything would be okay and that it wasn't him but the only thing that came out was sukuna's voice as he mocked him for his weakness.

suddenly, he woke up in a cold sweat. the nightmare left him with an undeniable sense of guilt.

the darkness within him could potentially hurt his loved ones. it could harm you.

as he looked to his side, he noticed that you were already awake. “baby...? what... go back to sleep—” he didn't have time to finish his sentence. “are you okay ? you had a nightmare, didn't you...? i woke up because you were calling my name.”

he couldn't lie to you.

“i did... i don't wanna talk about it.” he leaned down and kissed your forehead before wrapping his arms around you. his priority was to keep you safe, at all costs. no matter what. “you sure you don't want to...?” you cupped his cheeks. he placed his hand above yours and smiled faintly. “i'm sure.” he whispered. “you don't need to know about it.” you only hummed, not wanting to push it further. “okay...”

he caressed your neck with the tip of his nose, enjoying how soft and warm you were. “i love you, angel. always.” your pinkie met his. “always...”

360 notes · View notes

jenchan-writingmultis · 7 months ago

Text

Sylus SFW/NSFW Headcanons

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

A/n: I wanna emphasize further headcanons for Sylus cause he got me in a chokehold, NSFW isn’t a lot cause I couldn’t think of much. I hope you like this one! Also, when I was writing this, Rafayel was on my screen saying “Babe don’t move, I wanna see if I can see myself in the reflection of your eyes” I am so sorry baby boy.

Also, I apologize for the separated posts, I, once again, reached the Tumblr limit. <( •̀ᴖ•́)>

Pairing: Sylus x AFAB Reader Warning: Toxic! Relationship, Stockholm Syndrome, Kidnapping, Forced Drug Usage, Exhibitionism, BDSM, Sadistic! Sylus, Cussing, Blood, SYLUS! (He gets his own warning) If there are warnings that I didn’t notice, please let me know, thank you!

Masterlist Sylus SFW/NSFW Headcanons (Part One)

Sylus SFW Headcanons (Part Two) ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ NSFW:

✄ He’s into manhandling. No matter what your size is, tall, short, chubby, or not, he will make sure that you know that even if you loom over him, you’ll be the one kneeling.

✄ He’s such a pussy man, he loves how pretty that part of you is, and while he finds you gorgeous in every way, he does have a certain infatuation with his girl down there.

✄ He’s the type to mating press you, he loves the way you whine about how your legs can’t hold out much longer, how you’re already sore, you think he’d give a shit? Your pussy is fluttering around his girth, he’ll stop when he gets to fill you up.

✄ He’s not really into cumming all over your body, he likes spilling it inside, the way your pussy twitches and tightens around his cock, that drives him wild.

✄ Sylus has demonic stamina, especially with how pent up he is, merely stalking you, watching you kiss other men, you think he wouldn’t bruise you up and make your body have the most mind-blowing orgasm? Spoiler alert! He would.

✄ While he has great control over himself, if you try to grind on him, or press your chest on his body, you’ll be bent over whatever counter was nearby and he’s going to breed you there. It’ll be unfortunate if you’re not into exhibitionism because he is.

✄ He doesn’t masturbate, he doesn’t see a need to, but if you insist on sucking him off, who’s he to say no? he’d let you roam your hands on his body if you’d like even.

✄ THIS MAN, IS INTO OVERSTIMULATION, he already loves seeing you cry, what more if it was cause you can’t cum anymore? Whether it’s on his mouth or dick, he’ll keep telling you that you can still cum. Heck, he’ll taunt you for it.

“Don’t tell me that’s all you can do? That’s disappointing, and here I thought that a renowned Hunter could take more.”

✄ He’s into BDSM. He already found you chained up arousing what more if he could tie you up further? Have your tits squished, and your stomach pressed on by ropes that could leave marks on your body? He loves that you’re sobbing cause of how tight it is, watch him fuck pleasure into your pain.

✄ Since he’s into BDSM, his favorite would be sensory deprivation, he likes covering your eyes, gagging you up, and making you guess which toy he’ll be using on you, it could be those round clit vibrators or the phallic-shaped ones. Either way, he uses all kinds of sex toys on you, as long as it gets you to sob underneath that blindfold, he’s satisfied.

✄ Not into quickies, he likes to edge you till you squirt on him, and he doesn’t like making you orgasm too fast, however, if he’s been too busy to give you attention when he wants to, he’ll have your recent outfit ripped off since he got a 20-minute break, and he needs some pent up energy to take out.

“It’s much better if you don’t wear anything whenever I go home pretty, taking off your outfit is troublesome.”

#lnds sylus #lnds x reader #love and deepspace #love and deepspace mc #loveanddeepspace #x reader #sylus smut #sylus x reader #l&ds sylus #sylus #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds #sylus love and deepspace

733 notes · View notes

hannibals-favourite-meal · 1 year ago

Note

Can I request for your Halloween celebration dracula x fem reader with the prompt you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, with loads of fluff and maybe some smut please

.⋆｡A Chance｡⋆.

Count Vlad Dracula x plus size reader

When you are sentenced to death by your village, the monster in the woods gives you a chance at a better life- by his side

Warnings: minor angst (reader is sacrificed by her village), fluff, i kind of followed the Dracula Untold backstory because he is so stupidly hot and I love the angst, love confessions, mentions of blood, Vlad is slightly toxic but what do you expect, biting, sort of implied death? reader is turned

WC: 2.9k

Minors DNI

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

Halloween Celebration

Every town had their own ghost stories, legends that grew from whispers in the night. But the monster that stalked your home was very real and very dangerous. It stalked the shadows between the small homes, picking off the weakest of the population in the dead of night.

Fear was woven into your very existence, taught to you since the moment you could comprehend your parent’s words. Your senses were constantly tuned to the world around you, listening for any extra footsteps, eyes locked on the castle that loomed over your home but it wasn’t enough, not when the elders of the village determined that in order to protect everyone, only one must be sacrificed.

You were the easy choice- young enough to be a valuable meal but not a child anymore, you were pure and soft, unable to protect yourself in the vast wilderness that surrounded you. You screamed and cried and fought them as hard as you could but it did you no good, you still ended up at the steps of the steps of the castle, barefoot and terrified.

Frozen in fear, you trembled as the huge ornate doors opened before you. Candlelight spilled into the night air illuminating your way, but you refused to move. Some baser instinct in your brain told you that if you remained totally still, the monster would leave you alone and once dawn finally broke, you could run to another town.

Alas, it knew you were there. “Come inside before you catch your death of cold.” A voice called to you, urging you into its den. Acting of their own accord, your legs pushed your forwards and into the warmth of the grand hall, even as your mind screamed at you to turn and run.

As soon as you were inside, the doors slammed shut behind you, sealing you into the place that would become your tomb. “Such a skittish little thing aren’t you.” The voice bounced off the towering walls and you whipped your head around, attempting to pinpoint where it came from.

Your heart pounded in your ears as your stomach twisted in fear. A sigh echoed around you. “You needn’t be frightened little one, I will not hurt you.” The voice was far softer now, the tone more of a man comforting a scared animal rather than a deadly creature taunting its prey.

“Please don’t kill me.” You whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut as tightly as you could. The smell of copper and ancient books overwhelmed your senses as someone stood before you.

A soft touch against your full cheek made you flinch but the hand did not move away, in fact the tips of his fingers brushed your skin, travelling slowly downwards until they touched your lips. “How could I destroy something so pure?” He whispered.

Tentatively, you cracked open one eye and your breath caught.

Before you stood the most handsome man you could imagine. Black curls framed a square jaw, dotted with dark stubble. His eyes seemed brown at first but the longer you looked, the more you realised that they were an incredibly deep red. Shallow wrinkles decorated the outside of his eyes and his mouth, making him appear incredibly human. A smile pulled at his thin lips, exposing a pair of deadly fangs. He wore an outfit of delicately embroidered silk, making him appear as a lord or a king.

Your body relaxed, allowing him to cup your jaw with a fondness you couldn’t quite understand. “There you go. See, nothing to be afraid of.” His accent was thick, very much like the way your grandfather used to speak when you were little. “Now, why don’t you tell me why you were outside my home in the dead of night wearing so little?”

It was only then that you looked down at the thin white slip you had been wearing when the men broke into your home and pulled you from your bed. “They brought me here.” You managed to say, your voice thick with tears.

The man’s dark brows lifted, prompting you to continue. You doubted you couldn’t disobey if you tried. “They said it was to stop more deaths.”

His slightly crooked nose twitched as his eyes flashed with anger. “Foolish.” He snarled under his breath, and you gasped as he squeezed your wide hip tightly, you hadn’t even realised that his hand had moved. That seemed to break him from his trance.

“Ah I apologise. To touch a lady like yourself in that way is most inappropriate. Here, let us get you warm and fed.”

Sunset licked at the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of purple and pinks until they bled into the back of night, giving way to the silver of stars. You had slept through the day, too exhausted from the night’s events to even eat once you had bathed.

Your benefactor had provided you with a truly lavish room and clothes that were slightly outdated but made of incredibly expensive materials. He told you to rest and that he would rejoin you the next night since he had some business to take care of during the day. You were so tired, you didn’t question him but now, you wondered what possible business he could be attending to.

Too frightened to leave your room, you settled on looking through the small collection of books on the shelf next to the bed. Many of the titles were in languages you could not understand but there were a few that you recognised. Love stories and tales of valour, stories you were told when you were young before your parents had died.

Absent-mindedly, you plucked one out and turned to the first page. The words were so achingly familiar- a girl is forced into the servitude of a monster by her family. He is wary of her at first but slowly, they begin to fall for one another until she kisses him after they are attacked by the villagers and he nearly perishes. The beast turns back into a man and they spend the rest of their lives in bliss.

“I see you are quite fond of that story as well, it has always been a favourite of mine.” His voice startled you but terror did not accompany it. You looked up from the book to see the man, who had not yet told you his name, leaning against the doorway. Unlike the night before, he wore a simple white tunic and dark trousers.

Heat bloomed across your cheeks as you spotted the way the dark curls on his chest were exposed by the loosely tied shirt. “My mother used to read it to me.” You stammered out, causing his smile to become even softer.

“She must have been a woman with taste.” You nodded absentmindedly, tracing the spine of the book with your fingertips. Silence settled between you and after a moment, he spoke again.

“You may ask questions, I will not punish you for being curious.” He gently took the book from you, placing it back onto the shelf before he took your hands into his own. His skin was cold, unnaturally so, and it sent a chill down your spine.

“What- who are you?” The words flew from your lips. You expected him to show some offence to your question but he just chuckled and brought your hands to his mouth. He placed a kiss on your knuckles.

“I am Count Vlad Dracula and this is my home, as it has been for centuries.” Your breath hitched, he continued. “As for your other question, I am an ancient creature who must consume blood to live. There are many names for my kind but I prefer the term vampire.”

“Are you going to feed from me?” Your voice was barely a whisper, merely a soft exhale forced from your lungs.

“No, I would never wish to mar your perfect skin with something so sinful, not unless you beg.” Your heart jumped.

“Why would I beg for that?” But he just shook his head with a cocky smirk, refusing to answer. “Why didn’t you kill me like the others?”

Dracula sighed heavily and released your hands. “There are many monsters in this world and some are not trapped by the night. Killers and rapists, evil men who lie and manipulate for personal gain. Those are who sustain me. Their blood is sour, tainted, but I refuse to kill those who have done nothing to deserve such a death though their blood is undeniably sweeter.”

His face twisted with shame and despair, the face of a man condemned for his sins no matter how much he repented. You tentatively stepped closer to him. “You’re an avenging angel, a noble monster.”

He scoffed but it was not spiteful, in fact, it almost seemed fond. “I am no angel, I am only fulfilling a duty I was bestowed long ago.”

“You saved me, that seems quite the noble deed.” Something in your chest tugged you to him, compelling you to wrap him in your arms and hide away forever. Instead your fingers curled into the soft sieve of his shirt, anchoring you to him once more.

“Not as noble as one might think. But let us not dwell on that, you must be famished. I think a hot meal will do you some good and then maybe you can read to me by the fire.” He picked up the book once more as he gestured for you to wrap your arm through his own. You dutifully obeyed, ignoring the feeling of his muscular bicep in your hands as he led you away.

“Has this always been your home?” You asked, desperate for an interruption to the silence between you. Dracula’s eyes flicked to you briefly, the red of his irises flickering in the candlelight of the hall.

“No, for much of my human life, I lived in a village not too dissimilar to your own. But that was a very long time ago and I prefer not to think on the past.” Your mouth snapped shut and you nodded in feigned understanding.

Your combined footsteps echoed behind you, leaving ghosts of yourselves to follow as you journeyed into the heart of the palace you had feared for so long.

——————

Most days followed this pattern, you would sleep until early evening when Dracula would rouse you with a gentle knock at the door. He would escort you to the dining room, you would eat while he sipped at a goblet of what looked to be wine and then you both would settle in one of his many sitting rooms with a book, a new one each time. Sometimes he would tell you stories of his undead life, painting vivid pictures of far away lands and unique people. On occasion, he would detail his affliction, giving you glimpses of how this all came to be.

Then, as midnight struck, he would leave you then with a gentle kiss to your knuckles. He would return hours later, smelling of the earth and blood.

In those moments, his eyes were always wild. In those moments, his chest puffed with air though he did not need to breathe. It did something inexplicable to you, a fire would flicker to life in your belly as wetness pooled at the apex of your thighs. He would look at you as his nostrils flared, undoubtedly inhaling your scent. He would tear himself from your presence and retreat to his chambers in the back of the palace where you were forbidden to go.

By the next evening, he would be himself once more.

“Vlad?” The vampire opened a single eye in acknowledgement from where his head lay in your lap. One of your hands was buried in his black curls, while the other held up a book which you quickly discarded to the side so you could rest your palm against his sternum. When you first touched his chest like that, the lack of a heartbeat greatly disturbed you but now, it was strangely comforting.

“What is it my sunlight?” You tried to smile at him but you knew he could see right through you.

“Do you promise not to get mad at me?” He chuckled, his broad chest shaking beneath your hand.

“I will never get mad at you.” You breathed out a heavy sigh of relief before speaking again.

“Why have you kept me here so long? I would think that you do not need a human around that you will not feed off of. I can’t see myself providing you any real use.” His other eye snapped open and part of you screamed to stop talking, to take it back under the guise of you being too hot but another part was curious about his answer. “I suppose a woman has other uses but you have not touched me outside of moments like this so-“

Faster than you could comprehend, Vlad sat up straight, his face mere inches from yours. “Where did you come up with these ideas?”

“I-“

“If you wanted to leave, you could just leave but I guarantee the village won’t take you back.” He snarled spitefully. He scoffed and stood from the sofa but you quickly followed. Before you could think, you grabbed his hand.

The growl that escaped his lips was that of a vicious beast as he bared his deadly fangs at you, his eyes flashing bright red. A brief spike of fear raced through you and you gasped. Suddenly, he was back to himself. “I frighten you, that’s why you want to leave.”

You quickly shook your head, your grip upon his wrist tightening though you would be no match against his strength. “I am more frightened of the spiders in my room than I am of you. You tell me you are a monster yet you have never hurt me, you have been kinder to me than most humans I have met. I wonder about those things because I feel useless to you. You ask nothing of me in exchange for your home, your protection, your food. And I fear that one day you will desire something of me that I cannot give and I will have to leave you.”

His broad shoulders sagged as he faced you once more. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.” He murmured in reverence. “And I am a selfish, selfish man.”

“To keep you here, in my home, to dress you in clothes of my choosing, to have you read my books- it is selfish, entirely so but I find that I am unable to part from you. Your very existence calls to me, urges me to do terrible things just to keep myself from drinking you down. You have enchanted me, hypnotised me from the moment you stepped foot in my home and I cannot explain it. It feels as if my heart has known you for years.” Every word he spoke resonated through your chest, articulating the feelings that swirled around your mind aimlessly. You stepped closer to him and his arms wrapped around your thick waist.

“You make me feel human again.” He pulled you closer, your breasts brushed against his strong chest. “You remind me what it is to love and to be loved. You have given me a chance to live anew and I wish to give you the same chance, no matter how selfish it may be.” His right hand trailed up your arm, coming to rest at the base of your throat, his thumb pressed against the frantic beating of your pulse.

“I want to taint you, to condemn your soul to hell as long as it means that you can be by my side until eternity. I keep you here because I need you, because I crave you like the tide craves the moon, like flowers crave the sun. You are the purpose of my undead existence, I have lost too much already and I will not lose you too.”

Your eyelashes fluttered against the steel of your cheek as the tip of his nose brushed against your own. “You will never lose me, I am entirely, wholly yours.” His groan echoed through your chest, it made your skin explode in goosebumps.

“Don’t say that my sunshine.”

“Why not?” Your gaze was fixated upon his lips, eager to finally feel them upon your own.

“Because I really will make you mine. I will turn you, make you into a monster like me.” But his tone was eager, filled with desire and longing for just that.

“Then give me a chance for an everlasting life- with you.” There was a moment’s pause and then he ducked his head, his lips barely brushing against yours as they travelled down your jaw and moved along your throat, coming to rest where his thumb had been but he did not bite.

“Please Vlad.” You begged, burying your hands in his hair once more.

“I told you that you would beg for this.” He teased before his jaw hinged open and he sunk his fangs into your warm skin, quickly draining away your mortal life. You clung to the monster who was destined to kill you and all you could think was that maybe the fear you felt for so long was only a restlessness for a new beginning.

Slashers Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Join my taglist!

All works

@im-a-slut-for-fluff @alexxavicry @ravenwings73 @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @silverfire475 @psychadelichues @mvyalx @faefanatic @evansqueen54 @anamiad00msday @th3slothy @princess76179 @Lanielagenev @luvvvjada @Lucypaulette @midnight-shadow-va @km-ffluv

1K notes · View notes

alwaysmoncheri · 11 months ago

Text

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you and jason have a complicated relationship, but when you find yourself in a troubling situation, jason just happens to be your emergency contact

𝐜𝐰: female!reader, minimal swearing, sexual assault, cat calling, assault, violence, 1.5k, jason todd x reader

midnights in gotham city smell distinctly of blood. the dark streets are littered with corpses of victims who stain the rubble red. crime is high and murder remains rampant among the homeless people living on the streets. you know walking home alone at this hour alongside the hundreds of criminals that hide in the shadows is a terrible idea. but your shift at the library ran late tonight and you had no other means of transportation, hence the reason why you find yourself alone in a dark alley far from the comfort and safety of your apartment.

the faint footsteps of desperate strangers lurk behind you, the sound echoes through the night, and your skin crawls with anticipation of what’s to follow. nothing good comes from the situation that you’ve found yourself in and that’s what brings you to pull out your phone and tap on the first contact that pops up on your screen.

jason.

your relationship with jason is complicated. like most things in your life you suppose. but jason is the only one who’s almost always by your side. maybe that’s part of what possessed you to click on his name on your phone and bring it up to your ear with trembling fingers.

“hey, sweet—”

“jason, I think i’m being followed.” you breathe out quickly and you don't dare to peek so much as a glance behind you.

“shit. hang on, babe. just—”

jason's voice, laced with urgency, cuts through the tense night as the echo of your footsteps intensifies. the sounds of the desolate alley amplify, creating an eerie symphony of fear and impending danger.

“i’m so scared, jay,” your shaky voice reaches jason, carrying the weight of dread as if it were a tangible thing. in response, jason's voice becomes a soothing anchor, his words a balm to your frayed nerves.

“hey, it’s okay, sweetheart. tell me where you are,” jason's voice, steady and reassuring, breaks through the chaos. your breath catches as you fumble to provide your location, the darkness of the alley making every detail obscure.

“I don’t know, I think in an alley near the corner of 5th and main. I thought it would be quicker. jason, please hurry,” desperation seeps into your words, painting a vivid picture of the peril you find yourself in.

“just hang on, i’m on my way,” jason's promise becomes a lifeline, a lifeline you desperately clutch onto. the plea, "don’t hang up, please don’t hang up," echoes through the phone, the fear of losing that connection palpable.

“I won’t, honey. just keep telling me what’s going on, okay?” jason's voice is a steady stream of reassurance, a counterpoint to the mounting chaos.

your breath quickens as you confess, "there’s multiple, jay."

“multiple what? sweetheart, talk to me,” jason's concern deepens, the gravity of the situation reflected in the intensity of his inquiry.

“people, there’s multiple people. they’re still following me, and I can’t lose them,” your voice quivers, painting a chilling image of the shadows closing in.

“i’m almost there, okay? just hang on a little longer, can you do that for me?” jason’s words are a beacon of hope, urging you to endure the storm just a little while longer.

“they’re getting closer. shit,” panic infuses your voice as the chase intensifies. jason senses the urgency, a quiet determination in his response.

the abrupt cut-off and your distressed cry for help and jason’s call to you, "y/n!?" mark the harrowing turn. the phone, a lifeline moments ago, is silenced by a crushing foot, an audible confirmation of the looming threat.

“looks like your boyfriend isn’t going to make it, gorgeous,” a sinister voice taunts, the malevolence palpable in the dimly lit alley. the struggle intensifies, and your defiant words ring through the night.

“get off of me, you creep!” your voice is a mix of fear and defiance, a visceral response to the encroaching menace.

“watch your tone, sweetie,” a chilling warning hangs in the air as they pin you down. the confrontation takes a dark turn as you spit in their faces, a desperate act of resistance.

“such a shame that’s what you’re using such a pretty mouth for,” a sinister chuckle underscores the dehumanizing intent, leaving a bitter taste in the tense air.

“that’s alright, we don’t want you for your mouth anyway,” a chilling statement, a precursor to unspeakable horrors, hangs over the alley.

in the clash of desperation and violence, the air changes as jason, your vigilante savior, descends upon the scene like a guardian angel emerging from the shadows. the sounds of a fierce struggle ensue, muffled grunts and the scuff of boots on concrete. with a swift, powerful intervention, the men are knocked out and when they loosen their grip you sink to the ground with defeat and despair. you don’t even notice you’re crying until jason gently prys your hands from your face and rubs your tears away with the rough thumb of his leather glove

then, in one swift motion, jason's strong, reassuring arms envelop you, pulling you into an embrace that feels like sanctuary. relief washes over you, grounding you in the reality of his protective presence.

“it's okay, sweetheart. you're safe now,” jason's voice, previously a lifeline over the phone, now echoes directly into your ear, a soothing melody that erases the lingering echoes of fear. his words are a healing balm, mending the wounds of terror inflicted upon your psyche.

the dimly lit alley transforms from a nightmare into a haven under the watchful gaze of your friend. the tension in your shoulders eases, and the erratic beat of your heart gradually steadies as you bask in the warmth of his reassuring touch.

“i've got you, y/n. you're safe,” jason whispers, the warmth of his breath against your ear a soothing balm to the wounds inflicted by fear. the resonance of those words sinking deep into the recesses of your shaken soul. his presence is a shield against the haunting memories of the alley, a reassurance that the nightmare is over.

the shattered phone lies forgotten, a casualty of the struggle, as jason continues to shield you from the residual fear. he tilts your chin up gently, meeting your eyes with an unwavering gaze that speaks volumes of his commitment and protective instinct.

“let's get you home,” jason murmurs, his fingers tenderly brushing away a stray strand of hair from your face. together, you navigate the now-quiet alley, the looming threat replaced by the solid ground beneath your feet and the reassuring touch of the person who faced the darkness on your behalf.

as you approach the familiar comfort of your apartment, jason's protective hold lingers. “are you okay?” he asks, his voice a gentle murmur that eases the residual tension in your body. you nod against his chest, words escaping you as relief and gratitude flood your senses.

the apartment door closes with a muffled thud, shutting out the ominous whispers of the night. jason, ever watchful, guides you towards the bathroom. the soft hum of the overhead light bathes the space in a gentle glow, revealing the porcelain sink and mirror.

you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror – disheveled, eyes wide with residual fear. without a word, jason turns on the faucet, letting the water flow until it reaches a soothing warmth. his fingers graze yours, urging you to lean over the sink.

the splashing water echoes in the small room as jason's hands cup and scoop, the liquid cascading over your face. the feel of his fingers against your skin is both tender and firm, each touch a cleansing ritual that washes away the remnants of the night.

you glance up into the mirror, meeting jason's eyes. there's an unspoken understanding as his hands move methodically, the cool water providing a refreshing contrast to the heated intensity of the ordeal. the sensation is grounding, a simple act of care that transcends words.

as you straighten up, a vulnerability lingers in your gaze. you turn off the faucet, and the silence hangs in the air. the wet droplets cling to your skin, a tangible reminder of the shared intimacy in this simple act of cleansing. jason's hands linger on your face, his fingers tracing a silent promise. the air in the bathroom holds a charged stillness, the transition from fear to intimacy palpable.

the urgency of the night lingers in your eyes. “stay, jason, please,” the plea escapes your lips, a raw, desperate plea that echoes in the confined space of the bathroom. his gaze meets yours, and for a moment, the weight of the world seems to shift.

there's a pause, a heartbeat suspended in time, before jason's expression softens. his agreement is wordless, a nod that carries the promise of a shared refuge in the night.

the journey from the bathroom to the bedroom is taken in tandem, the touch of his hand on the small of your back a grounding force. the mattress welcomes you both, and the room is immersed in the soft glow of bedside lamps. the night unfolds with shared breaths and jason's hand finding yours.

“thank you.” you whisper to him under the sheets, the warmth of his body next to you radiating into your own, “thank you for protecting me.”

“i’ll always protect you, sweetheart.”

masterlist . jason todd masterlist . taglist

thank you for reading, my darling! remember to like! reblog! and comment! i’ll give you a smooch if you do, ily! send requests to my inbox!

591 notes · View notes

niteskysx · 9 days ago

Text

ghostface nac x reader

Warnings: psychological manipulation, stalking, established relationship ig?

(I wrote this in between appointments over the course of several months… haven't even properly edited this thing, idk how to feel about it. lmk 😭 also, it's not smutty at all, just a collection of drabbles filled with tension, I guess? sjdkejd)

The sound of your frantic breathing filled the quiet of your darkened living room. You pressed yourself against the wall, heart pounding as you clutched a lamp, your last line of defense.

Somewhere in the shadows, you could hear his boots against the floorboards. Slow. Deliberate. He was in no hurry. “I know you’re here,” his voice called out, low and taunting. “Come on out, sweetheart. We both know how this ends.” Tears blurred your vision as you pressed a trembling hand to your mouth, trying to muffle your cries. You’d seen his face—or at least his mask—at the scene of the crime. You’d been at the wrong place at the wrong time, and now he was here to silence you for good. A floorboard creaked nearby. You tried to bolt as fast as possible- “Ah, there she is!” he called out, his tone almost playful as he pursued you.

You ran blindly, crashing into furniture and stumbling in the dark until you reached the hallway. Just as you turned to glance behind you, his hand shot out, gripping your arm. You screamed, wrenching yourself free and stumbling backward, only to trip over a rug and fall to the floor.

You scrambled back against the wall, your knees tucked to your chest as he approached, his knife glinting in the faint light.

The sounds of your sobs filled the room, each breath a desperate gasp as you pressed yourself further into the wall.

The knife was still in his hand, but his posture had changed—no longer looming over you with the intent to kill, but kneeling down to your level, something softer in his eyes, though it remained guarded.

"Please," you gasped between sobs, your hands clutching the fabric of your shirt. "I don’t want to die. Please.”

But something shifted in him. His grip on the knife loosened, and he took a slow step back. For a moment, he simply stared at you, your tears streaking your cheeks, your body trembling like a frightened, frigid ittle thing...

Without a word, he reached up and removed the mask.

Your breath hitched.

He was too handsome to be a killer. His hair was a messy brown. His skin glowed faintly in the dim light, and his eyes—dark, intense—scanned your face with an expression you couldn’t read. He smelled of cologne and sweat, a mixture of danger and something oddly intoxicating.

He crouched down to your level, his hand lowering the knife to the ground, leaving it forgotten on the floor. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice soft now, almost tender. “Hey, it’s okay.”

Your chest heaved as you stared at him, confused and terrified. What was happening?

His eyes stayed fixed on you, his movements slow and deliberate as he leaned closer. You flinched, but he didn’t stop. Instead, he reached out, one hand softly grazing your cheek, wiping away a tear as he whispered, "Hey... it’s okay... it’s okay."

Your lips quivered as you tried to speak, but no sound came out.

“Shh,” he whispered, his thumb tracing your jawline, making you shiver. “It’s okay.” You froze, unsure of what to do. His other hand’s thumb, almost without thinking, traced upon your top and bottom lip.

You didn’t move, your mind spinning as his face inched closer to yours. His breath ghosted over your lips, and you instinctively turned your head slightly, but his hand on your cheek kept you in place. He didn’t want to hurt you, not like this– not anymore. But why?

“Hey,” he murmured again, his voice so soft now it almost broke you. “Look at me.”

Against your better judgment, you did.

“See?” he whispered, his lips barely a breath away from yours. “It’s okay… it’s okay.” He kept repeating it, over and over, like a mantra, as his thumb traced your lips more insistently, his touch growing more desperate and intimate.

You stared up at him, wide-eyed, confused, and fearful. Your voice trembled as you managed to force the words out.

"Wha—what are you doing?" your breath hitched, the confusion still heavy in your voice.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his eyes drifted down to your lips once again, and his hand slowly slid from your cheek to your jaw, fingers gently cupping your face.

Then, without warning, he leaned in closer, his lips brushed against yours in a hesitant, slow motion. You froze, your breath catching in your throat as his lips pressed more firmly against yours. He kissed you deeper then, a rush of heat flooding his chest as his tongue slipped past your lips. You gasped, a sharp sound escaping as you instinctively tensed at the sensation. The kiss, rough and hungry, was a sharp contrast to the gentleness he had shown moments before. He could feel your surprise to the kiss; the way your body stiffened, but he didn’t stop— his hands began moving to your neck, holding you in place as he deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth with an intensity that startled even him.

The warmth of your breath mingled with his… The feel of your heartbeat against his chest as you let out a soft, surprised gasp before the kiss consumed you. The frantic beating of your heart mirrored his own, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away, not when he was so consumed by the moment.

And in that brief moment, everything else- your fear, the trembling… the knife that was once in his hand—seemed to vanish entirely.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

It had been days since he first broke into your apartment. Weeks, actually. Ever since that night, he had been showing up uninvited—always late, always in his usual Ghostface attire. Sometimes just to watch a movie, raid your kitchen, or talk. Other times… to do other things.

The guilt was suffocating, growing heavier with each passing day. This had gone on for too long now. You had to tell someone. That the Ghostface killer—the masked murderer terrorizing the city—was your secret late-night rendezvous. And worse? You didn’t even know his real name!

So, you made a decision. If you couldn’t stop him, if you couldn’t stop yourself, then you could at least try to make sense of it all. Therapy was supposed to help with that, right? Surely, someone would understand.

You clutched your bag tightly as you entered the waiting room, nerves already frayed. This was supposed to be your safe space, the one place where you could untangle the chaos in your mind—especially after him.

But then, as if the universe itself was mocking you, he walked out of the office.

“Thanks, Dr. Goldman. I’ve never felt better!” he said, flashing an exaggerated grin, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Your heart plummeted. No. No, this couldn’t be happening.

There he was, standing in the doorway, hands shoved casually into the pockets of his maroon leather jacket. When his gaze met yours, his smirk spread like wildfire.

“Well, fancy seeing you here,” he drawled, leaning lazily against the doorframe.

You froze, your entire body going cold.

“What… what are you doing here?” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“Oh, just taking care of my mental health,” he said smoothly, mock sincerity lacing his tone. “Isn’t that what they say? Therapy is good for the soul.”

Dr. Goldman glanced between the two of you, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “Do you two know each other?”

Nick didn’t hesitate. “Of course,” he said with an easy smirk. “We’ve got history, don’t we?”

You shook your head quickly. “No. We don’t.”

His grin widened. “Don’t be shy,” he teased, stepping closer. His voice dipped into something quieter, something meant just for you. “Tell him how close we’ve gotten.”

Your face burned, anger rising in your chest, but somehow, you couldn’t look away from his gaze.

Dr. Goldman cleared his throat. “Well, [Y/N], I’m ready whenever you are.” He stepped away awkwardly, sensing the tension. “I’ll be in my office.”

As soon as Dr. Goldman disappeared, Ghostface—or Nick, as you’d overheard him introduce himself—took a step closer to you, that cocky grin not leaving his face.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he murmured, his tone casual, but his eyes—sharp, knowing—betrayed him. “But then again… I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. After everything, I’d need a therapist too.”

You swallowed hard, throat suddenly dry. “W-what are you doing here? Are you following me?”

He feigned a look of offense before grinning wider. “What, you think I don’t have issues to work out? Come on, sweetheart, even psychos have feelings.” He leaned in slightly, the scent of his cologne—spice and danger—filling your senses. “But don’t worry. I’m cured now.”

Jaw clenched, you turned sharply, making your way toward the office—until you felt his fingers wrap around your wrist.

Gently. Not enough to hurt, but just enough to stop you.

Then, before you could pull away, he leaned in close, breath warm against your ear. His voice was nothing more than a whisper.

“Go ahead,” he murmured. “Tell him all about me.”

Your knees nearly buckled.

But you forced yourself to keep moving, stepping into the office with your entire body trembling.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

You're curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, the soft hum of the TV filling the empty space around you. Your hair is pulled up in a messy bun, a few strands falling loose against your face. The house feels too quiet without your parents here—eerily still, like it's waiting for something. Every small creak of the walls settling makes your stomach tighten, every shadow in the dim light of the screen seems darker, deeper.

You try to shake the feeling, telling yourself it’s just your imagination. But then—

You hear a sound of the back door clicking shut.

Your entire body goes rigid. The kitchen.

Your breath catches in your throat as you strain to listen. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate. The unmistakable rustle of someone moving through your house.

Not again...

“Nice place,” his familiar, cocky voice called out from the kitchen.

Your stomach twists. No. No, no, no. How did he get in?

You shove the blanket off, your heartbeat a frantic hammering in your ears as you rush toward the kitchen.

There he was, rummaging through the cabinets like he owned the place. His leather jacket hung loosely on his broad shoulders, and his fluffy hair was slightly disheveled. He radiated a casual arrogance that both terrified and infuriated you.

“What are you doing here?” you demand, your voice sharp, desperate to keep steady.

He doesn’t even look at you, instead pulling out a box of cereal, inspecting it like he’s making himself at home. “What does it look like? I’m hungry.”

He was getting under your skin. “You can’t just—just be here. You need to leave!”

Finally, he turns to face you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Relax, princess. Your parents are out of town, aren’t they? Won’t be back for…what, a week?”

Your breath hitches. “H-how do you know that?”

He shrugged, plucking a banana from the fruit bowl and peeling it. “I know a lot of things.”

“Get out,” you say, forcing even more steel into your voice, but it still shakes.

He takes a slow bite of the banana, leaning casually against the counter. Then, with an easy shrug, he says it—like a dare, like he already knows you won’t.

“Make me.”

You grit your teeth in anger and try to grab the stack of mail he had started flipping through, but he easily holds it out of your reach.

“Oh, no, no,” he says, pulling the envelopes further away. “Say please first.”

Your brows furrow. “What?”

His smirk widens as he leans closer, voice dipping into something low and teasing. “Say… please. Come on, you can do it. Please.”

She hesitated, blinking at him in disbelief.

“Come on,” he coaxed, holding the mail just out of reach. “It’s not that hard. ‘Please, mister terrifying murderer who broke into my house, stop opening my mail.’”

Your face burns as you mutter, “Please.”

“What was that?” He cups a hand to his ear, leaning in mockingly.

“Please!” you say louder, your voice shaking with anger and humiliation.

“Ah, there you go!” He hands you the mail, but not before brushing his fingers against yours just long enough to send a shiver down your spine.

“Now,” he says, tone shifting from playful to something sharper, more curious. “What is it about you?”

Your pulse quickens. “What are you talking about?”

He sets the banana down and turns toward you fully, “You. What’s so special about you?”

You step back, bumping into the counter as he stalks closer.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, tilting his head like he’s studying you. “I don’t let people go. Ever. So what is it? What, you got some deep, tragic childhood trauma? Mommy didn’t love you? Daddy wasn’t around? There’s got to be something, right?”

You swallow hard, shaking your head. “What? N-no. Th-there’s nothing—”

“Or,” he interrupts, leaning in so your faces are inches apart, “is it just because I’m a guy? Because, yeah, I’ve got my moments, but this?” He gestures between you. “This isn’t me. I don’t do this. I don’t let people go. So what the hell is it? Hmm?”

His eyes flick down to your lips briefly before he steps back with a frustrated laugh, running a hand through his hair. “God, you’re such a headache.”

And just like that, he turns back to the cabinets, rifling through them like nothing had happened.

tags aka my lovelies: @lalavenderangel @violetidk @nicholaschavezslut69 @blackynsupremacy @motherismotheringggg @hoffmansgirl @greengoblinswifey @emluvsuxo @iamsebastiansstan @thekhloediary @blog-o-meter

143 notes · View notes

kkeidawrites · 4 months ago

Text

He Watches

Welcome to Day 4 of Blacktober!

The dark hue of Gotham City illuminated the sanctuary of the woman currently in bed. She tossed and turned on the linen, her forehead a perfect line of sweat and curls right under her hairline.

Her face contorted, a tint in her brow as she tossed to her right side, her hand suddenly grip the sheets by her face.

“Quiet tonight are we?” A deep voice taunts.

Y/n gasps at the voice but, tosses again; her head falling back against her pillow as she presses both hands to her crotch, letting out a whimper.

“What have we agreed on?” Soft buzzing could be heard from the chuckling man sitting in the corner of the room where the light of the moon shined through the large balcony window.

It glittered on the white patch of hair that nestled between the red tresses on top of his head. Jason Todd, known as the Red Hood to the Gotham civilians watched from his lounged position holding a red button in his right hand as his left cushioned his chin.

His thumb rolled up on the remote he was holding, a click was heard and the vibrating noise rose in volume and so did Y/n’s moans she could no longer hide away.

Jason smirks as he watches his lover wither on her bed. The white silk sheets that she so often kept clean were now becoming soaked in her essence flowing from between her legs.

Not knowing where to put her hands, Y/n grips her sheets as her legs were now open and Jason could finally see the vibrator peeking from inside of her pussy.

“Jason, oh my god!” She finally cries out and Jason chuckles quietly.

“I thought you just told me to watch? I can’t go back on your request, doll.” He says and Y/n groans in frustration.

To make things more interesting he presses up so the vibrator was on the highest setting on the remote and Y/n screams.

She tussles around in the bed for another 30 seconds until her lower body was thrusted in the air and freezes. Her cum leaks down her legs and the vibrator finally slips out of her pussy.

Y/n then curls up on her bed, knees up to her chest as she pants, her body shivering here and there.

While she collected herself, a shadow loomed over her body and Y/n looks up to see Jason holding the now wet vibrator in his right hand with a large grin on his lips.

“Good job babe. You lasted 45 minutes without coming. Now then,” he holds up a dildo as his grin turns sinister.

“Why don’t we try something more…extreme?”

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Enjoy and make sure you reblog, like, and comment!

Also I’m glad I was able to include Jason having red hair because he is a natural red head that just dyed his hair black.

Happy Blacktober!

#fanfiction #my writing #black reader #black!reader #jason todd smut #batman jason todd #red hood #jason todd x black reader #jason todd x black!reader #x black y/n #x black fem reader #black female reader #x black reader #dc x black!reader #dc x black reader #dc x reader #31 days of blacktober #blacktober

213 notes · View notes

eratosmusings · 8 months ago

Text

Stolen Destiny (IV)

summary: a proposal

warnings: adults only, all characters are over 18, past suicide, misogyny, allusions to murder, dark themes, canon typical violence, smut in future chapters

word count: 2k

previous chapter / dividers / masterlist

“The spitting image of your mother,” you hear more than once. Anger radiates from your father every time, yet he says nothing. He cannot in front of so many. How could he explain that the ghost of your mother fills him with such rage?

It’s a day spent in a stadium watching physical feats. It’s not all that entertaining in itself, but the guests are plied with drinks and food enough to not care. They place bets amongst themselves and you’re sure a few of them will end their visit here without a solari to their name. You want nothing more than to steal Irulan for the day, but duty kept her bound to the subjects who desired her attention.

You weave through the crowd and let yourself be distracted by conversation with the lower houses. He watches. You can feel the weight of his gaze every time you smile or laugh or speak or breathe.

“Looks like you’ve got someone’s attention,” one of the daughters giggles loudly. Others turn their heads. You brush it off and continue the conversation you’d been having about the next day's entertainment—an ancient play written before the Jihad.

The whispers of his attention follow you like his eyes. When it becomes overbearing you avoid it all and focus on the events in the arena. Men striking the ground with long poles to launch themselves over raised bars to see how far they land. The tightness in your shoulders eases when Feyd-Rautha finally breaks from the shadows. His looming figure shields you from the rays of the setting sun and the sight of intruding eyes as he stands beside you. “What uses would such a skill have?” he ponders.

“Perhaps none,” you say. “But the strength they must build is noteworthy. These men train with swords and spears just as much as their poles.”

He hums in response as one of the men clears the bar. He lands the furthest you’ve seen, but his footing is poor. He doesn’t shout, though from his limp as walks away it’s evident the attempt injured him. “Perhaps they should train more on how they land.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Yes, perhaps.”

Together you watch in silence as the event rolls into the next.

“I must admit my surprise at your appearance today, my lady. I had thought you preferred a more subdued look.”

A man runs with a spear in hand. Inches from a line they’d drawn in the grass he throws it. “That is my father’s preference.” The tip embeds itself in the ground yards away. “Is it yours as well?”

He does not answer. He cannot. Paul invades the space between you. “Giedi Prime is a desolate place, my lady. Color and beauty do not survive under their black sun.” He is wrong. Beauty raised under that sun stands beside him. “You would be at place in Caladan. The sunset would envy your beauty.” That has nothing to do with what you had asked.

“I had not realized you were a poet,” Feyd-Rautha taunts and a smile nearly bends your lips.

“How could one not be in the presence of such a divine creature?”

“You are too kind.” You step away from him, wishing he’d have kept his distance. Had his stares not been enough? Would he not get the opportunity to humiliate you once again in a few hours? “If you’ll excuse me.” That’s all you leave them with. You can bear him no longer.

Fandral keeps a better eye on you. You’re barely down a flight of stairs before he is at your side. It’s a silent return to the castle. He has something to say, you see it in the way his mouth twitches every so often as he sits across from you in the vehicle, but he lets you enjoy the peace for a bit longer.

You have no choice in your evening attire. A dress that’s a sister to the ones the other women will wear. Makeup that will be seen from afar. It’s the only thing you don’t mind for the performance.

Despite your early departure, you’re late to the small room off the Great Hall. Fandral doesn’t question the delay. You suspect he knows the reason well enough now. Disapproval colors his cheeks.

Your tardiness is unnecessary. Paul has not arrived yet. Still, the swordmaster reprimands you for it. You tune it out until you’re free. It’s a small comfort to see the woman with your swords again. She offers encouragement with them before retreating with the others. Enviously you watch. How you wish Irulan were here with you.

Paul arrives only minutes before your set to perform. He doesn’t receive the same scolding you had. He only has time to don his own swords while you and the others begin to file out. A small blessing.

You let your eyes unfocus as you step into the crowded hall. It’s better to not see the faces. Or his. Each pluck of a string and swirl of a skirt brings you closer to the end. As the clang echos when your swords meet for the first time, you think of how easy it would be to stab at his skin. The blade is dull, but with enough speed and force it wouldn’t be of much consequence. He didn’t have his shield.

The thought ends as the sword once more slips out of your hand. His hand locks around yours and pulls. His chest presses against your back in a mockery of an embrace. Your eyes burn as they come back in focus. Or perhaps it’s the green fire in his as they bore into you from above.

The music wans and the applause rises. You try to escape his arms, but he holds firm. It’s a quick dip of his gaze that signals his intent. Your face moves an inch in time for his lips to brush against your cheek. Whistles echo in the deafening noise.

Feyd-Rautha watches from his seat at the head table. He’s too far to make out his face, but he’s impossible to not recognize. The degradation weighs heavy in your throat. A day ago he’d seen you as a worthy opponent. How must he see you now?

You’re freed from the cage of his arms. You bow with the others but do not stay. You cannot soak in the humiliation a moment longer.

Paul calls for you. You do not stop. Your name bounces off the walls of the corridor as you hope he’ll end his pursuit. But he does not allow such a reprieve. A hand grips your upper arm.

“Let me go,” you hiss, trying to pull free. He does not.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.” He rounds on you, confusion written in the lines of his face. “I was caught up in the moment. I’m sorry.” He means it. You do not care. “Return with me, please. It’s your celebration.”

“I cannot. I must return to my room.”

“Please. Irulan wishes to see you.”

Disgust sours your tongue. How poorly his father had raised him. “I am sure the princess would prefer you to return to her alone. She has had enough humiliation tonight, I think.”

His hand falls away. “Humiliation?”

You scoff. “I understand it may be hard for you to understand, but no woman wants to see her future husband kiss another. Especially not in front of so many people.”

The bastard laughs. When he sees the unimpressed look on your face, he asks, “Have I not made my intentions obvious?” He smiles. “The dance is an old engagement tradition on Caladan.” He chuckles, shakes his head, and adds, “Well a condensed version. The old one was much longer.”

Time. That is what you tell him you need. And it is. To reverse it. To retract the knowledge of his impending proposal. To revoke the invitation extended to the Atreides. To undo his very conception. Time is all you need.

He misunderstands your shock for one of pleasure and allows you to return to your room unaccompanied. Fandral waits by the closed door. "Did you know?"

"The young lord mentioned his desire for a marriage yesterday. He asked I not tell you."

"And since when did you serve House Atreides?"

"It is a good match, my lady. You would be safe under his protection."

You push the door open. "You may return to your normal post, Fandral. I require a personal guard no longer."

Sleep comes only briefly. The wake in the dark, the image of an achromatic silhouette contrasted against the warm hues of sunrise embedded in your vision. You dress quickly and slip through the corridors. The sounds of the party still linger. It's too easy to go unnoticed and begin the hour-long hike. Every step springs forward a new emotion. Frustration. Despair. Disgust. Terror. Fury.

Solace as you hear a rock skitter across the path behind you. You continue on without looking back or calling to him. He knows you know. Nothing more needs to be said yet. You reach the same spot you'd picniced days before in that blissful silence. Only when the sky begins to color does he finally speak. "The sunrise on Geidi Prime is not so colorful."

"Like its people."

He grins that wide, black grin. "Yes, like its people."

The sun begins to crest over the horizon when you guide him to the canoe still tied to the end of the dock. He does not question as the oars break through the still surface. Even as the overgrown and greying marble pavilion comes into view. He eases the canoe onto the shore and gives his hand to help you disembark. How wonderful it is to touch him again. How dreadful to let it go again.

“My father had this built for my mother when they married.” You take the steps up the once grand gift. “He was so infatuated with her in the beginning. At least that’s what she told me.” You rest your hands against the railings and stare over the water. The marble is cool and coated with a layer of damp. “And then she gave birth to me.”

His warmth soaks into your back, hands resting on the rails beside yours. “He’d been promised a son.”

“One who would marry the emperor’s first born daughter and one day ascend the throne.”

His breath fans across your ear. “Your father was displeased.”

“He drove my mother to try again and again. But nothing. It drove her into madness. Tied rocks to her feet and walked into the water.” She hadn’t tied them well. They found her floating only a day after she went missing. “All for nothing. My father is the one incapable. All he has and will ever have is me.”

“More than he deserves.”

You turn in the small space he’s left between him and the railing. There is no more than an inch that separates your chests. The warmth of the sun makes you sweat. Or perhaps that is from his closeness. It would be a simple thing. A small tilt of your head, a gentle push forward. Lips pressing together. Your heart skips at the thought. The wind rustles through the leaves of the trees and breaks the trance.

"Paul Atriedes is going to ask for my hand."

"And it displeases you."

"Has he not taken enough? And now he wants to tie me to him for the remainder of my days? To submit to him and birth his own heir? How could that not displease me?"

"Deny him."

"My father will not allow that."

"Perhaps we needn’t worry what your father thinks. He enjoys his drink, yes? It is rather miraculous he has not had an accident yet."

Your smile, bright and wide, reflects on his face. How easy he is to manipulate. You hadn’t needed to suggest anything, the violence embedded in his blood coming to the conclusion on its own. “He does indeed. I fear his luck may not last much longer.”

your thoughts & reblogs are appreciated! 💕

leave your musings

#feyd rautha x reader #feyd x reader #feyd rautha #feyd x you #dune part two

267 notes · View notes

arcane-vagabond · 4 months ago

Text

Fool's Fare: Chapter Twelve

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Reader

Summary: Captain Jake "Hangman" Seresin had come close to swinging from the gallows more times than he would care to admit. He's stolen, cheated, even killed. The worst thing he's ever done? Broken the heart of a woman. Having broken the heart of the woman whom Davy Jones himself had fallen for six years ago, Jake is now cursed to live as something not dead, but not alive. He's doomed to live a half-life for the rest of his existence unless he manages to obtain the treasure Davy Jones deems most valuable. The problem? He has no idea what it is, and he only had seven years to obtain it.

Content Warning: Talks of death, Lots of anxiety, Reader has a mental breakdown kind of, Abandonment issues surface hardcore, Talk of curses, Talk of magic, Major angst, Sea shanty, Feelings of hopelessness, Davy Jones reveal! I think that's everything, but please let me know if I missed anything!

Word Count: 4.2k

Series Masterlist || Moodboards || Playlist

The port of St. Augustine was much like any other port you had found yourself in. The marketplace bustled with activity, the sellers promoting their wears as others scurried about to and fro on the streets. The sun beat down, casting a fog of humidity that threatened to choke the air from your lungs.

It had been two weeks since the serpent’s attack, and the crew of the Hangman had been stranded in the large port, sequestering themselves to one of the local pubs until repairs to the broken mast were finished.

Jake had been in a foul mood since the encounter, the looming deadline heavy on his mind, and on more than one occasion you had woken up to the sound of his distressed murmurs as he slept beside you. He had flat out refused to leave your side for longer than a few minutes since the attack, anxiety and distress coloring his features every time you looked at him. You knew he feared losing you, you could feel it in the way he held you these days, the end drawing nearer with each passing of the sun across the horizon. But wasn’t it you who should be afraid of losing him? You weren’t the one in danger of falling victim to a curse.

A bothersome fly pulled you from your thoughts, the whining of its movement sparking irritation in your chest. It was too damn hot for the pesky thing to be bothering you. You pulled your hand out from under your chin, swatting at the insect as it flew just out of your reach. It zoomed back towards you, wings fluttering in your face as if to taunt you. An exasperated exhale escaped your lips as you glared daggers at the offending beast.

“You look miserable.”

You turned to see Nat approaching you slowly, a wry smile on her lips as you gave her a tight-lipped smile—an attempt you were sure came out as more of a grimace than an actual smile. You wiped the sweat drenched strand of hair out of your face, offering her a shrug as you turned your attention back to the street outside. She sighed, coming up to sit at the sill beside you. The two of you sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the different groups of people as they flitted about the street. The silence grew more tense as the time dragged on, and you could tell that Natasha wanted to say something to you. Glancing at her from the corner of your eye, you saw her chewing on her bottom lip, deep in thought.

“How’s Mickey today?” You asked her. His screams of agony were still fresh in your mind, the scarlet on his clothes vivid in your mind as he writhed on the decks of the ship. Javy had been the one to stop the blood flow, securing the bandage around Mickey’s thigh tight enough to put a temporary fix to the problem without causing more damage. You watched as Javy and Reuben picked Mickey up on either end, carrying him towards the cabins. Mickey had already passed out, a layer of sweat coating his pallid skin. Nausea roiled in your stomach, your breathing coming out in quick spurts.

You jumped as Jake came up behind you, brushing your hand with his fingertips. Your eyes darted towards him, unease settled deep in your bones.

“Is he going to be okay?” You whispered, looking at the captain for any kind of answer. Jake sucked in a breath, and it occurred to you that you had never seen him look so at a loss.

“I don’t know,” he answered, hanging his head. His hands flexed at his side before balling them into tight fists. You looked from him back towards the sea. The serpent and the British ship were already out of sight as the Hangman limped towards shore. You were sure the men on the other ship were all dead, the serpent’s hunger sated until the next unsuspecting ship made its way into the waters.

“Those men,” you continued, brow furrowing in thought. “The one’s the serpent-”

You stopped yourself from finishing the sentence, pressing your lips into a thin line as Jake glanced at you, waiting.

“Are they dead?” You asked, looking back at him. You didn’t know how the curse worked in cases like this. Yes, they could be hurt. You knew that much. But would something like what had just occurred be enough to kill them?

Jake sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widening as he dared to look back towards the water.

“I hope so.”

You had reached the port of St. Augustine early the next morning, the cold light of dawn at your backs as each crew member heaved a weary sigh. Reuben had departed the ship as soon as the gangway was in place, running to find a doctor to see after Mickey. The rest of the crew waited around anxiously, some busying themselves with tasks around the ship as everyone waited for news on Mickey’s condition.

“He’s doing a lot better today,” Nat told you, a tired grunt leaving her lips as she settled further back against the wall. You nodded, closing your eyes in a bid to ignore the heat that threatened to swallow you whole.

“Doesn’t change the fact that you still look miserable,” she prodded, earning a less than enthused grunt from you. You sighed, leaning up and stretching out your shoulders.

“I suppose I could be doing better,” you admitted, finally turning your full attention to her. She pressed her lips together, humming in agreement.

“The deadline is only a few days away,” she said, and your heart jumped at the reminder before curling in on itself. Her words were the exact reason you had been keeping to yourself the past week, dread filling you down to your very soul as the days loomed and the dreaded deadline approached faster and faster. The anxiety kept you awake well into the night, clawing at your mind until it was all you could think about. You hadn’t known sleep in days.

“Jake’s been awfully tense,” she pressed. “Rightfully so, I guess. Javy won’t show it, but I know he’s worried too. I can see it in the way he holds his shoulders. He fidgets more than usual too when he’s nervous. I do my best to soothe his worries, and I think he forgets for a little while, but…”

Her voice drifts off to silence, an air of uncertainty surrounding her. You understood what she was feeling. The moments of sleep Jake could get were spent in fitful movements as even his unconscious mind was unable to find peace amongst the chaos. You would curl up closer to him in those moments, resting your head against his chest and listening to his heartbeat. Fingers would glide up and down his arm, and your presence seemed to calm him enough that he would still, if only for a little while. You asked him early on what he dreamed of in those moments, but his eyes would glaze over as his lips pressed firm, a faraway look in his eyes before he would shake his head and walk away, shoulders hunched as if in defeat.

Bradley didn’t fare much better when you tried talking to him. The usually playful, happy-go-lucky man you knew and loved had all but disappeared. All that was left was a shell of a man who looked and sounded like your brother, but seemed to be a complete stranger to you now in these past days. You had tried talking to him, to get a sense of where his head was at, but much like your captain, no words would leave his lips. He would only stare at you, almost looking through you before turning and walking away.

You felt like you would lose your mind, like the concern and anxiety was building up so completely within you. It reminded you of how your mother once was when your father would leave for his voyages.

She’d pace around the house, busying herself with as many tasks as she could—sometimes repeating them two or three times in a bid to keep her hands busy and mind from drifting towards thoughts of the unimaginable. On more than one occasion, you’d come home to find her staring out towards the water, a faraway look in her eye. You always wondered what she was thinking about in those moments, but now you were sure you knew.

“I don’t think it’s possible to forget the ocean’s secrets,” you replied, focusing once more on the busy street outside. “The ocean will always remind you why it’s not to be crossed.”

Natasha didn’t respond, only looked at you. You didn’t acknowledge her, letting your mind wander to thoughts of what would happen if you all were to fail. Would the curse turn them into mindless monsters? Would the change be immediate? Or would you lose those you hold most dear slowly as their unslaked desire coursed through their veins for eternity?

Your friend heaved a heavy sigh before standing. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but must have thought better of it before turning on her heels and walking away. You wished you could provide her with some kind of comfort, some certainty that things would be okay. But, you could hardly convince yourself of it, let alone another.

The afternoon passed slowly, your vigil by the window continuing on even as the pub filled with sailors and your own crew. Mickey had managed to heal enough to walk, though his usually golden skin still seemed somewhat dull after his experience. The crew drank as if there were no tomorrow, and you supposed there might not be. Locals took up space by the piano, different jigs and tunes ringing out amongst the crowd as several people joined in with lyrics. You wished you could join in the merriment, bring yourself to forget for just one moment that a mere guess wouldn’t decide your fate.

Jake, Bradley, and the rest of your friends sat hunched around one of the tables across from where you sat, none of them able to meet your gaze, and a mixture of anger and loneliness filled you. Is this what your days would look like? Would they go off and leave you behind to face a life of solitude? Would they expect you to forget them?

For another moment, you were reminded once again of your mother, only this time you remembered her as she waited for that last voyage. You could tell that something was different that time, the air more tense as she paced around your home. The song she would hum under her breath the only sound she would make for days. You thought of that song, how lonely and full of despair the words sounded. You thought of how sad your mother always sounded every time she would sing it, and before you even realized, the words were leaving your lips quietly, slowly building to be heard above the hum of conversation filling the room.

“I thought I heard the Old Man say: ‘Leave her, Johnny, leave her.’ Tomorrow you will get your pay, and it's time for us to leave her.”

Several heads turned towards you as you sang, your voice clear as you felt the emotion you had worked so hard to keep tamped down swirl within you.

“Leave her, Johnny, leave her! Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her! For the voyage is long and the winds don't blow And it's time for us to leave her.”

The conversation died down now, and you supposed you would feel self conscious under normal circumstances, but something within you longed to break free and be heard. You had long stayed quiet in fear of upsetting those around you with your own feelings. Of course, you had had your few moments where you couldn’t keep the worries and feelings within you, your fears bursting forth and out of you over the past few months on sea.

“Oh, the wind was foul and the sea ran high. ‘Leave her, Johnny, leave her!’ She shipped it green and none went by. And it's time for us to leave her.”

The conversation had stopped completely at this point, but you were only vaguely aware of your audience. The words themselves haunted you, and you knew how your mother had felt all those years ago. You wondered if she felt the exact moment she had lost your father to the sea.

“Leave her, Johnny, leave her! Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her! For the voyage is long and the winds don't blow And it's time for us to leave her.”

Had your father been scared in his final moments? Did the waves tower over him life in the song you now sang? Had he faced the towering waves head on in the way he faced everything in life? Or had looking death in the face been too much for him? Did he think of you? Your mother? Bradley? Or did he lament the things he hadn’t done, the things he had failed to do?

“I hate to sail on this rotten tub. ‘Leave her, Johnny, leave her!’ No grog allowed and rotten grub. And it's time for us to leave her.”

Several people within the pub now joined in your singing, voices ringing out in unison. For the first time since you started, you dared a look over at the table where the others sat. Remorse colored both Jake and Bradley’s faces, the whisper of tears in their eyes as they watched you. Your heart squeezed so tight, you wondered for a moment if it would burst. You hadn’t meant for the tears to flow, and you were shocked when a cool, night breeze blew in from outside, cooling the trickle that streamed down your cheeks.

“Leave her, Johnny, leave her! Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her! For the voyage is long and the winds don't blow And it's time for us to leave her.”

You choked on the words, unable to continue as those around you continued on. Your world would change in a few days, and there was nothing you could do about it. For the first time, hope seemed too far out of reach, slipping through your grasp as the realization that you would truly be alone for the first time gripped you tightly, refusing to let go.

“We swear by rote for want of more. ‘Leave her, Johnny, leave her!’ But now we're through so we'll go on shore. And it's time for us to leave her.

Leave her, Johnny, leave her! Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her! For the voyage is long and the winds don't blow And it's time for us to leave her.”

You let out a quiet sob as you pushed off from your seat, practically running out of the pub. The door banged against the wall with a loud crack, the echo of laughter and conversation chasing after you into the dark street. Another tune started up, a jollier shanty than the one you had led everyone in, but the joy and merriment found in the pub did not reach you in that moment, despair digging its claws into you as you stalked down the street with no mind to where you were heading.

The world swam around you, blurred by your tears. Your chest and head hurt from how hard you sobbed, your arms wrapped around your middle in an attempt keep yourself together, to keep yourself whole.

You staggered, coming to a stop next to building, leaning your weight against the sturdy structure as you fought to gain back your composure. A hand landed on your shoulder, ripping you out of your breakdown. You looked up with wet, wide eyes to meet a sea of concerned green.

Jake didn’t hesitate to try and pull you close, moving to wrap his arms around you in a soothing gesture, but you shook your head, pressing a hand to his chest to keep him away. His brow furrowed in confusion, thumb reaching up absentmindedly to wipe away your tears. You jerked away from him, shaking your head more vigorously.

“No,” you croaked, another sob wracking through you.

“Guppy,” he started, taking a step closer to you, but you shoved at him this time.

“No,” you stated more firmly, shooting him an angry, wild look that had him balking. “I don’t want your pity, or your comfort, or anything else you’re trying to bestow upon me. Not when it’ll all be for nothing.”

“What are you talking about?” He sighed out, an edge to his tone. You sniffled, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand as you attempted to stand tall.

“I can’t keep relying on you,” you uttered. “Not when this time in only four days, I won’t have you anymore. I’ll be alone. I’ll have no one except maybe Nat, but even that’s not a guarantee. In a few days' time, you’ll face Davy Jones, and not knowing how that will end, terrifies me.”

Jake didn’t say anything for a moment, just stood there and watched you with an indiscernible expression. Finally, he set his jaw and stepped close, pulling you into his arms. A large hand cradled your face, pulling your face up towards his.

“I’m not leaving you, sweet girl,” he said, thumb stroking across your cheek. You squeezed your eyes shut as a new wave of tears threatened to spill over.

“You don’t know that,” you whispered in return.

“I do though,” he retorted. “I know everything will work out the way it’s supposed to. Even if I’m doomed to live a cursed life, a life where I will never know peace or satisfaction again, it would be a far worse fate to not have you by my side.”

You couldn’t stop the sob that shook you, choosing instead to hide your face against his chest. Jake let out a low hum, smoothing his hand over the back of your head as he rocked you gently until the sobs died down once more.

“Trust me, Guppy,” he murmured, moving his hand to dig something out of his coat. “This will buy us our freedom.”

You turned your head to see him holding up the Soul of Polaris, the gem seeming to glow in the moonlight. You swallowed thickly, watching as it rotated slowly in his hold.

“What does it show you?” You asked quietly, gripping his shirt a little harder in your hands.

“What?” Jake asked, sounding perplexed.

“When I first saw it,” you explained, “the man who had it said that it guided a person to what it was they needed most.”

You turned your head to gaze up at him. “So, what is it that it shows you?”

Jake looked at you for a moment, eyes wide in surprise before he shifted his focus towards the gem. His brow furrowed once more as he pressed his lips together, pondering what he should say.

“We should head back,” he said finally, pocketing the gem once more as he guided you back down the street.

Four days later, the newly repaired Hangman rocked in the ocean waves as it headed up the coast towards North Carolina. The air aboard the ship had grown thick with mounting tension and anxiety, the air so thick you swore you could cut it with one of Bob’s kitchen knives.

The fog that surrounded the waters didn’t help matters, setting a decidedly somber mood as the crew waited for their fates to be decided. Sunset was approaching, something you could tell despite the blanket of fog that hid the sun from view. Jake hadn’t stopped pacing the length of the deck for two hours, and just watching him had you on edge. He had already snapped at three crew members for, admittedly, small infractions, and you were starting to wonder if he’d keep his sanity long enough to see Davy Jones at this point.

“Captain,” Javy called from the helm, face tight with his own anxiety, though his tells were less obvious compared to everyone else’s. Jake’s head snapped up to look at him, back rigid as he paused mid-step.

“We’re here,” Javy announced, dipping his head at his best friend. Jake sucked in a breath, teeth gnawing at the inside of his cheek. After a moment, he blew out, nodding his head as he swallowed thickly.

“Yeah,” he muttered, nodding more determinedly. “Yeah, alright. Bradshaw, Guppy. You’re with me. Everyone else, stay put until I get back.”

You were shocked that he picked you and Bradley, certain he would have chosen Javy or Natasha. You didn’t say anything as you followed him and Bradley towards one of the lifeboats. Natasha already stood by the railing, waiting for the captain to approach.

“You’re leaving me behind?” She challenged as you all approached, Javy descending the stairs at the same time. Jake raised his chin at her, a grimace pulling on his lips.

“I trust you and Javy to look after the ship while I’m away,” he explained. “But, I still need people I can trust with me—people I can depend on if this goes south. Bradshaw will act as my muscle, and we’ve seen how things react around Guppy.”

Natasha mulled over his words for a moment before nodding in agreement.

“Be careful out there,” she implored. “We’ve already had one crew member mangled by something magical.”

Jake shot her a grateful look before turning his attention to Javy who had saddled up behind her. The two shared a silent exchange before clasping their forearms and pulling each other in for a one-armed hug. The two pulled away at the same time, and Javy offered the captain a nod.

“Good luck,” he said. Jake nodded back at him before turning back towards the lifeboat. He let out a long, weary sigh before stepping forward with you and Bradley not far behind.

The fog clung to your skin, giving you the feeling of walking through water as the sand shifted beneath your feet. Jake and Bradley had hauled the boat up out of the water and further onto the beach before the three of you set out to find the spot where Davy Jones would be waiting.

The wind whipped around you, ruffling your clothes and sending a chill down your spine. You ignored it, knowing what lay ahead of you already had a frigid feeling coursing through your veins as the sky began to grow darker. Jake’s pace began to increase as the clock counted down, his hands clenching and unclenching as the three of you continued on.

“Do you know where we’re going?” Bradley asked, peering at the captain from the corner of his eye. Jake’s frown deepened as he shot the brunette a sharp look.

“Yes,” he snapped, stopping suddenly. “This is the place.”

You looked around, noting the cliffs that hung just above your head, the grass swaying in the wind as the waves crashed against the rocky shore. Bradley looked around as Jake stared down at his feet. You perched atop one of the rocks, bringing your knees up to your chin as your attention flickered between the two men.

“Did we miss him?” Bradley prodded, hands in his pockets as he walked around in a circle. “Shouldn’t he be here already?”

“I don’t know Bradshaw,” Jake snapped once more, an irritated glint in his eye. “We didn’t exactly exchange letters on what time to meet.”

A familiar hum prickled at the back of your neck, your back straightening as a knowing feeling overcame you. You twisted your neck to the right, looking down the beach towards the opposite way you came. In the growing shadows and through the fog, a tall figure began to emerge, their coat billowing behind them.

“Look!” You exclaimed, scrambling to your feet as you pointed a finger at the figure. Jake and Bradley turned to where you gestured, postures alert and on guard as they spotted the figure too. The humming grew in intensity as the figure drew closer, but there was no sense of danger that accompanied it like there had been with Thetis, the sirens, and the serpent. No, in place of danger, there was only the sense of familiarity, and confusion tickled at the back of your mind.

The fog and shadows obscured the figure as it stopped by some rocks a few yards away. You squinted, trying to make out any discernable features, but you couldn’t help but feel you knew the person who stood in front of you. A soft scratch sounded as the figure struck a match, the small flame illuminating his face as he lit the pipe that hung at his lips. Shock coursed through you as you recognized the blue eyes and weathered face that stared back at your group, the embers of tobacco letting out a puff of smoke as he exhaled.

You blinked, not quite believing what you were seeing, and you knew Bradley’s expression must have mirrored your own in that moment.

“Tom?”

A/N: Wooooooooow! I can't believe it's finally here, y'all! What do we think? How are we feeling? What on earth is going to happen next???

It feels so good to finally get this one off my chest, I've been sitting on it for sooooooo long! Like...the amount of times I almost slipped up and told y'all everything is embarrassing, quite frankly.

As always, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. I no longer do taglists, so if you would like to be notified on when I post, please follow my sideblog ( @arcanevagabond-library ) and turn on post notifications! You can find me and my works on AO3 under the username arcane_vagabond. Until next time!

#fool's fare #ff #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin x you #jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin x you #hangman #hangman x reader #hangman x you #pirate!au #pirate!jake

168 notes · View notes

thebramblewood · 6 months ago

Text

The first meeting of the Vatore Book Club has commenced.

Previous / Next

Helena: Caleb, are you in here? [telepathically] Caleb?

[silence]

[under breath] Where are you? You promised you’d show me more today.

[picking up journal] Hmm. These definitely weren’t here before.

[begins reading]

May 25, 1918: Another night daymare. Same as all the others. Calloused hands squeezing my throat, phantom fists pummeling my stomach, shrill bursts of laughter assailing my ears, sky of taunting stars, blinding white moon, a monstrous form looming over me… Straud insists I should no longer be able to dream. One more bold-faced lie from a man who speaks arrogant, empty words just to hear his own voice - and endlessly, endlessly. I already tire of his dull speeches.

July 10, 1918: The days stretch eternal in this crumbling mansion. I am Straud’s prisoner, though he claims I am free to come and go as I please. Yet he prattles on with excuses as though he does me a favor by denying me. I’ll not be allowed off the grounds until I bend to his will, until I have suitably mastered discipline. How I loathe that word! I’ll be sick if I hear it once more.

September 8th, 1918: Killed two men last night. Only meant to step out for fresh air but instead found drunken idiot humans stumbling unknowingly across town lines. Their thoughts came to me easily. (So the old man taught me something after all.) Vile and crude remarks on my body, naturally. My vision flashed white with rage, and my body convulsed as if to split in two. Their taste of their blood was exquisite. It’s a funny thing, though. I kept expecting the swell of remorse to arise, but it never did, even when my brother, drawn by the cacophony, flinched away at the sight of my monstrousness, truly frightened of me for the first time. Further reflection is required, but for now I must depart. Straud requires placating.

Helena: [thinking] This is Lilith’s diary?

[flips to final pages]

February 22, 1921: Caleb’s birthday tomorrow. If it passes, he will be 27. He will continue to outpace me in physical age. He will eventually die. I’ve promised it will not. All week, he has been nervously pacing and eerily silent, too afraid to ask the obvious question: Will I truly make him like me? I know how to do it, but thirst remains a constant presence in the back of my throat. I suppose I will take it up with Straud one last time, though he will respond as usual. He believes the gift should be offered only to those who have been deemed worthy. But he grows uncomfortable when I ask how he determined my worthiness. I know he saw me merely as an opportunity, a flimsy young girl in distress who could be easily remolded in his image. I disappoint him every day. We must be free of him soon.

Vlad, telepathically: I can still hear every thought that passes through your mind, girl. Your barricades are sloppily constructed. And, no, my position has not changed.

#ts4 #sims 4 #ts4 story #story: hzid #sims 4 story #vladislaus straud #helena zhao #lilith vatore #felt like dropping at midnight idk #this was going to be a lot longer #but i realized the journal entries are a lot of reading already lol #btw they are transcribed in both alt text and under the cut because i know the “handwriting” is a little hard to read #so you just get a small peek into the past as an appetizer for the main event 👀#i'm going to try to rely mostly on pose packs for the next post #but the one after that might take me a long while because i have a very specific vision for it 😮‍💨

194 notes · View notes

munson-blurbs · 2 years ago

Text

Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

Summary: With no friends and the looming threat of losing custody of his son, Eddie's the lowest he's ever been. But you know what they say: “Rock bottom just means there’s nowhere to go except up."

Warnings: angst, visits from CPS, Reader's grandma has Alzheimer's

WC: 6k

Chapter 5/20

Scruffy!Eddie edit credit to @eddiemunsons-missingnipple Divider credit to @saradika

The phone rings as Eddie wrestles Harris into his jacket. He still hasn’t figured out how to break the news about his classroom change; at this rate, he’ll be dropping him off at school before he works up the nerve. Is there any good way to tell your kid that he no longer gets to spend his days with his favorite teacher?

“Keep that on,” Eddie instructs Harris, pointing to the navy blue sweatshirt. “I’ll zip it for you in a sec.” He jogs over to the phone, answering with an irritated, “Hello?”

“Ed?” Wayne’s voice drifts from the receiver. “It’s Wayne.”

Eddie nods before remembering that Wayne can’t see him. “Y-Yeah, hey,” he says, tone softening at his uncle’s familiarity. There’s a dull ache in his chest when he thinks of how he willingly shut him out over the last month. “How’ve you been?”

“Good. Can’t complain.” Wayne clears his throat. “I’d love to see you and Harris. Whenever you get the chance.” Eddie can hear his concern, the unasked questions that dissolve on his tongue: Are you okay? Is Harris? Do I need to file that custody agreement?

He glances over at his son, who, despite Eddie’s promise, is unsuccessfully trying to thread the zipper with its teeth. He motions him over, cradling the phone to his ear and stretching the cord while he kneels to fasten the jacket. “We were actually about to head to the park if you wanted to meet us there,” he says. “This kid’s got way too much energy to keep him cooped up in the apartment. We’ll both lose our minds.”

Wayne lets out a kind chuckle. “Sounds like a Munson.” Eddie can hear the tinny jangle of his keys. “The park over on Porter Drive?”

“Yup.”

“Dad, let’s go!” Harris whines, twisting the doorknob back and forth to emphasize his impatience.

“We’ll be there in ten,” Eddie tells Wayne, catching a glimpse of the neon orange cast peeking out from under Harris’s jacket. It’s now adorned with his classmates’ names. Your signature seems to beckon Eddie, taunt him, even, and he tries to convince himself that it’s because it’s the only one that doesn’t resemble chicken scratch. “Oh, Harris broke his wrist, but he’s fine. I’ll explain everything when I see you.”

“Hoo boy,” Wayne breathes. “Definitely a Munson.”

Harris spends the short drive to the park bouncing in his carseat. “Is Grampa Wayne gonna play with me?” he asks, rocking back and forth excitedly.

“Mhm,” Eddie nods, keeping his eyes trained on the road. He nervously thrums his fingers along his jean-clad thighs. What if Wayne still didn’t think he was a responsible parent? What if he took one look at Harris’s injury and raced home to call his lawyer? “But I gotta talk with him first, okay? You can play by yourself for a little while.”

Harris hums his agreement, eagerly unbuckling as soon as Eddie parks the car. He starts to run towards the field, and all Eddie can picture is him tripping and hurting himself again.

“Harris, don’t–” he starts, but he then remembers those magic words: “Walking feet, bud. Don’t want you breaking that other wrist.” He grabs the soccer ball from the trunk and kicks it in Harris’s direction.

Wayne pulls up in his truck a few moments later, almost as exuberant as his grandson. “Har-Bear!” he calls out, opening his arms wide for a hug. Harris picks up his pace, slowing down when he remembers his dad’s instructions.

“I’m using my walking feet!” he chirps proudly, and though they’re fast walking feet, Eddie beams at him.

Wayne squeezes Harris so tightly that Eddie worries he’ll inadvertently cut off his oxygen supply. When the boy starts squirming, Wayne laughs and puts him down.

“Go ahead and play,” Eddie tells his son. “Grampa Wayne and I are gonna catch up real quick.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence as the two men sit on the bench, waiting for the other to say something first. Finally, Wayne breaks through the tension.

“Missed you two,” he murmurs, not looking at Eddie. “‘S too quiet around my place without that little rugrat.”

“We missed you, too,” Eddie admits, chewing on his thumbnail. “Harris won’t stop asking for Grampa Wayne.”

Wayne preens slightly at this, shifting in his seat. “This is the longest we’ve gone without talking since…”

“I know,” Eddie cuts him off, not wanting to revisit the part of his past that Wayne’s referencing. “I, uh, started working at Rock Records,” he tells him, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It sucks, but it’s a job.”

He feels Wayne clap him on the shoulder, pulling him closer to him for a brief side hug. “I’m proud of you, Ed.” He purses his lips before asking, “and no more of the…”

Eddie shakes his head. “Nope, I’m done with that. Returned the rest of what I had to Rick; told him I was out.” His gaze drops back to the ground, and he stares intently at the blades of grass as though they might disappear if he blinks. “But that might not matter anymore anyway, so…”

“The hell you talking about?” Wayne pinches his eyebrows together, adjusting his position to face his nephew.

Sighing, Eddie tells him about what happened at the hospital last week. Wayne’s eyes widen when he hears that they filed a report with CPS. “That’s some bullshit,” he mumbles, scratching at his gray beard. “Kids get hurt all the time. Can’t keep ‘em in a bubble.” He shakes his head incredulously. “They’re not gonna take him from you, okay? They’re gonna see how you provide for him, how great you are with him, and they’re gonna be sorry they wasted their time.”

“I’m not great with him,” Eddie mutters, standing up in a feeble attempt to exert some of his nervous energy. “I’m ruining his life.” He pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “He had this teacher, and he adored her. Calls her ‘Ms. Sweetheart.’ And I was just…just a total asshole to her. I accused her of telling people about the CPS thing and said some really fucked up shit about her sick grandma and…fuck, Wayne. She had Harris transferred to another class just so she doesn’t have to deal with me. And now I have to say, ‘Hey, you know that teacher you fuckin’ loved? Well, she’s not your teacher any more, and it’s all my fault.’”

Wayne absorbs the information, contemplating what he says next. “So fix it,” he shrugs.

“It’s not that simple,” Eddie argues, plopping back down onto the bench in defeat. The wood digs into his lower back uncomfortably, so he stands up again.

“It’s not?” Wayne questions, digging a pack of Newports out of his jacket pocket and offering one to him. “Because it sounds to me like you owe this ‘Ms. Sweetheart’ an apology.”

Eddie takes a cigarette, toying with it before tucking it between his lips. It takes a few flicks of his old Bic lighter to get a spark, and he lets the nicotine calm his nerves before speaking again. “I don’t think she’ll forgive me.”

“Never said she would,” Wayne counters, plucking the Bic from Eddie’s hands and bringing the flame to light his own cigarette. “Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t apologize.”

Inhaling sharply, Eddie watches his son kick the ball around before letting out a slow, controlled exhale. “My boss asked if I could teach guitar lessons once or twice a week,” he says, using his empty hand to toy with the frayed holes in his jeans. “If…if you wanna, could you watch Harris? I can pay you.”

“Don’t insult me, boy,” Wayne scoffs, but a playful smile dances on his lips. “You’re not gonna pay me to watch my own grandson. Just let me know the day and time, and I’ll have a pot of mac and cheese ready to go.”

The pent-up tension dissipates from his body at Wayne’s easy agreement. An unspoken I love you floats between them, and he could cry from the sudden surge of relief.

“Daddy! Grampa!” Harris calls out from across the park. “Let’s play!”

Wayne stands up with a grunt, rolling his shoulders back to loosen them up. “You heard the man,” he jokes. “Up and at ‘em.”

It’s your first day off of work since the start of the school year, yet all you can think about are your students. Well, one particular student and his god-awful father. Eddie’s comment replays in your mind, cutting through you like the chilly mid-October air. The sting still hasn’t faded, despite it being three days since he’d said it.

You say goodbye to your grandma and Elise, her home health aid, grabbing your car keys and closing the door behind you. This morning was already overwhelming; Grandma had woken up at 5 AM, ready to start her day. The sound of her TV blasting at the highest possible volume jolted you from your sleep, and you’d spent the following twenty minutes trying to persuade her to go back to bed. Unsuccessfully, you might add.

You wince when you see your reflection in the rearview mirror. Your eyes are puffy and bloodshot, with pouches developing beneath them that only emphasize your exhaustion. You practice smiling a few times before starting the car, peeling out of the parking lot to meet Jess, Viv, and Jeff for lunch.

The pleasant aroma of burgers cooking on a grill wafts past your nose as you push open the doors to the restaurant. It isn’t too crowded when you arrive; you assume that the usual lunchtime rush is quelled by the Columbus Day holiday. Your new friends are already waiting at the table, waving you over excitedly.

“Hey,” you call out, forcing pleasantries into your otherwise flat tone. You slide into the seat next to Jess and across from Jeff. “How’s everyone been?”

“Better, now that I’m out of the first trimester,” Viv says with a small laugh. “Now that I have my appetite back, I’m definitely getting the grilled cheese.” She glances at the menu again, adding, “and a side of fries.”

Jess nods. “I think I’ll do the same.” She turns to you and her cheerful expression shifts to one of concern. “You okay?”

“Y-Yeah, just tired.” Your lackluster reply is unconvincing, but she doesn’t challenge it in front of Jeff and her sister. “Chasing after kids all day is wearing me out.”

“Oh, that’s right!” Viv exclaims, taking a sip of her water. “You’re a preschool teacher. The one with Eddie’s kid in your class!”

“Mhm,” you manage; the mere mention of Eddie’s name turns your throat into sandpaper. “Well, not any more, I guess.” Your throwaway comment is met with inquisitive stares, so you give the group a rundown of last week’s events, watching their eyes grow wide.

“He’s such a fucking douche,” Jess grumbles, resting her hand over yours. It feels like forever since you’ve experienced the simplicity of a kind gesture, and you have to swallow the emotion that comes with it.

“Seriously,” Viv agrees, looking over at Jeff. “Why were you even friends with him?”

Jeff lets out a terse chuckle and shakes his head. “Believe it or not, he actually used to be a good guy. The best, in my opinion.” Disappointment flashes across his face as he continues. “Something changed when he went to Chicago. He was always on-guard, had his walls up, but it used to be more of an ‘if you mess with me, I’ll mess with you’ attitude. But when he came back home, he was…different.”

“Different how?” Curiosity gets the best of you, and the question slips off of your tongue before you can stop it.

“It was like he was determined to hurt people before they could hurt him. No matter what I did, he never fully believed that I was on his side. I was constantly trying to prove that I wasn’t out to fuck him over.”

Viv drapes an arm over her fiancé’s shoulder. “How long did he live in Chicago, again?”

“Long enough to knock someone up,” Jeff muses, mind wandering for a moment before he brings himself back to the conversation. “About four years, I think? He left to chase his dreams of being a rockstar. Then one day, he shows back up in Hawkins with an infant, trying to act like nothing had changed.” He snorts at the very idea of it. “But it obviously did–I mean, besides the fact that he had a whole child, the rest of us had grown up, too. College, work, all that stuff.

“When he suggested getting Corroded Coffin back together, we figured, why not? It seemed like a decent way to chill out, blow off some steam at the end of the day.”

“Let me guess,” you chime in, cocking your head knowingly. “Eddie had other ideas.”

Jeff nods. “He still wanted to do the rockstar thing. And he’d always get angry at us because we didn’t. Not professionally, anyway. Kept mocking us for having 9-to-5 jobs, like it was the worst thing in the world.” He pauses, screwing up his face in contemplation. “Which, come to think of it, was weird. Because back in high school, he told me that it really messed with him, not having that stability growing up. Y’know, before Wayne took him in.”

There’s so much more you want to know, but the waiter striding over to the table to take orders brings the conversation to a natural conclusion. What you’ve gathered so far is that Eddie Munson is a many-layered man, each one more puzzling than the last. Despite your festering hurt and anger, you can’t help but hope that he untethers himself from his complicated past. If not for his sake, then for Harris’s.

“Daddy, what’s a new cents?”

Eddie’s taking the left turn onto the main road when he hears his son speaking from the back seat. “What’s new since when?” he asks, craning his head to check for oncoming traffic.

“Noooo,” Harris whines, letting out an exasperated sigh. Eddie has no clue where his new attitude came from, and he can’t say that he’s a fan. “A new cents.”

“That’s not a thing, buddy,” Eddie answers, starting to twist the radio knob.

“Yes, it is!” Harris insists, clearly growing frustrated. “Ms. Marion told Ms. Paula that I’m a ‘new cents.’”

It suddenly clicks for Eddie, and he grips the steering wheel tighter and hopes Harris doesn’t notice the edge in his voice. “You mean a nuisance?”

“That’s what I said!” Harris groans. “What does it mean?”

Eddie pushes past the question to ask one of his own. “What exactly did Ms. Marion say?” Maybe there was a misunderstanding, he reasons with himself.

But Harris’s answer only confirms his initial suspicion. “She looked at Ms. Paula and said, ‘this one’s a ‘new cents.’ An’ then she pointed to me.”

“Why the hell would she say that?” Eddie’s speaking to himself, but his son replies, still too young to grasp the concept of rhetorical questions.

“‘Cause of my shoes being untied. An’ she doesn’t like when I ask her to tie them.”

Eddie cringes. He’d meant to teach Harris how to tie his sneakers, but the lessons had to be put on hold when the kid had broken his wrist. Pausing before posing his next question, Eddie carefully selects his words. “Did…Did Ms. Sweetheart ever do that? Get mad about your shoes or call you a nuisance?”

“Nope,” Harris shakes his head. “An’ Mr. Will didn’t either.” And considering that his laces had always been tied in neat bows when Eddie arrived to pick him up, he can only assume that the two of you did this without a second thought. Jesus, why even bother to be a preschool teacher if you’re gonna bitch about tying shoes?

“So, what is it?” Harris snaps him from his thoughts.

“Huh?” Eddie’s right foot presses on the brake as he approaches a stop sign. “Oh. Um, I don’t know. Sorry, Har.” It’s the second time in as many days that he’s lied to him in order to spare his feelings. Yesterday, he’d waited until they were already in the school to tell Harris that he was picked for a super special project where he’d act as a secret agent in another class. He didn’t know whether to be proud or ashamed that he’d spent all night thinking of that excuse.

“‘S’okay,” Harris shrugs, raising and dropping his legs so they bounce off the bottom of his carseat. His ankles are exposed, and Eddie realizes that he must’ve grown. Again. Which means that he needs to scrape together some money and buy him new clothes. Again. “How much more days until I get to go back to Ms. Sweetheart’s class?”

“Not sure.” Lie number three. He flicks on the radio, the sounds of Ozzy effectively distracting Harris for the remainder of the car ride.

If only it was that easy to fool himself.

A harsh knock on your classroom door and the formality of your first and last name draws your attention from the mountain of paperwork on your desk. Will left thirty minutes ago with the rest of the TAs, so you’ve been sitting alone, humming a song you’d listened to on the car ride to work.

“Yes, that’s me,” you tell the tall man standing in the doorway. His intimidating stature and sullen disposition juxtapose the orange and yellow hues of autumn-themed artwork lining the walls. “Can I help you?”

He flashes a name tag as he steps into the classroom. “My name is Andrew Smith. I’m here on behalf of Child Protective Services to speak to you regarding one of your students…” he checks his notes, “Harris Munson.”

“Oh, um,” you stumble over your words, “he’s–he’s not my student any more. Not since Tuesday of this week.”

“Right,” the social worker nods slowly, patience already running thin, “but I briefly spoke with his new teacher, and she said that she didn’t have enough information to answer the questions, and directed me to your classroom.” When you don’t respond, he gives the legal rundown about the process and your obligations as a mandated reporter. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s proceed with this, shall we?” He clicks his pen, eyes boring a hole into you as he speaks. “How well would you say you know Harris’s father, Edward Munson?”

More intimately than you know, you bitterly think. “Fairly well. He dropped Harris off and picked him up every day.”

Mr. Smith scribbles that down. “Was Edward Munson punctual? Did he drop off and pick up Harris on time?”

“Yes,” you confirm, and your mind flickers back to the very first day of school. “There was only one time he was late for pick-up, but it’s common for that to happen once in a while with any parent.”

“Right, okay. And how would you describe Harris’s disposition around his father?”

“He adores him. He’s a generally happy kid, but he lights up around his dad. Or even when he’s just talking about him.” One lunchtime conversation in particular centered around how his dad could play anything on the guitar, even “Old MacDonald.” Harris had been bursting with excitement to report that Eddie made the funniest animal sounds, and you’d be lying if you’d said your interest wasn’t piqued. “I’ve never seen Harris act nervous or scared around him.”

Pen flies across the paper, and you swear he’s writing more than you’d even said. “Besides the broken wrist, did you ever notice any injuries or abnormal bruising anywhere on Harris’s body?”

You shake your head before realizing he’s waiting for a verbal response. “Nope, never. Just the usual bruises that come with being a kid.”

Mr. Smith cocks his eyebrow, pressing his lips together. “And where were those bruises located?”

Shit. Did you say too much? Why can’t you just shut up when you’re nervous? “Knees and calves?” You point to the spots on your own body, as though the social worker needs visual aides, while silently berating your own stupidity.

“And based on your interactions with him, how would you describe Edward Munson as a father?” It’s a loaded question, and its magnitude is a weight on your chest.

“Caring, attentive, very loving,” you answer honestly. “Responsible. Harris always showed up with lunch and a snack, bathed, clean clothes, whatever supplies he needed. I never worried that Harris was unsafe or in an unhealthy environment.” You force yourself to meet Mr. Smith’s gaze when you say the next part. “We, um, actually were at the hospital at the same time. My grandma got hurt, and we bumped into them when being discharged.”

This grabs his attention. “And did Mr. Munson appear to be impaired or otherwise behaving out of sorts?” The way he looks at you could easily be mistaken for a glare. “Under the influence of any substances, perhaps?”

“Not at all.” You keep your tone firm and even.

He shoves the paperwork at you, pointing to where your signature is required. “Thank you for your time,” he says flatly, leaving the room before you have time to reply. It seems nearly impossible to go back to the task you were working on before the interruption, but you try to push away the intrusive thoughts about everything that could possibly go wrong.

An hour later, the heavy-handed knock raps on the door to the Munson’s apartment. Eddie knows the drill; unfortunately, this isn’t his first run-in with Child Protective Services. He’s double, triple, quadruple-checked that every electrical outlet is covered, the matches and lighters are far from Harris’s reach, and there’s no remaining product from his recently-abandoned dealing days. The visit is technically unannounced, but since he’s not getting many visitors these days, there are limited options of who could be at his door.

“Edward Munson?” The social worker asks, giving him the same opening spiel he gave you. “I’ll just need to take a look around your home and make sure it’s a suitable living environment for your son.”

“Of course.” Eddie hopes he sounds more confident than he feels, but he can sense the waver in his voice. “Yeah, come on in.” He opens the door a bit wider and lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, drawing unwanted attention from the social worker.

“Something the matter, Mr. Munson?”

“N-No,” Eddie insists, shaking his head. If he confesses to being nervous, this Smith guy could mistake it as an admission of guilt, and that’s the last thing he wants. “Just, um, long day?”

Smith recognizes the response with nothing more than a disbelieving glance as he makes his way through the apartment. Eddie watches silently, pushing down his anxiety with a thick swallow. His mind races when the social worker rummages through the refrigerator. Are there fruits and vegetables in there? Did I throw out that container of leftover spaghetti that overstayed its welcome? His stomach sinks when Smith marks something down in his notes but doesn’t have time to ruminate over it before Harris pokes his head out from the bedroom.

“Daddy? You gonna come back an’ play Hot Wheels with me?” His big brown eyes instantly melt Eddie’s heart, and all he wants to do is scream at the man, See? See how much my kid loves me? See how happy he is? Now, why don’t you go deal with the parents who actually deserve to lose custody and leave me to play with him.

Before Eddie can stop him, Harris traipses out and sees Smith rifling through the pantry. “Who’re you?” he asks.

“Har-Bear, this is Mr. Smith. He’s, uh, one of my friends.” Eddie scrunches his face and shakes his head defeatedly at the blatant lie, but Harris doesn’t notice.

Mr. Smith gives a short wave, neither kind nor impolite. Just one slight movement to acknowledge the boy’s presence. He’s determined to get back to his job, but Harris has other plans.

“I like your glasses.” He points to the wire-rimmed frames on the man’s face. “My Grampa Wayne is s’posed to wear glasses, but he doesn’t. Daddy says it’s ‘cause he’s a mule.”

“Stubborn as a mule, Har,” Eddie gently corrects him, a blush creeping into his cheeks. “I’ll be in in a minute, okay?”

But Harris ignores his request, forging towards his dad’s friend. He lifts his arm and flashes an innocent smile. “Look at my cast! It’s from when I jumped on my bed and breaked my arm.”

“Harris!” Eddie hisses, trying to keep his cool. “Can you go play? In the room?” Pleading with him is like negotiating with a terrorist, and he knows his efforts are futile.

“Actually, I do need to take a look at Harris’s bedroom,” the social worker muses, tapping his pen against his lower lip. Eddie has to stifle a scoff at the charade that this just occurred to Smith. Like he didn’t have this mapped out, another bullet point on the list of uninformed judgments he needed to make.

“We, um, we share a room,” Eddie mumbles, as though there would be another possible reason as to why there’s a twin bed nestled into the same space as Harris’s race car bed. “I used to sleep on the couch, it’s just easier to be close to him when he has nightmares an’ stuff.” His heart races when Smith jots this down. “N-Not that he has nightmares a lot. I don’t let him watch scary movies or anything. Just normal kid stuff.”

The man nods, visibly irritated by his rambling. He clamps his mouth shut to inhibit the flow of unnecessary explanations that freely pass through his lips without a second thought.

Harris motions Smith over, using his uninjured hand to grab the stranger’s and leading him into the room. “That’s my bed,” he announces. It sounds like he’s giving a tour, and Eddie almost laughs at the absurdity of the situation. “And that’s where I falled,” Harris points to the unassuming patch of carpet alongside it.

“Ouch,” Smith mutters, and Eddie swears he can see a semblance of a smile. Leave it to Harris to thaw the most hardened of hearts. “I bet that hurt.”

“Yeah, but there was no blood,” Harris says nonchalantly. “An’ I didn’t need a shot. Just this cast. All my friends signed it. Even Ms. Sweetheart!”

“Ms. Sweetheart?” Smith repeats.

“She’s my teacher. Well, she was my teacher. Now I’m a super secret spy in Ms. Marion’s class, but don’t tell anyone!”

Eddie scoops up a couple of toy cars off of the floor and hands them to Harris, determined to end the conversation before anything else can be revealed. Can you get your kid taken away for being an asshole to his teacher? He doesn’t want to find out. “Here ya go, bud. Why don’t you get the racetrack set up, and I’ll play with you as soon as Mr. Smith leaves.”

“Actually,” Smith says, “I’m about finished. Mr. Munson,” he says, his natural stoicness settling back in as he turns back to Eddie, “after completing this investigation and conducting our interviews, I’ve determined that Harris may remain in your custody. I’ll just need you to sign a few forms and I’ll be on my way.”

Eddie’s relief is palpable. He sweeps Harris into a hug, clutching him to his chest and wordlessly swears to never put him back down. “Th-thank you,” he mumbles, acutely aware of the tears leaking from his eyes. “Wait–what interviews? No one interviewed me.”

Smith nods. “Yes, we spoke with Harris’s teacher. She only had great things to say about how well you take care of him.”

She did? He barely knows the woman; Harris has only been in her class for two full days, and she never indicated any partiality towards him. He makes a mental note to thank her tomorrow at drop-off. For now, all he wants to do is treasure every moment with his boy.

Eddie doesn’t want to let Harris out of his sight, but he begrudgingly takes him to school, not wanting to add a truancy charge to his growing list of misgivings.

Ms. Marion greets both Munsons with a muted stare, harsh enough to drain Harris of the excited energy that typically buzzes through his little body. “Are we going to listen today?” she quips.

“Yes,” Harris says.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Harris’s affect is robotic and monotone, and the uncharacteristic spiritlessness nearly distracts Eddie from thanking the older woman for her interview.

“The guy–um, the social worker–he told me that you said some nice things about me. About how I am with Harris,” he stammers. “So, uh, thank you.”

Ms. Marion crosses her arms over her faded pink sweater, pursing her overlined lips. Her forehead is marred with frown lines. “That wasn’t me, Mr. Munson. I directed him to speak to Harris’s previous teacher, since she spent more time with him.”

Ms. Sweetheart.

After everything he’d said and done, you’d still vouched for him. Spoken so highly of his parenting abilities that CPS allowed him to keep custody of his son. You could’ve easily ruined his life, but you didn’t.

What Eddie doesn’t understand is why.

Perhaps he doesn’t need to; at least, not immediately. Right now, he just needs to fix this. And he knows exactly where to start.

Friday marks one week since your blowout fight with Eddie. One week since he’d caught you pathetically crying in your car because of the venom he’d spewed. One week since you’d informed him that you’d had Harris transferred to another class.

Which is why you’re confused when the boy bounds up to your classroom door, shouting, “Ms. Sweetheart! Ms. Sweetheart!”

“Hey, Harris,” you greet him, unable to mask your confusion. “What are you doing here? You’re in Ms. Marion’s class now, remember?”

Harris nods, his curls bouncing with each movement. He drops his backpack to the floor with a thud and unfastens the zipper, tongue poking from between his lips as he digs through it to brandish a cassette. “This is for you.”

You take it from him, eyes widening as you take in Toni Braxton’s face staring back at you. “Harris…where did you get this?”

“My daddy put it there and said to give it to you. So I did,” he answers with a shrug. He looks up at you, innocuous and angelic as he adds, “I miss you. I wish you could be my teacher again.”

“Me, too,” you reply before thinking. Clearing your throat, you kneel down to meet him at his height. “Thank you for my gift. It was very sweet. Go ahead and head to class now, okay? I don’t want you to be late.”

“Mmkay!” he chirps, slinging his still-opened bag over his shoulder. “Bye, Ms. Sweetheart.”

Why would Eddie buy you a tape? Why this tape, the one you’d come in for when he’d said such malicious things to you? You can’t make sense of it, regardless of how many times you try to piece together the puzzle.

At dismissal, you find yourself waiting by the door, hoping to catch Eddie before he can dash out of the school. There’s no logic to his actions: he despised you enough to weaponize your grandma’s cognitive decline, and then he gives you a gift with no further explanation.

You distractedly hand parents the sign-out sheet, barely registering when Joshua Harrington’s dad asks you about any upcoming plans for a class Halloween party.

“Is there gonna be a list of things you need? Candy or cupcakes or something?”

“Oh, uh, I’m gonna send home information about that next week,” you stumble over your words as you try not to make it obvious that your mind is elsewhere.

“Great,” he says, stretching out the word as he tracks your gaze to the spot behind him. “Everything okay?”

“Yup.” You slap a smile on your face just as you spot the mane of frizzy curls you’d been searching for. “Um, excuse me for a second.” You call out to Will, letting him know you’ll be right back, before sprinting down the hallway.

“Ms. Sweetheart!” Harris’s eager face twists into a frown. “You gotta use your walking feet in school. Or you could get hurt.”

Eddie moves to correct him, but you just smile sweetly. “You’re right, Harris. Thanks for reminding me.”

You allow your gaze to travel upwards, eyes locking onto Eddie’s. You can’t quite read his expression; his brows are furrowed in confusion but the flush in his face indicates that he knows why you’re here.

“Harris gave me the tape. The Toni Braxton one.” Like he’d gifted you myriad cassettes that required this distinction. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

“Don’t mention it.” The right corner of his lips turns up into a half-smile. “Besides, I should probably be the one thanking you.”

“Me?” What is he talking about? As far as you know, you’re the bane of his existence.

“Yeah. For, uh, what you said to that social worker guy. Even after I treated you like a piece of…” he presses his palms to Harris’s ears and lowers his voice, “shit.”

That makes sense; he was relieved that you’d sang his praises when it had mattered most. This was an expression of gratitude; nothing more and nothing less.

“You’re a good parent, even if you’re mean to me,” you say nonchalantly. “I wasn’t going to make up lies and ruin your lives out of spite.”

The statement hangs in the air, gathering an awkward silence that has you and Eddie both grappling for ways to end the conversation.

He’s the one to interject. “Well, anyway, I hope you like the tape.”

“Mhm.” It’s all you allow yourself to utter in front of Harris. A thousand questions swarm your head, threatening to spill off your tongue, the first of which is simply: why? “I’ve gotta get back. But, um, enjoy your weekend.” You pivot on your heel before Eddie can wish you the same. With the necessary chaos of your life, you can’t invest any more time trying to unravel him.

“Daddy, when is Ms. Sweetheart gonna be my teacher again?”

Eddie knew it was inevitable that Harris would ask about going back to your class, but he thought he’d bought himself more time with the spy game he’d concocted. He can’t delay the truth any longer.

“I’m sorry, buddy. I don’t think you can switch back.” There’s a pang in his heart when his son drops his hand, digging his heels into the parking lot asphalt.

“Is it because you were mean to her?”

His question catches Eddie off-guard. “Wh-What?”

“In there,” Harris points towards the school, “she said you’re mean to her.” He squints when he looks up at his father, the midday sun shining in his eyes. “Why were you mean?”

Eddie exhales, puffing out his cheeks and rubbing the back of his neck. “Sometimes grownups accidentally hurt each others’ feelings.” Or purposely, in his case, but he omits the complexities from his explanation. He reaches out to once again take Harris’s hand, but the boy pulls back.

“Ms. Sweetheart says that when we hurt someone’s feelings, we gotta say sorry. Even if it’s on accident.”

“I did,” Eddie counters, raising his brows. “I gave her the tape.”

But Harris remains unconvinced. “That’s not saying sorry. You gotta actually say it. Or else it doesn’t count.”

“It doesn’t count, huh?” Eddie clicks his tongue and puts his hands on his hips. “All right, I’ll say it the next time I see her.”

“And then you can be friends?” The question is posed innocently, but it rattles Eddie. Friends? Did he even know how to be a decent friend any more? He’d fucked it all up with Gareth, Jeff, and Danny, and he’s known them for forever. “Daddy?” “Uh, maybe,” Eddie replies meekly; this time, Harris grabs his hand when he offers it. “We’ll just have to see.”

taglist 1/2:

@kelsiegrin @lma1986 @munsonology @stuckontheceiling @avobabe87 @eddapwinchester @peachysink @browneyes8288 @jeremyspoke-inclasstoday

@breezybeesposts @wednesdaymunson @feltonswifesworld87 @take-everything-you-can @bebe07011 @krahk @81rain @dylanmunson @oscarisaacwhore @eddiesguitarskills @everheart12 @etherealglimmer @hollster88 @wh0re4life @siriuslysmoking

@bibieddiesgf @theactualf0ck @winchester-angel @starlitlakes @avalon-wolf @hazydespair @josephquinncore @daydreaminglisa @sidthedollface2 @eddiebaemunson @mandyjo8719 @daydreaming-mood @aol19 @corkadymu @starcourtnights @eggo-segual @rockstarmunsons @metalhead-succubus @boinkybarness @oohworldofpisces @costellation-hunter @toobsessedsstuff @meadow20 @theweasleyskettle @lost-in-the-stars03 @elizabethmidnight2017 @aysheashea

@chamomileh0ney @dream-a-little-nightmare @emma77645 @kurdtbean @sheneedsrocknroll92 @tlclick73 @luceneraium @lolly-in-a-strange-land @dylanmunson @bakugouswh0r3

@strangerthingsstories5255 @imaginexred @haylaansmi @adaydreamaway08 @itsalltaken @harmfulb1tch @mimischaos @averagemisfit03 @steddiegarbage @vigilanteshit @ellendemeyer152 @sierrahhh @stevesmunson

#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #eddie x reader #eddie x you #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fanfic #fanfic #eddie munson stranger things #stranger things #tui

1K notes · View notes

lovelykhaleesiii · 1 year ago

Text

A King to Fear...

PAIRING: King!Aegon ii Targaryen x Stark!fem!Reader

WORDS: 2,218.

SUMMARY: What you had intended to be a short, innocent trip to King's Landing, had turned into a bitter pleasure that would forever change the course of your life.

WARNINGS: thicc!aegon, infidelity [on Aegon's part], swearing, thigh riding, breeding kink, corruption kink, degradation kink, exhibitionism, p in v sexual intercourse, female receiving (fingering), brief mentions of cockwarming/creampie.

A/N - since the trailer dropped, the little glimpses we got of Aeg continue to haunt me and this is the product... I need this man to down me so bad, it's not funny anymore.

The chiming bells had rung a bellowing rhythm throughout the city. You felt as though the ancient, stone walls themselves shuddered from the distant echoes of the bells, shaking its very foundation, that Aegon, the Second of His Name, now roamed as the newly anointed King of the Seven Kingdoms.

His liege Kingsguard had rounded the spare subjects, yourself included, like shepherds tending to their frolicking herd. A part of you rooted inside, taunted at you for ever thinking it logical to leave Winterfell. Had Cregan received news of the scandalous outpour in the city, you were certain the wolves would be on the hunt... It was only a matter of when their arrival you had anticipated anxiously.

Hesitantly making your gradual way into the throne with the harrowing sound of scuttling feet, as you felt yourself confined in the centre of the bewildered crowd: every lord and lady by your side fearful of the King before them...

You had seen Aegon in passing before, during his days as a Targaryen Prince. You never found his looming presence to be threatening, nor intimidated by his appeal, often absent from royal events, or found drowning himself in his cups. Yet the young ladies of the court spoke often of his infidelity, that was all you could gather of the eldest Prince. Yet, in this precise moment, a different man sat atop the throne with might, and with his identical face.

Your gut viscously churned as your sole attention remained fixated on the young King. His hair had grown an inch longer, now resting atop his broad shoulders, his ruggedly handsome face looked fuller, as to match the sturdiness of his body. Mahaps, he grew to fit the heavy burden of the crown. He sat perfectly on the Iron Throne, as if the seat was made precisely in dedication to him. Those strange, alluring lilac eyes, remnants of the ancient ancestors of Old Valyria, remained visible as his stern eyes gazed upon his entering subjects. Rather than looking empty and sullen, as you had often remembered, there was a darker, more jeopardising tinge to their hidden intent.

"You stand before King Aegon, the Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men. You have all been led to swear and declare your loyalties to the true King and heir of the Seven Kingdoms. Honour your King, and be rewarded generously... Or suffer the consequences of your treachery."

The uproar from the familiar faced, Dornish knight, Ser Criston Cole, sent an immediate wave of chills across your body. The familiar and other strange faces surrounding you began to anxiously peer, stretching from one another, as you all questioned the ordeal.

One by one, Ser Criston has called upon the noble houses, and those that stood present to come forth, some needing to be harshly pulled apart from the crowd, to make known. And one by one, some would see to it that the reward be mercy itself, whilst others, had been dragged away, in support of their loyalties and ties to Rhaenyra Targaryen.

The horrific sight before you, the terrifying screeches and screams of husbands and wives being separated, engraved into your saddened memory. You had completely grown oblivious to Aegon's silent presence, as his henchmen carried out his work.

It was only when the dark, booming echo of his voice, uttering the word "stop" had halted the commotion, an uneasy stillness filled the room.

"What of the North?"

The unseeing mention of home, had captured your attention fervently. As you turned towards the voice that spoke of your livelihood, you were met with the unfaltering gaze belonging to the King himself, his attention had already been fixated onto you, before the eyes of the room followed.

"Th-The North, your Grace?"

"Speak up to your King, woman!" Ser Criston Cole's voice boomed, an aggressive passion seeping through his words.

"I-I have no control over the judgement of the North your Grace, nor their fealty to the throne... I am merely a woman of the North."

"You are not Cregan Stark's younger sister? The beloved she-wolf of the North, that as I have heard, every man has pined and fawned for? Every Northern man, boy and bastard born has sworn to protect with their lives... It is you that, am I to believe, has no indifference with the North?"

Your anxious breath hitched in your throat, struggling to compel the words from your stuttering lips, that would ultimately determine your fate. You felt the dire wish for Cregan and his pack of wolves to burst through the grand, oak doors, ready at arms to savour your life. Those sworn men that Aegon had mentioned, were absent and you felt petrified.

"Y-Your Grace, I-"

"Everyone, out! Except for the she-wolf of the North."

"Aegon-" The sternly still tone of his grandsire, the Hand, Otto Hightower, proclaimed from the foot of the steps. Witnessing the exchange of their grim stares, almost convinced they had exchanged heated words telepathically, did his Grandsire finally retreat defeatedly, disappearing into a door in some narrow corridor. His Kingsguard were the last to leave, Ser Criston in particular, as he took the responsibility to body search you for weapons at arms. Your elder brother had from time to time introduced you to such weapons, yet you felt no obligation to soak in the training, and with your racing mind and empty hands, you had no hope to fight your way out of this.

The sudden shudder of the doors creaking close, sent your body into a complete state of suspense, frosting up like frozen petals during the winter.

"So it is true, I see. That your beauty was captivating enough to lure men to seal their fate. A fate to protect your own greedy, little life... Where are these men now to save you from me?"

Your eyes darted from the stony, grey steps of the throne, back to the hefty King that sat atop the violent throne. You felt his lilac orbs swallowing you whole, as your stomach churned uneasily against his words, desperately holding your hands together ever so tightly to avoid the terrible habit of fidgeting.

"The whispers that reach your ear from the North, your Grace, can be skewered. As I said before, I hold no power over the council of men... Even in the North."

"Do not toy with me, woman... I am the King, the rightful heir by law, and by the Gods. I want to hear where you stand in judgement of my reign."

"My opinion is not credible, your Grace. I-I hold no value here-"

"Answer me- Or I will fuck the answer out of you."

A flustering heat waved over you, as the sudden outburst and intent of Aegon's carnal words sparked an interest in you, snatching your complete attention once more.

"I-I cannot say I extend the pledges taken by my ancestors to heart. I do not know you, my Grace, nor do I know of your kin... I-I take a more... liberal approach."

"Get up here-"

Instead and wrongfully so, you felt your feet shifting backwards, taking slow paces back, adding more distance between yourself and the man who calls himself King. The chill in his tone felt colder than the blizzards of the North.

"Now."

Your thoughts had swayed to their senses, as your body became intact with your mind once more. Rather than ignorantly disobeying, you adhered to Aegon's command, taking hesitant step by step paces up the stony steps until you were a step beneath his Grace. Admiring him this up close, in finer detail, you noticed the faded scars across his supple face: unlike his younger brother, Aegon was much fuller, less lean. He had a bulkier build, and a more threatening, uneasy appeal.

"Wrong answer.... It seems the she-wolf has met her match with the dragon."

Aegon subtly reached over, pulling you strongly in by the arm, closing the last remaining distance between, as you felt his touch beneath your sensitive skin. He remained seated, almost as if he had been forged to the Iron Throne, as his hungry eyes lurked over every inch and detail of your body, before meeting your gaze peering wearisomely down above.

"Is the she-wolf scared? Does the dragon frighten her so? She need not be... Dragons protect the ones they take a liking to-"

Immediately, without a second to spare, Aegon began to hike up her lush silk gown, guiding her body to turn around, as she looked onwards from his royal perspective.

"Y-Your Grace, y-you are married-"

"Stay quiet, or I'll have that smart mouth of yours stuffed shut with my cock, balls deep in your mouth. You speak when I fucking tell you to-"

Once more, your mind instinctively shut, body mindlessly obedient to his demands.

Guiding your bare ass and cunt to seat itself down atop of him, you felt the hard, tense bulge brewing beneath his pants, between your cheeks. With each adjusting motion, your body would grind against his sturdy lap, your flesh colliding with his, only to cause a natural urge to crave for more.

"Look at what the she-wolf has done to her King, look at the power your sheer presence has over me. You think you have no value in court, yet this is your doing..." Aegon's warm breath, cooing his words directly into your ear. His strong, fleshy arms wrapped around your shaking body, coiled firmly around your waist and arms, as if to avoid you from escaping his strong grasp.

"What if I have my way with you, and send you back to the North carrying my bastard seed... What will the North think of their precious she-wolf then, hmm? What will your brother think of you?"

In unison with your King's haste movements, Aegon stood himself as he swiftly undid his trousers, his rigid, thick cock plunging out with excitement. Guiding his cock with one hand between your folds, his fingers ever so lightly grazing between as he teased your opening, making certain he aligned himself perfectly to your sweet spot.

"Already soaking for me, sweet one? It seems I have my answer after all."

Without so much as a second to spare, Aegon thrusts himself deep inside, burying his stiff, throbbing mass as your walls clench over his cock, desperate to ease the stretching tension. One muscular arm remained snaked around your waist, his calloused hand managing to reach to your bosom, where he cheekily squeezed and firmly kneaded your tit by the handful. Keeping you positioned steady as you sloppily bounced on his wide lap. His other hand however, oblivious to your own incoherent mind, to the front of your cunt, his pudgy digits teasing at your clit, pursuing to edge you more, enhancing the pressure that pulsated from inside. Your swollen bud, he intently enjoyed flicking at, earning a grizzly snicker each time you moaned and squirmed in retaliation.

"A fucking mess for me already. If only your dear, stupid brother could see you. The whimpering whore that you are, moaning my name like that. Accepting me as your King."

"A-Aegon-"

"Seven Hells, you feel so fucking tight for me, precious girl. A cunt made just for her King, already so obedient, so frightened of her King, she'll let me fuck her senseless, huh?"

"Hmm, A-Aeg. I-I shouldn't-"

"B-But you want this, baby. I can smell your ooze dripping. So fucking wet. A she-wolf as my pet. Where is the North to save you now? You don't want to be saved, though, look at you!"

"Mhmm- Your G-Grace-"

His thick fingers delved deeper, pumping hastily as his thrusts grew more forceful. Your breathless moans, incoherent besides a few words and his name, you could only build the sheer strength to muster. Your skin felt as hot as the summer wind of the city, Aegon's lips found themselves latched to your mottled hair and sweat-beaded skin. Sucking your very scent in, your taste lingering in his mouth, as he lowly growls.

"No-No, say it- Introduce me as you would your King."

"Hmm- A-Aegon, the S-Second of his N-Name-"

"That's it, sweet girl. Say it all."

"K-King of the A-Andals, the R-Rhoynar a-and the F-First Men. L-Lord of the S-Seven Kingdoms- Ugh A-Aeg-"

"Keep going, baby-" His tone thick and heavy, breathless, his own stocky chest heaving intensely in sync with your own breaths.

"A-And P-Protector of th-the R-Realm."

"That's it, b-baby. Such a good-good job, princess."

With his tender, soft-spoken words, Aegon's warm seed spills into you feverishly, a crescendo of mindless moans escapes your soft, moist lips, as Aegon's wetly coated hand leaves your raw, aching cunt, guiding your head to turn towards him. Meeting your lips with his own, as he seals the ecstasy with a passionate kiss.

"Let me taste you-" His tongue hungrily laps up the remnants of your cum off his thick digits, his alluring eyes shut as he blissfully devours your taste.

"Fucking delicious, they don't make them like the North do... Stay on my cock, princess. Be the good, little whore you are for me. My she-wolf will obey me and stay. I want to make sure you swell with my dragon seed before I send you back to the North."

general taglist - @chompchompluke @fan-goddess @malfoytargaryen @bibli0thecary @m1ndbrand @connorsui @elegantsplendour @randomdragonfires @s-we-e-t-t-ea @sahvlren @watercolorskyy @hypnos-daughter-certified @urmomsgirlfriend1 @backyardfolklore @snowprincesa1 @aegonslawyer

Aegon ii taglist - @who-told-you-this-was-butter @f4ll-for-you @amiraisgoingthruit @jawline-of-steel @daughter-of-the-stars11

credit for dividers - @/itbmojojoejo

#aegon ii targaryen #tom glynn carney #aegon ii targaryen imagines #aegon ii targaryen imagine #aegon ii targaryen fanfic #aegon ii targaryen fanfiction #king aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii x fem!reader #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x stark!reader #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd imagines #hotd imagine #hotd fanfic #hotd fanfiction

418 notes · View notes