#and i will always remember the opening line | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

coryndoll · 20 hours ago

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authors note: broken up with so i made THIS its 3am please

is it okay to want your ex to be the person beside you when you wake up from a dream about them, even when you know you’re supposed to be moving on?

because if it’s not, then you’re already doing this all wrong.

you wake up too suddenly, almost like your own body betrayed you, forcing you out of something you weren’t ready to leave behind. your eyes snap open, heart hammering, the kind of startled wake-up that leaves you disoriented for a moment, stuck between dream and reality.

you lift your head, blinking against the dark, and look down at the sheets pooled around your waist, then slowly, like maybe you already know what you’ll find, you glance toward the other side of the bed.

empty.

your stomach sinks, but you tell yourself that’s stupid. of course it’s empty. why wouldn’t it be?

but it doesn’t matter what your head knows. it’s what your heart feels that always screws you up, because for one blissful, delirious second, you expected him to be there. warmth beside you, an arm draped across your waist, his steady breathing pulling you back under.

but that was the dream.

and god, what a cruel dream.

you don’t even know if you were just friends or something more in it, if you’d crossed back over that invisible line or if you were still dancing around it, but what you do know is how it felt. how you felt. that dizzy kind of giddiness, the way your stomach flipped with every glance, every touch, every little moment of something unspoken but understood. it felt like starting over, like all the space between you had been erased, like maybe you could still have him.

and then you woke up.

you swallow hard and let your head fall back against the pillow, eyes squeezing shut. you shouldn’t be dreaming about him. you shouldn’t be feeling like this.

you’re supposed to be getting over him.

but now it’s four in the morning, and you’re wide awake with a lingering ache in your chest, a knot in your stomach, and a dream you can’t shake no matter how much you tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything.

you try to sleep again. you roll over, adjust the blankets, close your eyes, and breathe deep like you read somewhere that might help, but it doesn’t. so you grab your phone from the nightstand and scroll through tiktok, letting the mindless flood of videos wash over you, but none of them make you laugh, none of them distract you the way you want them to. the flashes of what you remember come every now and then.

you think about making food, something small, because eating always makes you sleepy. but that feels like too much effort, and the last thing you want is to be alone with your thoughts in the kitchen, staring at the clock and counting the hours until you have to pretend like you’re fine.

so you give up and swipe through your notifications instead, clearing some out, replying to a text from your mom, letting the dull routine of it settle you.

but then you see his name, just sitting there in your recents like it belongs, like it hasn’t been haunting you since the breakup.

your thumb hesitates over the screen, and that’s all it takes. the thought is already there, already burrowing into your brain like an instinct you can’t fight.

you shouldn’t. you know you shouldn’t.

are you on non-speaking terms for now?

is it safe to send just one text?

but the dream is still fresh, still clinging to you like secondhand smoke, and every fiber of your being is screaming at you to just reach out. just once. just this one time.

before you can talk yourself out of it, before you can convince yourself to be strong, you tap his name and press the call button.

you sit up slowly, pressing your phone to your ear, and listen to the dial tone.

one ring.

two.

three.

your stomach twists. this was a mistake. he’s sleeping. maybe he has his ringer on and you’re waking him up. shame on you. you should hang up. you should—

then a noise. a shift.

your breath catches, your heart lurches.

you pull the phone away, staring at the screen, frozen in panic. maybe it was nothing. maybe he just moved in his sleep. maybe he won’t even remember this in the morning—

“hello?”

his voice is groggy, rough around the edges like he hasn’t fully woken up yet. like he doesn’t know who’s calling him at this hour.

and holy shit, you almost hang up right then. almost.

but something in you makes you lift the phone back to your ear, makes you swallow the lump in your throat, makes you whisper, “hello?”

there’s a pause, like maybe he’s still caught somewhere between sleep and reality. you hear the shift of fabric, the rustling of blankets as he moves, like he’s rolling onto his back, maybe rubbing at his face, trying to shake off the haze of sleep.

and then, recognition. “y/n— hey? why are you up?”

your lips part, but for a moment, nothing comes out.

because what are you supposed to say? that you woke up from a dream about him, and it felt so real that for half a second, you thought he’d actually been there? that it left you feeling warm and whole and painfully desperate to hold onto something that isn’t even yours anymore? that the idea of moving on feels impossible when your subconscious won’t even let you pretend you’re over it?

you swallow, forcing yourself to say something, anything, before the silence stretches too long.

“i couldn’t sleep,” you whisper, and before the guilt can settle too deep in your chest, you add, “sorry if i woke you.”

on the other end, you hear him shift again. there’s a faint rustling, the kind that makes you picture him shaking his head, before he murmurs, “you didn’t.”

you let out a small breath, a quiet scoff, something close to a laugh but not quite. “yeah?” your voice is just a little teasing, just a little skeptical. “you sound like it.”

for a second, there’s nothing. then he chuckles.

soft and low, the kind of laugh that makes your stomach twist, that makes you feel like you’ve caught him in a lie. and you have, obviously. you know his voice too well, you can hear the exhaustion in it, the roughness in his throat. you know he was asleep. but he’s trying to make you feel better about it, trying to brush it off like it doesn’t matter.

it’s nothing. it’s barely anything.

but it’s enough to make you slip.

you press your lips together, fingers tightening around your phone. because for a second, just a second, it feels normal again. like you can still call him in the middle of the night just because, like you can hear his sleepy laugh and joke about it, like you haven’t lost this part of him.

but then reality catches up.

your stomach sinks, the warmth in your chest cooling into something heavier, something bitter. your smile fades, and you shift, pressing your forehead against your knee, closing your eyes.

you shouldn’t be doing this. you shouldn’t be letting yourself fall back into something you know isn’t yours anymore.

but you force yourself to get to the point.

“would it be stupid if i asked you to come over?” you murmur, barely louder than a breath, barely brave enough to ask, but desperate enough to say it anyway.

the second the words leave your mouth, you regret them. the silence is immediate. so much silence that it makes your stomach twist, makes your pulse spike, makes you feel like you should just end the call right now and save yourself from whatever is about to happen next.

you pull your phone away for a second, checking to see if the call is even still connected.

“y/n.”

it’s soft, but the weight behind it is heavy. there’s something careful in the way he says your name, something almost hesitant, like he’s reminding you of something neither of you want to say out loud.

you know what he’s about to tell you. that there’s a reason you aren’t in each other’s beds anymore. there’s a reason you aren’t supposed to be doing this. and suddenly, panic sets in.

“nevermind,” you rush out, shaking your head at yourself like he can see you. “that was— i shouldn’t have asked. i just— i’m tired. i’m sorry i woke you, i’ll let you go. goodnight—"

“stop.” his voice is firm, cutting through your words before you can finish. you freeze, fingers curling into the fabric of your blanket, breath hitching, and you wait. you don’t say anything.

then, more shuffling on his end. you strain to listen, and then it hits you. he’s moving. getting out of bed.

“yeah,” he exhales, voice still thick with exhaustion, but steady now. certain. “i’ll be there.”

there’s a pause, the quiet hum of the phone line stretching between you both. you can still hear him moving; maybe grabbing his keys, maybe slipping on a hoodie. the thought alone makes your stomach flip. then, his voice, softer this time. careful. “do you need anything else?”

the question is simple, but there’s something about the way he asks it that makes you hesitate. like he’s offering you something more than just his presence. like if you asked for it, he’d give you anything. but you’re already pushing it. you know that.

so you shake your head, pressing your lips together before making a small sound of refusal, “mm-mm.”

on the other end, drew exhales, barely audible, and when he speaks again, it’s quiet. steady. “alright,” and then the call ends.

you lower your phone from your ear, staring at the screen as the seconds of silence stretch on, until the brightness fades and leaves you staring at your own faint reflection.

your teeth sink into your bottom lip, eyes flickering toward your dresser, but you’re not really seeing it. your mind is running too fast, thoughts spiraling, pulling you in two different directions.

there’s an uneasy feeling settling in your chest, pressing against your ribs. like maybe you shouldn’t have done this. like maybe this is exactly why you and drew shouldn’t be calling each other in the middle of the night anymore. but then, there’s something else. something warmer.

because he agreed. without hesitation too. without a single question. he’s coming over. does that mean something? the thought almost makes you smile. hope.

drew doesn’t live far, thankfully. all that space in los angeles, and yet, somehow, you both ended up just a mile or two apart. it had been convenient back then, when late-night filming ran over, when you were both too tired to do anything but collapse into each other’s arms, when going home meant a five-minute drive instead of a long trek across the city.

it made sense, being close. you’d even talked about closing the distance completely before, like moving out of your separate places and into one together. it wasn’t a serious discussion, more like a fleeting idea thrown out between shared meals and lazy mornings, but it had lingered. but you never put any real time into it. and maybe that was for the best. or maybe it wasn’t.

because if drew can come over now, without question, without hesitation, just because you asked, then what would it have been like if you had actually lived together?

you can’t stop your mind from running with the thought, from spiraling into a thousand different possibilities.

if you had shared a home, would he have stayed in your bed on nights like these, when you couldn’t sleep, when the weight of missing him pressed heavy on your chest? or would he have made himself comfortable in some extra room, always just across the hall, close enough to feel present but far enough to keep a safe distance?

if you had already built a life under the same roof, would he have been the one to move out? or would he have stayed, finding excuses to linger, to keep things from changing too much, to hold on to something that neither of you were sure how to let go of?

or would he have stayed in the same bed, too disciplined to let emotions dictate his choices, too mature to act like sharing a bed meant something more than what it was—just sleep, just comfort, just the two of you existing in the same space like you always had?

because that’s who drew is. realistic, rational, someone who believes in keeping things separate, even if it hurts.

he wouldn’t have been reckless about it. he wouldn’t have let longing turn into excuses or blurred lines. he would have figured out what to do, how to move forward, how to live in the same space while still trying to get over you. he wouldn’t have let himself slip.

but you? you don’t think you’d be able to pretend so easily. because lying next to him, feeling his presence just inches away, knowing it was him but that you weren’t his anymore. it would break you, piece by piece, every single night.

but he’s there soon, riding up the elevator like it’s nothing, like this isn’t something that should feel bigger than it is. like this isn’t something that should be happening at all. ten minutes. that’s all it takes.

when the knock comes, you practically stumble out of bed, feeling unsteady in your own body. you don’t know how to carry yourself, don’t know if you should be composed or apologetic, don’t know if you should even be doing this. but you move anyway, making your way to the door on autopilot, fingers unsteady as they reach for the handle.

when you open it, there he is. hood on, sweats hanging low on his hips, a stupid pair of sandals on his feet like he didn’t think twice about what he was wearing before leaving. like he didn’t care. but his eyes . . . his tired, knowing, impossibly soft eyes, tell you otherwise.

and you feel it then. the guilt. all over again.

it’s humiliating, the way you can’t get over him. the way your chest tightens just from seeing him stand in your doorway. the way he can read it all over your face like it’s written there in bold letters. he exhales, something quiet, something almost affectionate, and then murmurs, “c’mon, angel.”

his voice is low, thick with sleep, and it only makes you feel worse, but you let him in anyway. you step aside, and he moves past you, closing the door behind him, locking it with the ease of muscle memory. it’s dark. the lights are off, nothing illuminating the space except for the soft, golden glow bleeding through the thin curtain covering your balcony door. it’s just enough to see him, to see the way he’s watching you, the way his brows pull together when he sees the wetness brimming in your eyes.

you cover your face with your hands, disappointment settling deep in your stomach. you shouldn’t have called him. you shouldn’t have let him come. you shouldn’t be standing here, crying in front of him like you’re still his to comfort.

but then his arms are around you, wrapping around your shoulders, around your head, pulling you into his chest before you can even think to push him away.

he’s warm.

his scent, familiar, overwhelming, engulfs you instantly. and suddenly, it all feels . . . warm in here. safe. like something you shouldn’t still want. like something you don’t know how to let go of.

and soon you’re back under the sheets, and so is he.

it’s quiet. on purpose.

he sits upright against the headboard, back pressed into the pillows, the fabric of his hoodie bunching slightly where his shoulders meet the wood. you’re not sure where he’s looking, but his gaze is far away, unfocused, lost in thoughts he won’t say out loud.

you don’t try to figure them out. you don’t ask. instead, you just let yourself sink into him, pressing your cheek against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath you. his warmth seeps into your skin, into the cotton of your sleep shirt, into the spaces between each breath. it feels familiar. dangerously so.

one of your hands stays curled between your bodies, fingers pressing into your own palm like you’re trying to hold something in. the other rests lightly on his abdomen, just for a second, just enough to feel the soft give of fabric over skin. hesitation creeps in, a warning, a reminder, but you ignore it. your fingers trace a barely-there path lower, brushing against his hand.

he doesn’t pull away.

your fingertips graze his knuckles first, featherlight, and then you take his hand completely, slipping your fingers between his, linking them like muscle memory.

he squeezes.

it’s subtle, almost unconscious, but it’s there. his hand is warm, slightly calloused, the way it’s always been. the way it shouldn’t still feel so right.

he exhales slowly, and you hear it more than you see it, feel it more than you acknowledge it. but when you glance up at him, you catch the shift in his face. the slight furrow of his brows. the parting of his lips, like there’s something sitting on his tongue, something he won’t say.

his eyes are trained on nothing. somewhere in the distance. worried. like he knows this is wrong too. but he stays. neither of you move, neither of you loosen your grip.

he reaches over and turns off the bedside lamp, but nothing really changes. the silence lingers. the warmth stays. you both just lay there, tangled in something you shouldn’t be, holding onto something neither of you know how to let go of.

and maybe that just sums you two up as a whole.

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dorkus-mcdingus · 1 day ago

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Can I also add on that even the EVENT CHARACTERS that we see on Halloween have such brilliant writing that it makes heavy impacts on the fandom even if we see them just one time?

Rollo was the very first playable Halloween NPC that had such a huge impact on the fandom and is still so loved to this day. I swear though, Glorious Masquerade was a cultural reset in the TWST fandom in general especially with how HARD they cooked on not just the story, but also the outfits, the music, also Rollo himself with him having his motivations be more in line with how Frollo is in both the book and the musical! There's a reason why the event is a major fan favorite and it's for a good reason.

Say what you want about Playful Land and the execution of the ending, but that event was the closest thing we've ever had to a true horror event but you all remember when we first saw Fellow and how A LOT of us were drooling over this guy? I mean hell, the guy was I think #36 in the Yume polls in Japan in 2023! Plus with Gidel being the cutest little nugget, we all were screaming

"OH NO HE'S HOOOOOT!!!!!" and "OH NO HE'S CUUUUUTE!!!!!"

Respectively.

And then there's Skully. Oh freaking boy there is Skully, the skelly boi himself. The man had such a HUGE impact on the fandom that even outsiders couldn't look away! He was EVERYWHERE! Even now when I go around the internet, I will always see fan art of him and now even fan made plushies of him! I mean Rollo's got some fan made plushies of himself and I know Plush Wonderland has a poll open for Fellow and Gidel to get dolls made of them but Skully is so loved, so adored that HE WAS THE SECOND MOST POPULAR CHARACTER TO BE YUMED WITH BEATING OUT THE LIKES OF GOJO SATORU!!!!

And to think, these characters have only been introduced to us once. They've served their purpose, they take a bow, but we still adore them so much

How it feels being a player of the niche game Twisted Wonderland, whose overall quality is stable, when you see players of mainstream games complaining about powercreep and shit storytelling and gooner fanservice

Because the gameplay and monetization practices are already dogshit from the beginning we don't really have expectations lmao. But the one thing we have against everyone is that the story actually has depth, has a message it wants to convey, and the cards are always beautiful except for a few odd ones. Every new release only fuels our love for the boys.

I'm the number one twst shill, but if you're even a bit critical of writing styles, you'd know it tops majority of the long-winded, pretentious storytelling word slop the other gacha games have lol.

Comparatively, twst is simple. Simple, but really gets its point across in the least amount of words possible while still keeping the execution engaging. Schools teach us KISS (keep it short and simple) for a reason lol.

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takumaswife · 2 days ago

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first off, LOVE that you're coming back, I'm so happy that you've started writing again, good job 🩷

I've literally been so DESPERATE for a Bangchan smut fic (idol au)

what do you think of a 'one night stand/casual sex turns into something more' trope?

something along the lines of chan running into reader (or yn or whatever) at a restaurant when he's with the 97 liners and she's w her group, a late leaving situation turns hot and messy leading to sex at chan's dorm.

ik it's too specific but I can literally visualise the entire event taking place hehe

only work on it if YOU want to, no pressure love 🌻🚬

One More Taste - Bang Chan

Genre: idolxidol, fem!reader, SMUT, and some fluff.

Word count: 3063

MASTERLIST

A/n: I'm so sorry if this is bad. I wanted it to be perfect because this is actually the first smut I've written since I was like..14 and on wattpad (those were crazy times💀) but I hope you enjoy!

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

"Come on, Y/n, we've been working so hard, we deserve a night out." Your group mates begged. It was true, the long nights of practice. The staying up until 3am to perfect the songs. To constant interviews that you just couldn't say no to. Being the leader was tougher than it looked. Looking at the four faces surrounding you, you sighed and nodded your head. "Fine, we can go. But remember, if you get drunk, you sleep in the bathtub." You spoke firmly, looking at each girl. There had been a few times everyone went out to celebrate special moments in your career, and someone always got too drunk that they would get sick.

Everyone decided to go to a nice restaurant in Hongdae. It was nice enough to have even a private area for idols and celebrities so they could also enjoy time out. Talking to your manager, you told him to be on call since the younger members tended to drink more and would need a ride at some point. You also just wanted him to deal with their antics while you got to relax. They did beg you to come out, so why should you have to babysit.

"Who else do you think might be there?" Dae asked. Everyone was currently in the shared dorm bathroom, doing hair and makeup. "Hm, what if we see Taemin, or even Johnny and Mark!" Yunhee shouted. You chuckled at how excited they were of the possible chance of running into their favs at the restaurant. "If you see anyone, you can say hi, but the moment you start getting crazy, you're out." You spoke to the two younger ones. They immediately started pouting. You understood how excited they were, but with being the leader, you had to keep your group in check and make sure they acted right for the groups image.

"Well, it's Saturday night, Hongdae will be filled with other idols, so I have hope!" Dae spoke with a smirk. You rolled your eyes, continuing on your hair. Your makeup was more natural looking instead of super bold. Maybe for a club you would do more bolder, but for a relaxing night, you just wanted something simple. You gave yourself loose curls and picked a long sleeve, short black dress with an open back. A little modest but little risky, just your style.

Taking a last look in the mirror, you smiled at the sight. You felt pretty, comfortable, and confident. The diamond set of earrings, necklace, and bracelet decorated your body. "Oh, someone looks like she's trying to find a man tonight." Venus spoke with a smirk as she peaked into the bathroom. You immediately shook your head and smiled at her. "Even if i did want a man, I don't think he's ready for four kids." You teased, causing her to laugh. You grabbed your bag and followed her out of the dorm. Your manager had a black SUV waiting for the five of you at the front.

The car ride was filled with the girls talking about the night out and how excited they were. You, however, scrolled through your phone, looking at Instagram. Despite the idea that Idols should only follow their company and members, you followed other idols and different celebrities. You just found it boring seeing only the few posts your members would make. You wanted to watch other idols' lives.

"We are here. Now, rules." Your manager spoke as he turned around to face everyone in the back seat. "No crazy stunts, stay together, if you feel unsafe at any moment, call me. And for the love of everything.. stay out of paparazzi's way.. we don't need a scandal just as your careers are starting to take off." He explained, rubbing his head as he was stressed. All making a promise to be good, you all stepped out of the SUV.

The restaurant had a special entrance in the back alleyway for idols and celebrities, away from fans and photographers. As your group walked in, yall were greeted by the private dining manager who showed your group to your table. "Ladies, take a look at our menu and your server will be with you shortly."

Looking through the menu, everyone was conflicted on what to order. "The wagyu sounds great." Yunhee spoke, continuing to look. "I might actually just do the Rosemary chicken, I heard it was pretty popular from reviews." Joli spoke. You, yourself was conflicted. Everything sounded delicious.

"Good evening, ladies." The waitress greeted as she sat glasses of ice water in front of each of you. "My name is Sohee, I'll be serving you tonight. Can I start you off with any drinks?" She asked as she took out her notepad to write everything down. Everyone ordered a little cocktail as well as appetizers to share.

So far the evening was going well, and the appetizers were amazing. When it came to ordering your entree, you were still indecisive. You asked to go last. But it was only a minute or two until she was back to you. "Uh.." you were still trying to decide. "I would recommend the 'Marry Me Chicken', it's very good." You heard a male voice behind you. Turning around, you were starstruck seeing Chan. He was someone you looked up to during your trainee days. You were always watching his lives when you had time and listening to their music. "O-oh, then yes, I'll try that." You responded. The waitress nodded and stepped away to put in your orders and get everyone another round of cocktails.

"Let me know what you think after you try it." Chan spoke, only earning a nod from you. You were flustered and shy, the girls of your group immediately teasing you. Chan smiled as he walked over to their table, the whole group waiting for his arrival. "At least one of us got to see our fav." Joli smirked, your cheeks heating up from the embarrassment.

Dinner was going well, the food was actually very good. The drinks were fantastic. It was more of an evening than you could have asked for. "Well, I told manager that I was going out tonight so. You girls in?" Venus asked as she stood up after collecting the card the company gave them to use for tonight. The rest of the girls agreed to clubbing, but you decided to skip out.

As the girls left, you got up from the table and walked to the bar the restaurant had. You sat on the stool and looked at the options. You didn't drink much during dinner so you thought about making up for it by staying a drinking a bit more. "Can I get a mojito?" You asked, the bartender nodded and started on your drink.

"So, how was the chicken?" You heard a voice behind you. You turned to see Chan taking the stool next to you. "Oh, it was absolutely delicious. Thank you." The bartender sat down your drink and you immediately took a sip. "I never formally introduced myself, I'm Chan." He held out his hand. You immediately took it and gave a small shake, "Y/n. I'm actually a big fan." You responded. You could see Chan's face turn red as he smiled softly. "Oh really? I could say the same thing. I like your recent comeback a lot. You guys have grown so much since your debut, you're doing amazing." The compliment took you back. He liked your music? He was a fan? "Well thank you, I appreciate it. Hearing it from you, definitely makes me feel like we're going in a great direction."

You and Chan spent about an hour talking and drinking. Both your groups had vanished and the two of you were left alone. Somewhere during the chat, the two of you started taking shots. And with you being not a casual drinker, you felt the effects of the alcohol fast. Even Chan was slurring a few words as he spoke.

"I'm sorry, guy, but I'm not going to be able to serve you two anymore." The bartender informed you two. You and Chan instantly frowned and started collecting your things. Chan ended up paying for all the drinks as you were taking out your card, making you glare at him. "Christopher, Nooo~" You whined. Chan only laughed and signed the receipt. "Come on." He laughed as he led you out the back door through the special entrance.

"I wish we could have drank more. I was enjoying your company." You pouted, crossing your arms over your chest. An idea popped into Chan's head. "We can go to my dorm! We have lots of soju and a few hard liquors that Hyunjin won't mind us borrowing." He offered. You didn't think it was a good idea, your manager warned you about being caught for any scandals. But the alcohol taking over your body said, a few drinks wouldn't hurt.

Well, what was supposed to be a few drinks ended up with your body pressed to the wall and Chan's lips devouring your neck. Moans filled the room as he found your sweet spot. The sound only made the devil in Chan come out, marking the spot in the deepest shade of purple he could. The bulge in his pants pressed against your thigh, his own moans flowing as your thigh rubbed against his hard on.

Chan realized the game you were playing and pulled away. He glanced your body up and down, biting his lip. He needed you. Chan picked your body up and threw you onto his bed before towering over you. His lips back onto your neck before trailing down to your chest. You felt him going further down until his head was between your legs, face to face with your clothed core. The wet patch on the fabric had his cock pulsing in the confinement of his pants.

Sliding your panties down your legs, he threw them aside, now lost somewhere in his room. He immediately started eating you out. His tongue moving through your folds to collect every drip of your juices. Your taste was addicting to him. Without thinking, you immediately started grinding your core into his face, wanting more of him. "F-fuck~" You moaned, your fingers finding their way into his hair. Chan tongue teased your clit, making your back arch from the feeling. Not having an orgasm in quite a while, you were already close. Chan knew you were close once your thighs tightened around his head. He wanted to make you wait, but he was enjoying your taste more than he thought. Within seconds, you cumming on his face to which you only recieved a groan. Chan pulled away from your core, your slick covering his lips.

Reaching up, you pulled Chan down with all your might, "please fuck me." You begged, you needed more. You wanted more of him. Chan enjoyed seeing you beg for his cock. It boosted his ego. Sitting up, Chan removed his clothes as well as yours, throwing them in the room to be lost like your panties were.

His cock was bigger than you thought. And definitely bigger than the last men you were with. He spit into his hand and stroked his cock, looking down at your wet core that was aching for him. "Are you sure you want to go this far?" He asked. You only nodded and spread your legs wider. Chan chuckled and aligned himself with your entrance, slowly pushing his cock into you. A loud moan flowed from your lips as he filled you up. Fuck, he was big. Even your secret toys weren't this big.

Slowly, Chan started moving his hips against yours, wanting you to get use to the feeling before he picked up his pace. It only took one moan for him to lose himself. His hip were slamming against yours, the feeling almost immediately making him cum. You felt very different from his hand which is all he had lately due to being so busy and not really having someone in general to fuck. His hands held your hips up at an angle, fucking you deeper than before. The tip of his cock beating against your g-spot was pushing you over the edge. But even if you came, Chan wasn't stopping until he was pleased with how much cum he filled you with. Leaning down, Chan took one of your nipples in his mouth. Sucking and tugging on the sensitive bud. Your voice would be hoarse tomorrow from all the lewd sounds your were screaming out. Chan made sure your nipple was swollen and puffy before switching to the other. Your back arched from the pleasure and you could tell you were about to cum. "C-chan-" You tried to speak but we're just interrupted by your moans.

Chan ignored you, wanting to feel you cover his dick with your juices. All it took was for his thumb to tease your clit as he fucked you that gave you one of the most intense orgasms you've had in a very long time. Chan pulled away with a smirk. The man above you was different. His eyes were darker, his voice deeper. "I'm not finished with you." Sitting up, Chan removed his member from your core and moved off the bed, standing at the edge. He held your hips, growling as he pulled you towards him. Lifting one leg your rest up against his torso, he aligned his member back at your entrance, teasing with his tip. Chan laughed as he saw you whimpering everytime his tip passed your hole.

Once he was sure you weren't expecting it, he shove his cock into you, immediately rolling his against yours. The bed now banging against the wall with how hard he was fucking you. You really hope Hyunjin didn't come home because you would be so embarrassed having to leave and him seeing you in a messy state.

Chan's fingers began playing with your clit, your body shaking again with the amount of pleasure. You would have to remind yourself to tell him how it was the best sex you've had. You were but off when you felt a hand wrap around your throat. Looking up, Chan was staring down deep into your eyes. "Look at me. I want to see that look in your eyes when I make you cum." He growled lowly. Being the shy person you were, it was absolutely little hard to have a stare down with a man, let alone a gorgeous man. But everytime you looked away, Chan forced your eyes back on him. His fingers would tighten around your neck everytime you tried to look away as a warning.

Chan knew you were close as he felt your core constricting against his cock. It was pushing him to the edge just as much as the clit teasing was pushing you. The moment Chan saw you were on the edge, he slammed his cock up against your g-spot, mentally wishing he could leave a bruise. Almost as if he was claiming you in and out. Your body convulse with the orgasm, your eyes focusing on Chan's before rolling back. Chan released his load right into you, filling you up. You watch as his dark eyes started to lighten from his orgasm.

The only sound in the room was your two heavy breathings. You two just laid there for a moment, your eyes on each other's but it was more soft than lustful. Pressing a small kiss to your forehead, Chan pulled out, watching his load drip from your swollen pussy.

Leaning down, he locked the dripping cum up from your slit and smirked. Your mind was in a date. What the fuck just happened. You sat up and looked around, biting your lip. You were pulled from your thoughts when you saw blue fabric in front of your face. "Here, you can put this on." Chan spoke, handing you one of his oversized shirts. Quickly you slipped it on as you felt shy. He also gave you pajama pants to borrow as he also changed.

You were expecting him to kick you out, but when he laid down and pulled you into his arms, his hand rubbing your tummy, you got confused. Chan didn't say a word, he just continued to hold you before wrapping the bed covers over your bodies.

The next morning you woke up, an arm wrapped around you tightly. All the flashbacks coming back from the night before. You slowly turned around to see the male already staring at you. "G'morning." He spoke. His voice hoarse from sleep. You went to speak but your voice was almost non-existent. Chan chuckled and kissed the side of your head.

You and Chan laid there for a few hours before deciding to get up. You knew you needed to get back to your dorm, considering all the calls and text you missed on your phone. You texted your manager where to pick you up. "Uh, thanks for the...fun night?" You questioned, not really knowing what to call it. "Oh, no. Thank you. It was..very fucking good." He replied, causing you to laugh. As you got to the door of his dorm, you got awkward and didn't know what to say. So Chan took the leader. "Would you like to go to dinner sometime? Like just us? We don't have to do all..what we did last night of course. I just really enjoyed us talking at the restaurant last night." Thinking over his words, you nodded and handed him your phone. He put in his number and handed it back. "I'll text you." You spoke before leaving the dorm.

It was the walk of shame to your managers car. "You have to be kidding me.." He groaned as he started driving you back to your dorm. "At least we take birth control." You mumbled.

As Chan made his way back to his room, Hyunjin looked at him and rolled his eyes. "You could at least let me know not to come home. For fuck sakes, dude, you two sounded like actual fucking animals in heat." Hyunjin shouted as he went back to his room, slamming the door. Chan only laughed and walked into his own room, waiting for your text.

#kpop imagines #kpop reactions #kpop fics #stray kids imagines #skz imagines #stray kids fic #stray kids reactions #stray kids masterlist #skz reactions #skz masterlist #skz fic #skz x reader #bang chan imagines #bang chan smut #stray kids smut #bang chan fic #takumaswife

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static-radio-ao3 · 2 days ago

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quick wash — 21 minutes

i asked si to give me a location, a keyword and a color, she gave me a swing seat on a porch, soft, forest green and it somehow turned into a jegulus laundromat meet cute (sorry) - 1.5k

a birthday gift for @poetskings <3

Regulus, unlike most people, likes the fact that his building doesn’t have a laundry room. He’s somewhat less fond of the lack of heating, but he quite likes the romance of going to a laundromat. Of sitting on those plastic chairs and staring at the dizzying spin of clothes in the machine, the way they tumble in the dryer.

So every Wednesday, which has been laundry day for about as long as he can remember, he packs up his laundry and walks down seven flights of stairs, because of course the elevator doesn’t work in his building either. He brings his headphones and lets the weight of loose change in his pocket ground him.

He greets the laundromat clerk, someone his age who looks like he’s never even heard of ironing his clothes. His hair always looks disheveled, like he rolls out of bed and goes straight to work, but he never tries to talk, which Regulus appreciates.

Regulus remembers hours spent sitting in front of the washing machine as a kid, watching it spin and spin and spin. It was equal parts dizzying and meditative.

He wondered, sometimes, if he could crawl in there. He was small enough (too small, his father's voice corrects). Maybe he could crawl in and spin and spin and spin and come out clean.

If he could not be new, he could at least be clean.

Because there's no washing off the person you are. No matter how hot your showers, no matter the fact that you scrub at your skin until it's raw and pink, no matter no matter no matter.

But sometimes, if you're lucky, you can wash off the person you are. Don a shiny new identity. Make everyone forget the person you were, make sure they only see the person you've become.

Sirius did it, once. Left and never came back and became someone new. Good. Worthy.

It was a Wednesday afternoon, probably, because Regulus had been sitting there, watching the machine spin and spin and spin. He heard Sirius' footsteps, despite his light tread. He heard the front door open. Heard it close again. He didn't realize, at the time, what it meant.

The tiny overhead doorbell jingles, and Regulus looks up almost instinctively. He knows the regulars on Wednesdays. The college student who exclusively wears Thrasher hoodies. The grandma and her dog who she dresses in human clothes.

But this time, it’s none of them. Regulus can’t help the way his heart stutters, a harsh thud, when he lays eyes on the man walking in.

He looks handsome even in the glaring lights of the laundromat. The tiled walls and floors don’t cut him into flat planes. Instead, they soften his edges, cast him in a dreamy glow.

Regulus faintly thinks the man looks like a detergent advertisement.

The man tugs his gloves off and unwinds his scarf from around his neck, the protection against the winter cold excessive in the heat of the laundromat. He’s wearing a dark green sweater, made darker still by the stain that covers most of the front.

Regulus forces his eyes back to the washing machine, watching it spin and spin and spin, until a heavy coat drops down on the seat next to him. The man peels off the sweater revealing a white t-shirt. Regulus sees a thin golden chain disappear under the collar of the shirt.

When the man catches Regulus staring, he lifts his shoulders in a shrug, a bashful smile on his face.

“There was an incident involving a child and hot chocolate and favorite sweater was the unfortunate casualty.” He shakes the sweater a little as if to offer proof. “Didn’t want the stain to set, so here we are.”

“Need a hand?” Regulus asks, but he’s already pushing himself out of his chair before the man has a chance to reply.

The man blinks, surprised. Fair enough, Regulus has never been accused of being polite or helpful. Something to do with the permanent frown of his face, the rigid line of his shoulders.

“Yeah, that’d be— Thanks.”

“You can just put it in,” Regulus says, inclining his head toward the machine. “I’ll grab some detergent.”

Because, sure, he wants to be helpful, but he’s not quite willing to offer up his own detergent, the vanilla cotton one that costs more than any detergent reasonably should. Thankfully this particular laundromat sells detergent by the dose for a few cents.

“Who’s your friend?” The clerk asks, leaning on the counter and glancing over Regulus’ shoulder.

“Not a friend, just helping him out,” Regulus says mildly, rifling through the different bottles of detergent until he finds the right one.

The clerk fixes him with a flat stare. “You’ve been coming here for months and never once have your tried to help someone.”

“Maybe because that’s literally your job,” Regulus quips. “Also ever heard of New Year’s resolutions?”

“It’s February. Little late for those, isn’t it?”

“Okay,” Regulus squints at the name tag, “Evan. Thank you so much for your input.”

“Oh, shit, wrong shirt again,” Evan (?) grumbles, fiddling with the tag on his shirt. “Boss is gonna kill me.”

Regulus opens his mouth to say— something, probably, but he decides he’s better off leaving it alone, so he fills a tiny cup with detergent, drops a few cents in the clerk’s hand and heads back to the machines.

He makes quick work of setting up the machine, selecting the shortest program, quick wash — 21 minutes.

“I’m James, by the way.”

Regulus settles back into his chair, offering his own name in return.

“Oh, like the star! That’s such a coincidence, one of my friends is also named after a star.”

Regulus’ mind flashes to another boy named after a star, but he pushes the thought away. “Yeah, well, you know what they say,” he mumbles awkwardly, unsure how to proceed and the floor unsteady under his feet even though he’s sitting.

“No?” James says, voice climbing and head tilted. He shoves his coat to the side, making space for himself next to Regulus. “What do they say?”

Great question. “Nothing, it’s— nothing.”

Spin and spin and spin, washing away sin and sin and sin.

“So,” James asks after a while, shifting in his seat to face Regulus. “You come here often? Wait, shit, that sounded like a bad pick-up line. I just meant that you seem to know your way around these things.”

“Yeah, my building doesn’t have a laundry room and this place is just down the street, so I’m here pretty much every week.”

“Cool,” James says, and the worst part is that he genuinely seems to find that cool. James pulls out his phone, and Regulus knows he should look away — privacy and all that, but Regulus isn’t looking at the screen at all. His eyes catch on James’ hands, big and veiny.

When James moves again, Regulus catches a whiff of his cologne. And Regulus tries to be normal about it, tries not to inhale too deeply and trap the scent into his lungs, but James smells woodsy and soft. Sunny pines, like forest green personified.

Regulus can picture him a swing seat on a porch on a cool summer evening, a breeze tousling his dark curls. Regulus blinks, suddenly back under the harsh glare of the laundromat lights.

“What about you?” James asks, expecting Regulus to know what he’s been talking about, which is a reasonable expectation, but there is unfortunately static in Regulus’ brain.

When Regulus is silent for too long, James laughs. It’s not a mean laugh, or a cruel one, like his mother’s laughter. It’s not at Regulus’ expense, like his father’s laughter. He feels warmed by the sound, and can’t help the bashful smile that appears on his face.

“I was just asking what you do for a living,” James repeats.

“Oh! I work at a bookstore. I’m the buyer for our children’s section, actually. And I have Tuesdays and Wednesdays off, hence the laundromat.”

“Do you have a favorite book?” James asks. Then he adds, “Personally, I’m a huge fan of Green Eggs and Ham.”

It’s a bad joke, really, but Regulus can’t help the amused huff that escapes him. James’ eyes brighten, leaning a little closer to Regulus as if desperate to hear it again. Like Regulus is the sun and James is a flower.

They talk while James’ sweater spins and spins and spins. Talk about books and movies and TV shows. They talk while Regulus unloads the dryer and folds his shirts, the fabric warm under his fingertips. He’s meticulous about it, moving slow despite the practice, desperate to prolong the interaction. Desperate to coax another laugh out of James, warm and low and rumbling.

Eventually though, he’s got all of his clothes sorted away in his bag, James’ sweater almost done washing and then needing a little while to dry, too.

But before Regulus can be too disappointed about it, James asks, “Same time next week?” His eyes are bright and soft behind his glasses, a tiny smudge right on the edge.

“Sure,” Regulus says. He tucks his smile away for safekeeping. When he gets back home, he drops it in the jar of pennies on his desk.

#james pulled a “looking confused at a laundromat” and it worked ://#happy birthday si!! hope you enjoy this little gift <33 #james potter #regulus black #jegulus #jegulus microfic #mil's microfics #mil's writing

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writingwisterias · 1 day ago

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Dreams

Death Island! Leon Kennedy x GN! Reader Warnings: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Hospital, Coma, Injury, Near Death, Fluff Summary: One Month to go before a well deserved early retirement and all he can think about is the future

If you like this then I'll give you all a big kiss because I worked hard making sure this one flowed correctly!!

An early retirement was something that he never envisioned for himself, his life never seemed like it would end in something he wanted to do. The grass in the back garden was finally tended, the flower beds blooming beautifully as he stood watching over it with a coffee in hand. It was peaceful, weird. Something he was never quite used to. The soft barks of the dog were loud as they echoed in the open space. His money that he saved was more than enough to treat himself to this space, though it often felt too lonely. Until he found you, the light of his life. You just slotted yourself into his world without even trying. You worked perfectly understanding his duties and responsibilities he had to fulfil. The dog was next, a retired police dog. A protector in case something went wrong whilst he was away but he didn’t need to worry about that anymore. Not when he could see you from where he was standing, playing in the long grass with the old boy.

He could see your smile the way you would pet him as he brought the ball back. It felt too much like a dream, like he never actually went into the office and demanded his retirement early after yet another mission gone bad. He felt lost without his work, his service. Having to train his hands to do something else other than fight, survive and protect. No hobby seemed to stick, nothing seemed to fill the gap he was left with. It was strange that he would spend so many years hating on his service, his job to then wish for it back. The scars that littered served as a reminder of what he went through, his medals of service shown proudly in a display case that you insisted on making. He watched you look at him, the grin on your face only growing wider. Your hair glowing in the sunlight as it blew into the wind.

He wanted to reach you, to step off the porch and race to you. Scoop you in his arms and run through the garden with you. The dog following behind you both barking happily. Yet, his feet didn’t move from the back porch. His hand only raised waving at you. You never came closer– some days it felt like you were further and further away. The garden seemed to grow longer each passing day, the line of flowerbeds changing every so often.

You watched him, the light shining brightly on him. His skin that was once full of colour -- now laid pale looking even more sick underneath the white light of the hospital. That damn beep engraving itself into your brain. You were meant to be happy with it, it meant he was still here. His heart steadily beat as you watched over him. Your hand clutching his tightly that your fingers grew sore.

There were others in the room coming and going, offering you food - drink anything you needed. They couldn’t help you though because they can’t help him. You didn’t want to cry anymore or return to a home where his side of the bed was cold. You didn’t want to lie on his pillow in case his scent got washed away even though that beep was proof he could…will…return. “Wake up please” You whispered as you laid your head against the side of the hospital bed.

His hand was cold, it shouldn’t be cold. It’s never been cold except for the time he bounded over to you when you were playing in the snow, shoving the frozen fingertips against your stomach as a joke. You remembered that night, the first winter in your new house. The one he always wanted with a large garden to play around with, to host family and friends with BBQ's and other events.

One month was all he had left, of all his service. It had to be their version of a fuck you that his mission had to have been another dangerous one, they couldn’t have just given him a simple chase like they did a few years ago. Sure it ended up being tied into something more but it was simple. The government showed how much they thought of him when they sent him there healthy and brought him back in a coma.

Just one month.

One.

There were no more tears to cry anymore, your eyes were puffy from the amount you had been crying. It wasn’t fair. That he was so close to finally being able to lead his own life now he tethered on the edge of it.

“Leon wake up please” You begged again, voice waving as anger laced it. How dare he set it all up to just end here? You knew he was fighting that irritating beeping was proof he was still here. You needed his presence, you needed him just like all those times he needed you. The others jumped up as you spoke again, watching you with sad eyes as you screamed at him. Begged him to come back. You didn’t care if the hospital staff forced you to leave, you would come back the next day and do it again. Until he woke up.

Leon continued to smile despite wanting to walk towards you. His foot never seemed to land on the grass, only hover. He felt bad, ignoring your smile and your voice that called out to him in a sweet tone. He wanted to warn you of the storm he spotted, the one that was coming behind him. He could feel the cold air trying to rip you away from him. Trying to force him to come back inside. Leon couldn’t…not without you. “Come back!” He shouted. You couldn’t hear him, not over the wind or the disappearing sun. His heart beat wildly in his chest. If only he could step on the damn grass.

The beeping grew louder, doctors began to pull you away but you continued to shout at him. Even from the corner of the room where Chris held you against him. All of you watching in horror as Leon thrashed around. His hands gripping the sheets. You didn’t know what was happening, your shouts turning into whimpers as you stared at him. Watched as they tended to him. Your voice hurts, your body hurts, everything hurts.

Why Leon? Why did it have to be him?

Leon turned around towards the house, the thunder crackled louder. He knew he needed to head inside, his brain was conflicting with his heart. You would come back surely. You would round the dog up and bring him back inside. You’ll come running through the doors laughing as the two of you are soaked beginning to help him shut the doors against the harsh winds. You wouldn’t stay out there, you would have heard him. The anxiety bit into him as he walked closer to the safety of the house, was the main light always this bright? You would shout at him if he found out you turned this one on and not the lamps. Always one for ambience lighting. The thunder was so loud, booming as it roared above him. Once he was inside he turned to watch you running up the garden to meet him.

Only you were gone, the flower beds had changed again.

The nurses and doctors backed away from the bed, their bodies no longer hiding him from your view. They spoke to you but you couldn’t hear them, not when those eyes stared at you again. Chris’ grip had loosened, your legs wobbled as you approached the bed. His stubble bit into your hand as you cradled his face. “Leon?” You whispered. He smiled. He was here smiling. Your name sounded so sweet coming from his lips. You didn’t realise you could cry anymore, you thought all the tears were gone. “Never do that to me again” You laughed as you brought him close. “Please”

It wasn’t until later - when everyone had gone home. With genuine smiles this time not the pity ones you had been given the past few days. Leon held you against his chest, his fingers working their way through your hair. He had been quiet, the silence at first you thought was just him getting overwhelmed by the full room. Or the numerous tests the doctors were running on him to make sure everything was okay. Yet, it continued as he held you now. His brain elsewhere whilst he remained here with you.

Leon was the quiet hero, the one that was constantly praised and reminded of his success but never allowed to process the loss he had experienced. The saviours guilt that landed deep inside every time someone else died on his watch. Hero's were given parties and parades in celebration for their wins. Congratulated and recognised on the streets for their service but not him. All the work he had done was in silence, encase somehow someone linked him back to that one night that changed his world. A dark shadow of his past that effects everything he has done. He did what he did out of the goodness of his heart, out of just wanting to help people despite the horrors and baggage he has gained along the way.

His actions spoke louder than any words, that was why you fell in love with him. Why you knew no matter what he would have come back to you. Leon didn't love quietly like he was a hero. He shouted it to the stars above you, screamed it to any person that asked about you. You were his entire world, everything that was worth fighting for was in that dream he had. The survivors guilt washed away for just a moment when you got that house and he finally realised that he deserved something good. A slither of happiness to outshine all the bad. That was you. It will always be you.

“Penny for your thoughts?” You asked. He flinched at your break of the silence. Leon sighed, his head landing on the shit pillow he had propped up behind him. “I was dreaming…during the coma” he stated simply. His words followed by a comforting silence, the space for him right now was much like all the nights he would return from missions and hold you like this. Only that was in the safety of your home, not the cold hospital that never seemed to be just as silent as you wanted it. “We were home with a dog, an older service dog. I’d watch you play with him in the garden but each day you got further and further away. The garden seemed to grow bigger and I could never reach the end. I couldn’t step off the back porch to meet you”

“Then there was a storm, I tried to call you inside but when I turned around you were gone and I was awake” he continued as did the silence that followed his words. The two of you are taking in the gravity of the situation. It was then you realized his idea of heaven was his ending with you, the home you were in the middle of building, the garden that still hasn't been tended to.

“I shouted at you. Screamed even. Begging for you to wake up, to come back - not to let it end like this” you admitted quietly. Leon felt you shift so you were sat up on the bed, your legs laid out over his thighs. Your soft hands landed on his face again guiding him to look at you. The world seemed to disappear when you did, nothing else mattered except him. Not anymore. “I’m back” He whispered, smiling softly at you. His lips touched your palm and kissed them. They were warm again, as were his hands when they touched your wrists. His fingers entwine yours looking at the ring on your finger. The same one that matched his. You nodded to his statement. “Maybe my shouting was the storm, waking you up from your dream?” You spoke again, leaning against his chest. Your head tucked neatly underneath his chin. “Well your anger and love can sometimes be like a raging storm” he teased.

He was back, finally. Your bed would be warm again, the house would feel like home once more. “At least your recovery period leads up to your final day. I don’t have to worry about this happening again” You giggled. Leon smiled, his own chuckle leaving his lips briefly. “You’re doing all the gardening though, I have an idea for what it should look like. Now that I've had time to think about what the future might be like.”

#~mads rambles #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #resident evil x reader #leon s kennedy x reader #resident evil #leon scott kennedy #resident evil fanfiction #leon kennedy x you #leonkennedy #leon kennedy angst #leon kennedy imagine #leon resident evil #leon s kennedy #leon s kennedy x you #leon scott kennedy x reader #resident evil leon #leon kennedy death island

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lamentationsofalonelypotato · 9 hours ago

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@zepskies

Okay I'm here and I am ready for the finale of this wonderful series!

“Was worried about you,” you whisper a confession against his lips. Dean briefly pauses, meeting your eyes. “Thanks for waiting up,” he says, with a hint of a smile.

I like this line, because it's what made Dean stop. In my head I feel like this version of Dean has pushed away so many people and the reader is the first person in a long time to genuinely say that she was "worried" about him, and it strikes something in his chest because he couldn't remember the last time it happened. That's the headcanon in my head anyway lol.

Also the spice was.... 😱🌶️🔥. I literally cannot write smut to save my life, but you always write it so well! I also liked that you didn't do it as intense as omegaverse usually is, because we both know how it can be 👀

“It’s too damn late,” he says, breaking the silence. “You realize that right?” You shoot him a frown. “Too late for what?” “For me to let you go,” he says.

OH MY WORD DEAN SHUT UP! I promise it's okay! She loves you and she can see that you're not a bad person because you literally have been nursing her back to health with her broken ankle 😭 Not to mention you guys are fated! She's not going to let you go no matter what you do.

But again... on brand for Dean to hate himself and to think he's not good enough -sigh- just means that you get to spend more time wrapped up with him trying to convince him 😊😉. I also believe that Dean loves intimac, that he does crave that connection with someone, not to mention I still love what you do in your Midnight Espresso series with Dean being a little touch starved for non-sexual touch. I feel like you've also implied this here and it is marvelous!

His brotherly pride and his humor are tinged with something else though. You think you begin to understand. His losses have weighed him down, leaving him aimless and living in that in between, not unlike the ghosts he used to hunt. You know the feeling. You thread your fingers with his, earning his attention. “You can have that too, you know,” you say. “I mean, I don’t want to skip ahead, but I feel like things are going well here, despite the whole busted ankle thing.”

“It’s beautiful, but my God, how old is this thing?” “She. She’s a she.” “Oh, pardon me,” you say in amusement. “Do I have some competition here?” Dean gives you a teasing smirk. “Well, technically, she’s been with me a lot longer than you.”

I'm literally cackling. I can hear Dean saying this to his significant other. Meeting Baby for the first time holds the same place in his heart as meeting Sam for the first time 🤣 ALSO, I wasn't ready for the palm kiss. Palm kisses and forehead kisses DESTROY me.

I like that this was an alternate ending to the dumpster fire that was the end of Supernatural. That it's Dean and his girl out on the open road listening to a Led Zeppelin song holding hands in the front seat of Baby was just beautiful in the best way and a perfect ending to this mini-series my wonderful friend!! I am going to miss this couple so much, but it really was a fitting end for them 🥰

Against the Wind - Part 4

Pairing: Alpha!Dean Winchester x F. Omega!Reader

Summary: You wake up in a strange alpha’s cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, all with a busted ankle. He holds shadows in his eyes, even though his hands are gentle. There are iron shutters around his heart, even though he saved you. You might just save him in return.

AN: The grand finale...

Song Inspo: “Against the Wind” by Bob Seger

Word Count: 3.4K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, knotting, claiming, fluff and feels.

Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

Part 4: Running to Live

His cold hands are warming on your skin as he slides them underneath your sweater. They move smoothly up your back, bunching up the material. You break from his kiss only to help him get the sweater off you, followed closely by his pants.

Your sweatpants slide down your legs with just a sharp tug, baring most of your body to his gaze. His eyes drag over your exposed neck and shoulders, your breasts cupped in your bra, down to your panties and bare thighs.

A shiver runs through you, both from his heated gaze, and from being exposed to the cooler air. Even with the fire going and the heater running in the cabin, the frigid air outside is unforgiving.

You have no problem with the way Dean guides you down from the chaise to take advantage of your nest on the floor, right in front of the fire. He draws you into a sensuous kiss, sucking your lower lip into his mouth and grazing with teeth.

“Were you nesting, Omega?” he teases, between the sinful meetings of his lips with yours. You hum your affirmation before his tongue swipes across your lower lip, seeking entrance.

You open yourself to him in more ways than one; you slip your hands across his naked shoulders and explore the smooth planes of muscle, the dips and softness in between. You encourage him to lower down, to cover you with the length and broadness of his frame. His weight is a welcome one between your thighs and against the softness of your body.

“Was worried about you,” you whisper a confession against his lips. Dean briefly pauses, meeting your eyes.

“Thanks for waiting up,” he says, with a hint of a smile.

Your lips curve upwards in return. You reach up to caress his cheek, feeling the prickling of his stubble. Your fingers thread into his hair, and you pull him back down for a devouring kiss.

Dean’s brows furrow as he holds you to him, wanting to feel every part of your skin against his. His calloused fingers map their way down your side, and across your back to unhook your bra. His lips veer away from yours to burn a wet, heated trail along your neck. His teeth come out to graze your skin, down your throat, down the lovely valley between your breasts.

“Dean,” you gasp, encouraging him when his hand cups one of your breasts. He explores the other with his mouth, teasing a pebbled nipple with his tongue. Your fingers tighten in his hair, your thighs rubbing together between the cage of his knees in the mess of blankets. Already you feel slick forming at the apex of your thighs and slipping down in between.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin. “Fucking beautiful, you know that?”

You can’t help but smile. Your face warms either from the fire dancing shadows across your bodies, or from him, his attention, his warmth, and the heat in his eyes when they meet your again. His hand slides down your body, over your hip and squeezing your thigh as he opens you up further for him.

“Tell me what you want, Omega.” While I still have control, his tone implies. His voice is gravel and sin while his hand moves swiftly and smoothly up the inside of your thigh.

“Touch me,” you breathe.

Nodding, he hooks his fingers around the hem of your panties and slides them down. You help him kick them off. Afterward, his thumb brushes over your mound, making you sharply inhale and squeeze his shoulders encouragingly. His fingers dip inside your wet heat, his brows raising with a smirk, as he feels the sheer amount of your slick already coating his digits.

“Fuck. This all for me, baby?” he remarks.

You hold onto the back of his neck with both hands as you nod, biting your lip. Your hips begin to cant against his hand on reflex, urging him to touch you.

“Alpha, please…” you implore, in a ragged whisper. He swallows your plea with a ravaging kiss, but he still gives you what you want. His thumb circles your clit, earning a moan from you into his mouth.

Soon, two of his fingers plunge slowly inside you, working you open, drawing more gasps and shudders of pleasure from your body. His length continues to strain hard against your thigh, but for him, it’s worth it to draw every sound, every time your body writhes and arches against him, craving release.

With a few more purposeful strokes, your inner walls clamp tight on his hand, and a flood of slick coats his knuckles even more. You gasp his name, your hands squeezing his arms just as tight as your pussy around his fingers.

Your skin is beginning to get dewy with sweat, and he kisses some of it off you when he trails down your chest. You stroke down his arms, down his back, whatever you can reach as you catch your breath. But then, his name falls from your lips with a firmer tone.

Dean raises his head, and you gently push at his chest. His brows furrow in confusion, only for it to be replaced with a smile of surprise when you curl a thigh over his hip and guide him onto his back. His head just manages to fall on one of your pillows, but he still utters a small grunt. You giggle down at him, bowing to meet him for a kiss.

He smirks and holds onto your hips, playfully squeezing your ass. “My wily omega.”

“Thought I was your cheeky omega,” you tease.

He snorts. “That too.”

You giggle some more as you treat him to the same path of open-mouthed kisses down his neck. Except this time, you hook a hand behind his neck, and you trail your tongue around his mating gland. You feel his jolt of surprise, as well as his instinctive growl of pleasure in response to his mate. Or at least, not yet…

His heart pounds in his chest.

“Omega,” he says, a warning not to tease as his grip tightens on your hips.

The command in his voice makes you shiver, but you smile and nuzzle his cheek in affection. You kiss your way down his body, playing special attention to his nipples, his stomach, the soft V and the happy trail of light brown fuzz leading you down between his hips.

Your fingers slide down his hardened desire through his underwear, earning a grunt from him, along with a shifting of his body against the blankets. Your lips curve as you nuzzle him there as well, letting your lips drag across his impressive length.

His fingers tangle in your hair when you hook your nails around the waistband and free his cock from its confines. His boxers join the rest of your clothes somewhere, and finally you get to see all of him, as much as he takes in all of you. Your hand wraps around his girth, your thumb circling around the sensitive, weeping head of it. Dean groans, a sound from deep in his chest.

You don’t know this, but it’s been a while since anyone but his own hand has touched him. That’s not the only reason his body has been calling to yours, but it plays a part in how fucking good it feels, and how much more he wants you.

He feels your intentions when your hand moves down his shaft in a teasing caress, your fingers tracing around his knot. A shudder rattles down his spine, makes his desire burn hotter in the pit of his stomach.

He can’t fucking take it anymore. He needs you, needs to be inside you. Needs to take you the way his instincts demand.

He grasps your shoulder before you put your mouth on him. You blink up at him, with a question forming on your lips, but he hefts you up onto his chest by your arms. He cages you there with a kiss filled with abject need.

“I can’t. Can’t wait anymore,” he says. He drags his fingers through your folds and earns another moan from your when he finds your clit. “You ready for me, Omega? Need my knot?”

“Yeah,” you nod, agreeing against his lips. “Need you, Alpha—”

No sooner had the words escaped your lips, when Dean rolls you back underneath him. But this time, he guides you onto your stomach, then raises up your hips, until you’re on your hands and knees. You catch your breath as you regain your bearings, shooting an incredulous smile over your shoulder at Dean. He smirks back at you, but his gaze is intense, his pupils darkened with the alpha inside him.

Still, he soothes a hand down your back and steadies you with a hold on your hip. You feel him slot himself behind you, guiding his cock at your entrance. His chest presses hotly against your back.

“Last chance, Omega,” he says, his voice tight with restraint.

You look back at him again over your shoulder, your mouth threatening to frown. You reach back and sink your fingers into his hair with a sharp tug. “Do it.”

He sinks into you with one smooth plunge. It’s a relief for both of you, your mingled moans echoing in the near silence. All that’s left is the sound of your quickening breaths, of skin against sweat-slick skin as you move together.

Dean brushes your hair away from your neck. He kisses and licks his way along your bare shoulder, and finally the back of your neck. You’re trembling by the time his lips find the sensitive flesh of your mating gland. It echoes with the pulsing from your core as he continues to drive into you.

“Alpha,” you gasp on reflex. You squeeze his arm; he has it wrapped tight around your middle. Your pleasure builds ever closer to that crescendo, especially as his thrusts become ragged, at an angle that zips delicious tingles through your core. “Close…just…I need…”

Dean isn’t so far gone. He hears you, and helps you, reaching his hand around to strum his fingers insistently on your clit, along with his final thrusts.

Finally, it tumbles you over. Your inner walls become impossibly tight around him as he draws out your second release—one that triggers his own. Dean groans into your ear; his knot swells and locks into place, and he spends himself deep inside you. He pants hot against your neck, but even though he fastens his lips there, he hesitates, once again making you shudder.

“Do it,” you repeat, in a coarse whisper. You’re close to tears. “Please. Want you, Alpha. Need you…”

Once again, he hears you.

His teeth sink into the back of your neck, making you cry out. But your pain is quickly overshadowed by a deepest pleasure, thrumming along with his.

Afterward, Dean holds you in his arms. The warm glow of the fire paints your skin in its light, despite the utter darkness in the rest of the house.

While you both wait for his knot to subside, you revel in the fact that you know he’s content. You can feel it through the newly formed bond. He traces random shapes in your skin, which still glistens with a fine sheen of sweat. The fire he stoked doesn’t help to cool you down, but you don’t care.

Nothing else matters but this. You turn your head toward him over your shoulder. He meets you there with a gentle kiss, much more gentle than any other you’ve shared before. It feels right.

When he parts from you, he presses another kiss to your forehead. Then he leans back a little and sighs. You feel his thumb trace the raw flesh around the claiming mark on your neck. A small shiver runs through your body. Maybe on another day, you’ll mark him in return.

“It’s too damn late,” he says, breaking the silence. “You realize that right?”

You shoot him a frown. “Too late for what?”

“For me to let you go,” he says.

His words both warm you and make you sad. Just how little does he think of himself?

“Dean,” you say, endeavoring to be patient. “You’re my true mate. Do you know how rare it is that we’ve actually found each other?”

Dean remains quiet.

“And after everything you’ve done for me,” you add, “how can I not think you’re a good man? How can I not think this is right?”

He seems to consider your question. His gaze briefly falls, then meets your eyes again.

“You don’t know me that well,” is his answer, with a wry turn of his lips.

You reach back to caress his cheek. “Then tell me. Tell me about, um…tell me about how you became a hunter. From your dad’s journal, I got the sense that it’s a family thing.”

A vendetta, you wanted to say, but you keep that thought inside.

Dean chuckles, dropping another kiss onto your shoulder. You feel the pleasurable rasp of his stubble.

“Yeah, more like a family business,” he says.

He tells you why John Winchester started writing in that journal in the first place. Dean explains it in his own words, of what his family was before and after a demon broke into his brother’s nursery. Your heart continues to break for him, over and over, the more story he tells. Your shock can only reach new heights when he tells you about angels and demons and everything in between.

There are moments where he pauses, needing the time to find his words. He’s talked for so long that his knot finally softens, allowing you to withdraw from him, just to turn in his arms and be able to see his face. He bundles you in the blankets to keep you warm, but he also keeps you close, with a loose arm around your waist as he continues.

You sense that he’s not telling you everything. How could he? A lifetime of blood and wins and incredible losses; family gained, and family lost, endless saves, and so many near misses. You listen with rapt attention (and a lot of shock) to everything he can share, but your heart twinges when you see how he struggles to talk about his mother’s most recent death. Then his best friend Cas.

You realize that this man, for all his self-deprecation, is a hero. More so than you already knew.

“After the whole Chuck thing was done, I thought we’d just…go back to status quo. Me and Sam against the world, you know?” Dean says. He gives a rueful smile. “Then Sammy tells me he knocked up his mate.”

You smile. “You’re happy for him though.”

“Course I am,” Dean nods. “He never thought he’d get to have all that. A badass chick who can keep him on his toes, a house, the kid, the whole damn thing. He’s downright respectable again.”

You thread your fingers with his, earning his attention.

“You can have that too, you know,” you say. “I mean, I don’t want to skip ahead, but I feel like things are going well here, despite the whole busted ankle thing.”

Dean slowly smiles, shaking his head. He brings your hand up to his lips.

“Okay, enough about my Hallmark movie life. What about you?” he asks.

So you tell him.

You two continue to share and explore, both in words and with your bodies, until morning comes.

It’s another week in the cabin before Dean insists on helping you down the mountain. Your ankle has gotten a little better, but at this point, you need to see a doctor. It takes a couple of days, going as slow as you need to. He ends up carrying you for most of the way anyway. You tell him over and over that he doesn’t have to, but your alpha is stubborn.

Once he gets you back to the city, you two take a shuttle to the nearest hospital. X-rays are taken, and you get a new cast for your officially fractured ankle. At the very least, you don’t need surgery. You’re able to call your mom from there and let her know where you’ve been, that you’re all right, and best of all…that you’ve found your mate.

You cry along with her on the phone, this time for a good reason. The best reason.

When you’re eventually released from the hospital, Dean picks you up in a sleek, black Chevy that has your eyes wide.

He grins at the look on your face. “Hey, sweetheart. Come meet my Baby.”

He parks the car and keeps the heater running while he comes around to you in swift strides. He takes your crutches and slides them into the backseat, then helps you into the passenger seat.

“It’s beautiful, but my God, how old is this thing?”

“She. She’s a she.”

“Oh, pardon me,” you say in amusement. “Do I have some competition here?”

Dean gives you a teasing smirk. “Well, technically, she’s been with me a lot longer than you.”

You scoff incredulously. He laughs and takes your hand, pressing a kiss into your palm. You discreetly study him and marvel at how much lighter he seems. You don’t know how much is because of this, what your hand in his symbolizes, and how much is because he’s reunited with something important to him.

“It’s okay, Omega mine,” he says, with a measure of desire in his eyes. “From now on, you’re my priority.”

Your spine prickles with the same arousal you can feel from him through the bond. You lean across the way and share a thorough kiss.

Until a horn honks loudly from behind. You both jolt, but Dean’s face falls into annoyance. He shoots up a choice finger at the car behind him in the rearview mirror. You laugh as he begins to peel out of the curved pick-up and drop-off zone in front of the hospital.

“Where are we going, Dean?” you ask, still smiling in amusement.

“Wherever we damn well please.” He turns to you with a hint of a smile reforming on his lips. “Want me to take you back home? We can sort out the logistics on, uh…well, this.”

You think about it. He poses a good idea, but at the same time, you’re not quite ready for this part of the adventure to end.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen Sam?” you ask.

Dean blinks at your question. He whistles lowly. “About a year. Jesus, since my nephew was born.”

You smile and reach over, resting your hand on his thigh.

“Let’s go see him, then,” you say. “I want to meet your family. Then you can meet mine.”

After that, you two can figure out the rest, like where to live, and how you’ll live.

Dean raises a brow. “Really? That’s like, a thirteen-hour drive.”

You shrug. “I’ve always wanted to go on a real road trip. Can we get some food first though? I’m starving.”

He laughs and nods as he stops the car at a red light.

“What do you know? A woman after my own heart,” he says. His amusement eases into a gentler smile the longer he stares at you. You smile back, and you give into the urge to lean in again, meeting your lips with his. He brushes your cheek tenderly with his thumb.

“I know what this needs,” he says lowly. Your brows draw together in a silent question.

He pulls away to reach into the side compartment along the driver door. He fishes out a cassette tape labelled Zeppelin IV. You bite your lip and try not to say anything smartassed.

Damn, this man is old school.

He skips ahead until he finds Track 7, just as the light turns green. A melodious guitar riff fills the car as he turns onto the main road with your hand wrapped in his.

Made up my mind to make a new start.

Going to California with an aching in my heart…

AN: And that's all, folks! 🥹 I truly hope you enjoyed Against the Wind!

Like I said in a recent update, I have more stories in store for you guys. January 3 will be Part 1 of Outlander -- sequel to The Honorable Choice -- a Western AU with Dean as our resident cowboy! I'll post a sneak peek on that one soon.~

But in the meantime, I hope you'll let me know what you thought of ATW! 💜💜

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300 notes · View notes

letmeapologise · 2 days ago

Note

Hi I loved your fix of dont give in with Jude! If you could do an angst where the reader is expressing her insecurities with Jude (they are at a party or something and there are flirty fans) but Jude just brushes it off which leads to reader leaving and Jude apologizing in the end. (Srry if this was to much)

❝ 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ❞

.ೃ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 ! 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐞𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ✰ ´ˎ˗

⋆ ｡ ˚ ⋆ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ⌇ 𝐟𝐞𝐦 𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫. 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ੈ✩‧₊˚

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⌇ 𝐣𝐮𝐝𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐚𝐦 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚

ೄྀ࿐ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ⌇ 𝟏.𝟑𝐤 !

↳ 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ೃ⁀➷ 𝐰𝐞 𝐫 𝐬𝐨 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤. 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞 𝐦𝐟 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫. 𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐧𝐨 𝐣𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲'𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞. 𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐤 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐨 𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞'𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭. 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞, 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐬 !

It started off with a pedicured hand weaving its way across the small of Jude’s back. You frowned slightly, but dismissed it nonetheless. Jude had looked back at you with a wide grin moments later–smile lines curving up to reach his ears; the creases of his eyes wrinkling. You forgave the action; doubted he had felt it anyway, at least, that’s what you told yourself. There were bodies swimming between you, colliding like crashing waves. Short skirts and legs rubbing against anything that moved. It could’ve been the crowd pushing you further apart, or the sheer intensity of strobe lights alternating in quick bursts—but you felt yourself slowly pushed away from him. Until he was out of sight. Out of reach. Red and grey plumes of smoke floated around the boundaries of the room; matching monochrome confetti cascading onto the floor.

Your eyes darted across the hordes of people, scanning the area for your boyfriend. It was erratic and you felt your legs distancing themselves from the clubgoers. Eventually, you removed yourself from the crowd and stepped outside of the building. Through the back exit and past the wide, glass doors. Perhaps Jude had had the same idea as you and sought to find you in a more open environment. Or maybe you just wanted a break from it all. The temperature was a cold splash against your skin, chills playing against your bare limbs–the breeze a harsh stroke. You exhaled slowly, glancing back through the doors. A familiar head popped up out of the crowd, all trimmed curls and sharp lines. Jude. You grinned, face lifting, and pushed back past the doors; heading towards him. He was near to the curve of the bar, head craned down as if closely inspecting something. The slope of his neck lowered.

Once you had managed to slide past the tightly-grouped mob of dancers–if that’s what you would even call it–you were faced with Jude’s turned back. Yet another hand on the small of his back, head leaning into his shoulder. The music was too loud, the air too thick. You narrowed your eyes slightly, vision practically locked onto where her hand brushed up against the cotton of his shirt. You distinctly remembered recommending his outfit–his shirt–earlier in the day. Jude had always had poor taste in fashion. Perhaps you shouldn’t have if it garnered this kind of reaction. Not that it mattered, anyway. You’re sure this girl would’ve preferred him without the outfit.

You internally spat at your own words; winding yourself up. You never wanted to come across as some crazy, jealous girlfriend that didn’t even let her boyfriend have a smidge of freedom. Let alone allow other people to touch them. But once you had watched girl after girl drape themselves over him from just a short distance away made your stomach twist, and throat wobble. Why was he not even looking for you? Too occupied taking photos with fans?

All you could see was him–the crowd now nothing more than a hazed blur–smiling, laughing. Strangers’ hands lingered a little too long. Jude was posing for photo after photo. Leaned into another girl’s figure. Grinned at another flash from a phone. Hand on the small of his back. Hand on her waist. Hand on her waist.

You pursed your lips.

Gradually they dispersed; only after what you’re sure was word-of-mouth spreading in live action about a rare sighting of Jude Bellingham at a nightclub in Birmingham. Jude had looked back over his shoulder at you, beaming and slinging an arm around your shoulder.

“Hi, baby!” he smiled. “Where’d you go?

You made a noncommittal sound in response, tucking in your lips. He frowned slightly, brows raised in concern.

“You okay?” he cocked his head to the side, before tugging you towards the hallway by the men’s and women’s bathrooms. “What ‘s it?” he blinked down at you, prior giggly expression erased from his features. You hated how he could sense something was up with you immediately; but not, in some sense, selfishly, that he was the cause of it. How could he not? Your tongue felt heavy in your mouth; a bitter taste washing over it. The audacity.

Nonetheless, you muttered a quick, “it’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. Why’re you upset?”

“Why do you think, Jude?” you snapped, glaring up at him. He screwed his face up. “What did I do wrong, baby? Jus’ tell me, ‘m sorry.” You almost felt bad for him. Just for a second. Those big, puppy, brown eyes doing a number on you. It was enough to convince you to blurt out your reasoning anyway.

“Sorry, ‘m jus’--” you paused for a second, gathering the words to formulate an explanation. Why did you feel bad? This wasn’t right. You huffed out a deep exhale, lips running over your next words as if it were bile streaming up your throat. “Jealous,” you continued, eyes suddenly drawn to the floor. “Don’t like girls touching you, and I know they’re fans and whatever but–”

He furrowed his brows at you. “You’re overthinking.”

“What?”

He sounded impatient, irritated almost. A stark contrast from his prior concern. “It’s just a photo.”

A girl walked past from the bathroom, straightening out her minidress. She cast a glimpse over to Jude, giving him a coy smile. You stared up at him and scoffed, shaking your head. “You are–this is fucking ridiculious.”

He caught your wrist as you turned to walk away, giving you a pointed look. “Seriously, it’s not an issue. It’s fine, yeah?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, feeling a sense of distaste at how he was so openly dismissing your feelings, brushing them off. You had initially believed yourself to be irrational–of course you could trust Jude. But now you were doubting yourself.

“Are you joking?” you glared back at him; his hand still wrapped around your wrist. He kept blinking at you, confused, looking all innocent. Fuck him. “It’s not about the photos, Jude. You know that,” you retorted, spite dampening your tone. His grip on your wrist loosened, but he didn’t let go; just absentmindedly soothing it with his thumb as it stroked across the skin there–almost as if attempting to placate you. His brows were still knit together, lips slightly parted as if about to speak. Your stomach churned.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realise,” he eventually blurted, voice steady and quiet. You let out a humourless laugh. “Exactly.”

“What’s that s’posed t’ mean?”

The bass from the room out through the corridor, and to the dancefloor, thrummed against the walls. Muffled voices and laughter bled into the dimly lit corridor. “I don’t know what you want me to,” he conceded, rubbing his temples. “They’re fans, I can’t control what they do. It’s not like ‘m going to see them again.”

Your glare was unwavering, gently shrugging off his grip on your wrist, and swallowed. He slowly returned his arm back by his side; the motion hesitant. “I’m sorry, okay?” he said tentatively. “I wasn’t thinking.”

This only served to frustrate you further. You wet your lips and shook your head at him, turning to leave once more. Chest tight and vision blurred. He didn’t stop you that time.

He saw you next curled up in bed; duvet up to your nose. He had texted and called you, he swore, about one-hundred times once you stormed off in the middle of your previous argument. He searched on the dancefloor, almost shoving off any new approaching fans wanting photos, much to their dismay. Outside of the club, and the car park. Then he decided to return back home; where you were. Phone on the nightstand, switched off.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated like a mantra, likely the third time in the night he had done so. “I should’ve listened,” he admitted, voice thick with regret and, possibly, guilt.

୨୧ @𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐬𝐞. 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝. 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞, 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭, 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 ୨୧

#✰ letmeapologise ´ˎ˗#✰ letmeapologise works ´ˎ˗#writing #imagines #f/o imagines #football #football imagine #jude bellingham x you #jude bellingham #jude bellingham x reader #bellingham x reader #bellingham #jb5 #real madrid #rma #jude #angst

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novaursa · 2 days ago

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The Golden Court (wayward daughter)

- Summary: You were taken from the royal court by your father when you were a child. Now you return as a woman grown from exile. A woman that ignites fires in her wake.

- Pairing: Jason Lannister/targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Note: Adult themes will progress more and more as chapters go on. This fic is pure filth and I make no apologies for it. You have been warned.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (nothing drastic yet, but it will be later)

- Teaser chapter, if you wanna know the gist of this story: the golden court - sneak peek

- Next part: what we are

- Tag(s): if you want to be tagged in future chapters, let me know.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep thrummed with music and revelry, the air heavy with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine. Laughter echoed off the high vaulted ceilings as lords and ladies twirled in intricate dances beneath the flickering glow of a thousand candles. The wedding feast of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon was a grand affair, a union meant to secure the loyalty of two powerful houses. Yet, amidst the splendor, a storm loomed on the horizon, one that would silence the hall and shift the course of the evening.

You had not set foot in King’s Landing for years. The weight of the Red Keep's walls and the accusing stares of the court had been left behind when your father, Daemon, whisked you away into self-imposed exile. He had been your shield, your guide, and, in some ways, your accomplice. You had grown into a woman in the shadows of your dragon, Haelle, and in the freedom of distant skies. But now, with your uncle Viserys perched on the Iron Throne and whispers of ambition and discontent filling the realm, Daemon had decided it was time to return. And, as always, you were by his side.

The massive doors of the Great Hall creaked open with a groan, the sound cutting through the din like a blade. Heads turned as two figures strode through the entryway. Daemon, clad in black and red, exuded his usual air of defiance. But it was the figure at his side that drew the sharp intake of breath from the gathered lords and ladies.

You stepped into the hall, every inch the Targaryen princess. Your gown, a masterpiece of dark crimson silk and black Valyrian lace, shimmered like dragonfire with every step. The neckline dipped daringly low, exposing the delicate curve of your collarbone, where a necklace of Valyrian steel and rubies rested. Your hair, the pale silver of your Valyrian heritage, cascaded down your back in intricate braids intertwined with thin chains of gold. But it was your face, striking and ethereal, that silenced the room. You had been beautiful as a child, but now, as a woman grown, you were devastating.

Beside you, Daemon smirked, clearly relishing the stunned silence. He guided you toward the royal table, where Viserys sat at its center, flanked by Alicent in her green gown and Rhaenyra in the traditional white and red of House Targaryen. Laenor Velaryon sat stiffly beside his bride, his expression unreadable.

“Daemon,” Viserys said, his voice tight with barely concealed irritation. “You were not invited.”

“Brother,” Daemon replied smoothly, his tone casual, as if he were commenting on the weather. “Surely you wouldn’t deny me the chance to celebrate my dear niece’s wedding?”

Viserys’s gaze shifted to you, and his expression softened, though it remained cautious. “And you brought… her.”

“I did.” Daemon’s hand rested lightly on your arm. “Surely you remember my daughter, your niece. Y/N, who has grown into quite the lady.”

You curtsied gracefully, your eyes locking with Viserys’s. “Your Grace.”

The king’s mouth opened as if to speak, but no words came out. Alicent’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes flickering between you and Daemon. Rhaenyra, however, looked less composed. Her gaze lingered on you, her cousin and near-contemporary, with an emotion that was difficult to read—relief, perhaps, or jealousy.

“Where have you been?” Rhaenyra finally asked, her voice breaking the silance. “You disappeared.”

You smiled faintly, a touch of mystery in your expression. “With my father. He thought it best for us to see the world beyond the confines of court.”

“Court missed you,” Rhaenyra said, though her tone suggested otherwise.

Viserys cleared his throat, his kingly composure returning. “You are family,” he said, gesturing to the empty chairs near the high table. “Sit. Join us.”

Daemon inclined his head in mock gratitude, his smile sharpening. “Your hospitality knows no bounds, brother.”

The two of you ascended the dais and took your seats, the eyes of the hall following your every movement. As you sat, the murmurs began anew, hushed whispers rippling through the crowd like wildfire.

“Is that truly Daemon’s daughter?”

“By the gods, she’s as beautiful as a queen.”

“What does this mean? Why has Daemon returned now?”

The conversation at the royal table was strained at first. Alicent barely looked at you, her fingers tightening around the goblet in her hand. Laenor, though polite, seemed unsure of how to address you, his glances brief and cautious. Rhaenyra, meanwhile, seemed torn between curiosity and wariness. Only Viserys seemed genuinely pleased to see you, though his concern for Daemon’s motives was evident in the tightness around his eyes.

“Your dragon,” Viserys asked at one point, leaning forward slightly. “Haelle, wasn’t it? The Nightmare Queen, they call her. How is she?”

“She is well,” you replied. “We flew in this morning.”

The statement hung in the air, a quiet reminder of the power you wielded. Dragons were more than mere beasts; they were weapons, symbols of House Targaryen’s dominion. And Haelle, with her black-and-gold scales and fiery temper, was a creature of legend.

“It’s good to see you, Y/N,” Viserys said finally, his tone softer. “You’ve been gone too long.”

You inclined your head. “Thank you, Uncle.”

Daemon smirked at your politeness but said nothing, letting the silence fill the space where a more cutting comment might have fallen. The anxiety remained, an undercurrent beneath the music and laughter that resumed in the hall. Yet, as you sipped your wine and observed the court with an air of detachment, you knew one thing for certain.

You were back. And the realm would never be the same.

The Lannister table, seated to the right of the royal dais, was an island of golden splendor amidst the sea of colors in the Great Hall. Goblets of Arbor wine gleamed in the candlelight, and plates piled with delicacies were spread before the lions of Casterly Rock. Yet the chatter at the table had grown subdued, as the shock of Prince Daemon and his daughter’s entrance rippled through the hall. All eyes had turned toward the royal table at the dramatic reappearance, and among the Lannisters, curiosity was no less keen.

Jason Lannister leaned back in his chair, swirling the wine in his goblet as he studied the Targaryen princess from afar. His green eyes lingered on her, taking in her striking features and the way she carried herself with an effortless grace. She had a presence that filled the hall, one that seemed to command attention without effort. It was clear she was her father’s daughter, but there was a softer quality to her—a beauty both ethereal and dangerous. A dragon in a girl's skin, Jason thought.

Beside him, Tyland Lannister had resumed eating, though his movements were measured and deliberate, his expression betraying his thoughts. Unlike Jason, who brimmed with confidence, Tyland’s demeanor carried a wariness, as though anticipating the trouble that always seemed to follow Daemon Targaryen.

It was Lord Alton Lannister, their elder cousin, who broke the silence. “Well,” he said, lowering his cup and looking toward Tyland, “you’re on the Small Council. Surely you know—when was the last time the princess graced the court?”

Tyland paused, wiping his mouth with a silk cloth before answering. “Not since she was a child,” he replied. “I doubt she was older than ten or eleven when Daemon left.”

Alton let out a low whistle. “And now she returns, fully grown and radiant as the Dawn. The court must be in a frenzy.”

Jason smirked, setting down his goblet. “Frenzy is one word for it. Look at them—they’re still whispering about her. The Nightmare Queen, isn’t that what they call her dragon? A name like that has a way of capturing the imagination.”

“Names like that breed fear,” Tyland interjected, his tone clipped. “She is bonded with a dragon said to rival Caraxes in ferocity. The Nightmare Queen is no empty title.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “You make her sound like a menace. She’s a young woman, not some beast.”

Tyland met his brother’s gaze evenly. “A young woman raised by Daemon Targaryen, no less. Don’t let her beauty fool you, Jason. She’s her father’s daughter through and through.”

Jason chuckled, leaning forward on the table. “And what’s wrong with that? I’ve always found Daemon… entertaining.”

“Entertaining until he decides he doesn’t like you,” Tyland said, his voice lowering slightly. “If you think you’ll charm her, be careful. You may find her less receptive than the ladies you’re used to.”

Jason’s smile widened, a glint of mischief in his eye. “Now, Tyland, when have you ever known me to back down from a chaellenge?”

Tyland sighed, setting down his fork. “I’m merely saying, tread lightly. The Targaryens are not like the women of the Westerlands. They play their own games, and they play them well.”

Jason didn’t respond immediately, his attention drawn back to the royal table. The princess sat beside Daemon, her posture regal and unyielding, her expression serene as though she were utterly unaffected by the stares and whispers. She sipped her wine with an almost deliberate grace, her eyes occasionally flicking to the crowd as if assessing the room. Even from this distance, Jason could feel the pull of her presence.

“I intend to offer my congratulations to Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor,” Jason said at last, adjusting the collar of his finely embroidered doublet. “And while I’m at it, I might take the opportunity to exchange a few words with her.”

Alton raised an eyebrow, his expression amused. “Brave of you, cousin. You’d risk the wrath of Daemon Targaryen for a chance to speak with his daughter?”

“Daemon isn’t the one I intend to speak to,” Jason replied smoothly. “Besides, if I let him intimidate me, I’d hardly be worthy of the name Lannister.”

Tyland shook his head, exasperation flickering in his eyes. “You never listen, do you?”

Jason shrugged, a confident smile playing on his lips. “You worry too much, brother. A lion knows when to strike.”

He rose from his seat, straightening his shoulders and smoothing his doublet. His golden hair caught the light as he prepared to make his way toward the royal dais, his movements deliberate and self-assured. Tyland watched him go, shaking his head once more but making no move to stop him. The rest of the Lannisters exchanged looks, some amused, others skeptical.

As Jason began his approach, the hall seemed to recover its rhythm, the music resuming its lively pace and the hum of conversation rising once more. Yet amidst the revelry, the presence of the Targaryen princess remained a focal point, her return an unspoken reminder of the power and danger that lurked beneath the surface of this seemingly joyous occasion.

And Jason Lannister, ever the bold lion, was about to step into the dragon’s den.

The hum of the hall seemed to fade into the background as Jason Lannister made his way toward the royal table. His steps were measured, his shoulders squared, and his golden lion-emblazoned doublet shone in the candlelight, catching more than a few admiring glances from nearby ladies. But Jason’s focus was singular. His eyes fixed briefly on Rhaenyra and Laenor, seated in their places of honor, before flickering to you, the Targaryen princess whose presence had thrown the entire hall into a hush mere moments ago.

As he approached, Daemon’s gaze caught him first, those dark violet eyes narrowing slightly, as if already weary of the encounter. But Jason was not easily cowed, and with a disarming smile, he dipped into a bow before the royal table, addressing the newlyweds first.

“Princess Rhaenyra, Ser Laenor,” he began, his tone warm and practiced. “Allow me to extend my sincerest congratulations on this joyous occasion. House Lannister is honored to celebrate your union, which I’m certain will only strengthen the realm.”

Rhaenyra’s smile was polite, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Lord Jason, your presence here is noted,” she replied, her tone cool but courteous.

Laenor, for his part, seemed distracted, his gaze darting to you and Daemon before quickly returning to his goblet. He managed a half-hearted, “Thank you, my lord.”

Jason’s smile didn’t falter as he straightened, though his true intent was clear as his gaze shifted toward you. His smile softened, taking on a charm that had won him many admirers in court. “And Princess Y/N,” he said, inclining his head toward you. “It is a rare and welcome honor to see you back at court. Your presence graces this hall.”

Your eyes lifted to meet his, and for a moment, you said nothing. The weight of your gaze was like the lingering heat of dragonfire—intense, unyielding, and wholly unnerving. Jason felt a flicker of unease, but he quickly masked it, maintaining his confident demeanor.

“It has been some time, Lord Jason,” you replied at last, your voice smooth and measured. “I suppose much has changed since my departure.”

Jason chuckled, sensing an opportunity to engage you. “Indeed, much has changed,” he agreed, his tone light. “Though I must say, some things remain constant—such as the splendor of House Targaryen. You remind us all of its magnificence.”

Your lips curved into a faint smile, though it was hard to tell whether it was amusement or something else entirely. “You flatter me, my lord.”

Jason took the smile as encouragement and pressed on. “It is not flattery, my princess, but truth,” he said smoothly, leaning in slightly as if to draw you into a more intimate exchange. “You are the very image of Valyrian grace. I can see why the court is so captivated by you.”

Before he could say more, Daemon shifted in his seat, the subtle movement enough to remind Jason of the dragon that hovered nearby. Jason glanced at the prince briefly but found Daemon watching him with a faint smirk, as if curious to see how far he would go.

Jason returned his focus to you, determined not to let Daemon’s presence unnerve him. “I imagine the world beyond King’s Landing must have been quite the adventure,” he said, his voice turning conversational. “I wonder if you ever found anything to rival the beauty of our court.”

You tilted your head slightly, your expression thoughtful. “I have seen many wonders, my lord,” you replied, your tone almost wistful. “The ancient cities of Essos, the hidden isles of the Summer Sea… and, of course, the freedom of the skies atop Haelle. But beauty, I have found, is subjective. What some call magnificent, others might see as… fleeting.”

Jason blinked, unsure whether to take the comment as a compliment or an insult. Still, he pressed on, determined to regain control of the conversation. “Fleeting or not, beauty is worth cherishing while it lasts. And if I may be so bold, Princess, your presence here tonight is a reminder of that very truth.”

The faint smile on your lips grew ever so slightly, and for a moment, Jason thought he had succeeded in charming you. But then you spoke, your tone laced with an edge so subtle it took him a moment to catch it.

“Such eloquence, Lord Jason,” you said softly, your eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “One might almost think you rehearsed it.”

Jason’s confident smile faltered for the briefest moment. The barb was so delicately delivered that it took a beat for him to fully grasp it. Around you, the conversation at the royal table continued as if nothing had happened, but Jason felt the sting keenly, though he hid it well.

Recovering quickly, he gave a polite laugh. “Perhaps I’ve simply had the good fortune to be inspired,” he countered, bowing his head slightly. “In any case, I hope to continue our conversation another time, Princess. Perhaps under less… formal circumstances.”

You inclined your head, your smile unwavering. “We shall see, my lord.”

Jason lingered for a moment longer before stepping back and offering another bow to the table. As he turned to leave, he felt the weight of your gaze on him, though whether it was one of amusement or dismissal, he couldn’t quite tell. Behind him, Tyland’s words echoed faintly in his mind, a warning he had been too proud to heed. For all his charm and confidence, he realized, you were not a woman to be easily swayed—or easily fooled.

Jason Lannister returned to his seat at the Lannister table, his movements brisk and his expression carefully neutral. He lowered himself into his chair with the practiced ease of someone who refused to show any hint of disappointment, even if the exchange had not gone entirely as planned. He reached for his goblet, taking a measured sip of Arbor gold, before setting it down with a faint clink against the polished wood.

Tyland, who had been watching the royal table with narrowed eyes, wasted no time. “That didn’t look promising,” he remarked, his tone as dry as the wine in his own goblet. He cut a piece of venison and brought it to his lips, his movements unhurried but precise, as if his focus wasn’t entirely on his meal.

Jason shot his younger brother a sidelong glance, leaning back in his chair. “You always were a pessimist, Tyland. I thought you’d have more faith in me.”

Tyland smirked faintly, shaking his head. “It’s not a matter of faith, Jason. It’s a matter of practicality. You shouldn’t be doing this—not now.”

“And why not?” Jason chaellenged, his voice low enough to avoid carrying beyond their table. He gestured toward the royal dais with his goblet. “She’s a princess of the blood, a rare beauty, and clearly one of the most captivating women in the hall. Why shouldn’t I take the opportunity?”

Tyland set down his knife and fork, folding his hands neatly in front of him as he turned his scholding gaze on his older twin. “Because you��re negotiating with Lord Westerling for the hand of his daughter. Or have you conveniently forgotten that? Word reaches far and fast in court, Jason. You wouldn’t want him to think you’re… distracted.”

Jason scoffed, his lips curling into a grin that bordered on arrogant. “Distracted? Lord Westerling would count himself lucky to have me as a son-in-law, and he knows it. Besides, it’s just conversation. I’ve done nothing improper.”

“Yet,” Tyland countered, his tone pointed. “But Daemon Targaryen doesn’t need a reason to take offense, and the princess—”

Jason cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Daemon can posture all he likes. He doesn’t intimidate me. As for the princess…” He trailed off, glancing toward the royal table where you sat beside your father, your expression calm but unreadable. “She’s intriguing, Tyland. You don’t meet women like her every day.”

Tyland didn’t respond immediately. His gaze followed his brother’s, settling on you for a moment too long before he quickly looked away. He reached for his goblet, swirling the wine absently as he spoke. “She’s intriguing, yes. She’s also dangerous. You saw how she handled your charm—it didn’t take much for her to put you in your place.”

Jason chuckled, though there was a slight edge to it. “She’s sharp, I’ll give her that. But that only makes the game more interesting.”

Tyland sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This isn’t a game, Jason. You’re playing with fire, and I don’t just mean Daemon. She’s not some simpering Westerlands maiden who’ll swoon over your pretty words. You’ll get burned.”

Jason’s grin widened. “Maybe I like the heat.”

Alton, who had been quietly observing the exchange, finally spoke up, his tone amused. “It’s rare to see you so persistent, Jason. Most women are won over before you’ve even said a word. But the princess… she’s a different breed.”

Jason leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “That’s what makes her worth pursuing.”

Tyland frowned, his gaze flickering to the royal table once more despite himself. He couldn’t help but study you—the way the candlelight caught the silver in your hair, the way you held yourself with an air of quiet confidence that seemed to make the very air around you heavier. There was something magnetic about you, something that made it hard to look away.

“And you?” Jason asked suddenly, catching Tyland off guard. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve been stealing glances at her too?”

Tyland’s jaw tightened, and he straightened in his seat. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Jason smirked, his expression turning teasing. “Oh, come now, Tyland. You’re usually so composed, but I’ve seen the way you look at her.”

Tyland didn’t respond, instead lifting his goblet to his lips to avoid further comment. Jason’s grin only grew, pleased to have struck a nerve.

“You know,” Jason continued, his tone light but laced with mischief, “if I weren’t careful, I’d say you’re as captivated as I am.”

Tyland set his goblet down with a touch more force than necessary, fixing his brother with a stern look. “I’m not captivated. I’m cautious. Someone has to be.”

Jason laughed, a rich, deep sound that carried a note of triumph. “Well, cautious or not, I’ll take my chances. Life’s too short to ignore an opportunity like this.”

Tyland shook his head, but his gaze flickered toward you one last time, lingering just long enough to betray his thoughts. Whether he would admit it or not, Jason wasn’t the only one drawn to the princess at the royal table. But unlike Jason, Tyland understood the risks—and he doubted his brother had the skill or patience to navigate the storm you represented.

The music in the Great Hall swelled, the first notes of a lively melody filling the space as dancers took to the floor. The tension that had lingered after your and Daemon’s arrival was beginning to dissipate, drowned in wine and merriment. Yet, as laughter and conversation filled the air, your mind remained focused, your senses attuned to the atmosphere around you.

Seated beside your father, you swirled the deep red wine in your goblet, observing the court with the detached amusement that Daemon had taught you well. The weight of curious and lingering stares had not diminished. You had spent years away from court, but here, in the heart of the Red Keep, your absence had only made you more of a mystery—one that lords and ladies alike sought to unravel.

Daemon leaned slightly toward you, his voice low and laced with amusement. “Well, that was a performance.”

You took a measured sip of your wine before glancing at him. “You expected anything less?”

His smirk deepened. “From you? Never.” He lifted his goblet in a silent toast. “But I must say, you handle lions well. I think Jason Lannister thought he had you ensnared.”

A small smile played at your lips as you turned your gaze to the Lannister table, where Jason had returned to his seat, wearing his usual mask of confidence—though you had seen the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes when he realized your words had been a well-placed barb. “He thinks himself a master at the game,” you mused. “But he underestimates his opponent.”

Daemon chuckled, clearly pleased. “Good. You should keep them all on their toes. Let them wonder where they stand with you.” He glanced toward the royal table, where Viserys sat observing the scene with an expression of quiet thoughtfulness. “And speaking of those who wonder…”

You turned just as Viserys shifted toward you, setting aside his goblet and offering a warm, albeit cautious, smile. “Y/N,” he said, his voice rich with something akin to relief. “I must say, it gladdens me to see you here again. It has been far too long.”

You inclined your head respectfully. “It has, Uncle.”

He studied you for a moment, as if searching for traces of the girl he once knew beneath the composed woman before him. “I had often wondered how you fared,” he continued. “I sent letters, you know.”

You did know. They had arrived in the Free Cities, where you and Daemon had spent your exile, yet your father had always intercepted them before they reached you. Not out of cruelty, but because he believed that no good would come from lingering attachments to the court you had left behind.

“I never received them,” you said, not unkindly.

Viserys’s expression darkened slightly, his gaze flickering toward Daemon, who merely smirked and took another sip of wine. The animosity between the brothers was ever-present, a wound that had never truly healed.

“I see,” Viserys murmured, though it was clear he didn’t. He exhaled slowly before offering a gentler smile. “I trust you have been well, then? Daemon’s company… agrees with you?”

You glanced at your father, his expression unreadable, before nodding. “I have seen the world beyond these walls,” you replied. “Traveled farther than most lords could dream. It has been… enlightening.”

Viserys nodded, though something in his eyes hinted at regret. “Still, you are family,” he said after a moment. “No matter the distance, that will not change.”

You offered him a small smile, and for now, the conversation seemed to settle. The king looked relieved that you had not outright rejected his attempts at connection. But you knew this was only the beginning. You had returned, and there would be more conversations, more questions, more attempts to weave you back into the court’s web.

The music swelled, and the first couples began to take to the floor, the polished marble reflecting the flickering candlelight. The dance was one of tradition, one expected at any grand feast—a display of grace, skill, and status. You watched as Rhaenyra and Laenor stepped forward first, the newlyweds taking their place at the center as the hall erupted in applause.

Daemon leaned toward you again, voice tinged with amusement. “I wonder how long before someone dares ask you to dance.”

You exhaled a quiet laugh, resting your chin against your knuckles as you observed the growing number of couples joining the dance. “I imagine they are debating whether it’s worth the risk.”

Daemon grinned. “Good. Keep them guessing.”

From across the hall, you caught sight of Jason Lannister rising from his seat, his movements deliberate. Tyland, still seated beside him, muttered something that made Jason roll his eyes before shaking off his brother’s words and adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves.

You already knew his intention before he even turned toward the royal table.

Daemon noticed as well, smirking as he leaned back in his chair. “And the first lion dares to approach the dragon once more.” He tilted his goblet toward you. “Shall we see how long he lasts this time?”

You merely smiled, watching as Jason made his way through the crowd with the easy confidence of a man who had never known rejection. The game had begun, and you intended to play it well.

Lords and ladies subtly shifted in their seats, eyes drawn toward him—some with curiosity, others with mild surprise. It was one thing to exchange words over wine, but to boldly approach the royal table twice in one evening was a statement.

Daemon had already noticed, of course. He exhaled a small chuckle, sipping at his wine as though thoroughly entertained. “Persistent,” he murmured. “I’ll give him that.”

Jason reached the royal table and bowed slightly, his golden hair gleaming under the candlelight. His lion-embroidered doublet fit perfectly over his broad frame, the confidence in his stance unmistakable. But there was something in his gaze as he met yours—not just admiration, but amusement, perhaps even chaellenge.

“Princess Y/N,” he greeted smoothly, his tone warm and inviting. “I find myself drawn back to your company so soon. I hope you will forgive my lack of restraint.”

Your lips curled in a faint smirk. “Is restraint something you struggle with, my lord?”

Jason chuckled. “On occasion. Especially when it comes to remarkable company.” He straightened slightly, offering his hand. “Would you grant me the honor of a dance?”

There it was. The unspoken question that had lingered in the air, the moment that so many lords hesitated to seize for fear of stepping too close to the fire.

You regarded him for a moment, tilting your head slightly. “Are you a misogynist, Lord Jason?”

There was a brief flicker of confusion before Jason laughed, rich and unbothered. “Not in the slightest, princess. Why do you ask?”

You leaned back in your chair, amusement gleaming in your violet eyes. “Because I cannot think of another reason why a man negotiating a betrothal would be so bold as to pursue another woman so publicly. Either you do not value the girl you are meant to wed, or you do not value women at all.”

A ripple of amusement passed through the royal table—Daemon smirked into his goblet, while Alicent, who had been quietly observing, arched an intrigued brow. Viserys, for his part, let out a slow sigh, though he did not intervene.

Jason, to his credit, did not flinch. Instead, his green eyes gleamed with something sharper, something entertained rather than insulted. “Or, princess,” he countered, “perhaps I simply value the things that are rarest.” His hand remained outstretched, unwavering. “And you are the rarest woman in this hall.”

Daemon’s smirk faded slightly, his fingers tapping against his goblet. His gaze flickered to Jason’s outstretched hand before landing on you.

“Careful, Lannister,” he drawled, the sharp edge in his tone unmistakable. “You might think yourself a lion, but there are creatures far deadlier than you in this hall.”

Jason turned his head, locking eyes with Daemon. And for the first time that evening, there was no humor in his expression. “I am well aware of the dangers, my prince,” he replied smoothly. “But I do not fear them.”

A breath of silence passed between them. It was brief, but it carried weight. Jason had made his move, and Daemon was weighing whether to let him take the step forward or crush him where he stood.

You watched them both, feeling the tension coiling in the space between them. Then, with deliberate grace, you reached forward and placed your fingers lightly in Jason’s palm. His grip was firm yet careful as he helped you to your feet.

Daemon’s eyes darkened slightly, but he said nothing. Instead, he lifted his goblet again and took a slow sip, though you could feel the unspoken warning in the way he watched Jason.

As the music swelled, Jason turned to you, amusement flickering back across his features. “I must say, princess,” he murmured, guiding you toward the dance floor, “you do know how to make a man work for his victories.”

You smirked, allowing yourself to be led. “Then tell me, Lord Jason,” you mused, “what makes you think this is a victory?”

His chuckle was soft but confident. “Because you’re dancing with me.”

And with that, the two of you stepped onto the floor, the world around you watching as a lion and a dragon met in a game of fire and gold.

Tyland Lannister sat back in his chair, watching with a carefully neutral expression as Jason led you onto the dance floor. The golden embroidery of his brother’s doublet caught the flickering candlelight, gleaming as he moved with a lion’s confidence, his hand resting firmly on your waist. You, however, were more difficult to read. Though you followed Jason’s lead with practiced ease, your expression remained poised, your violet eyes unreadable.

A soft scoff came from his left. “Bold of him,” muttered Ser Stafford Lannister, one of their cousins, his voice laced with amusement as he sipped at his wine. “Even bolder of her.”

Lord Alton Lannister, seated across from them, chuckled under his breath. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Jason is trying to court her right in front of the entire court.” He swirled his goblet, his gaze flickering between the dancers and Tyland. “Should we expect a royal announcement soon, Tyland? Perhaps to a princess of Valyrian blood?”

Tyland exhaled slowly, his fingers drumming against the table. “If that were Jason’s goal, he should have chosen a safer conquest,” he remarked dryly. “Daemon Targaryen is not a man who takes kindly to men sniffing around his blood.”

Ser Stafford snorted. “Daemon doesn’t take kindly to anyone. And yet Jason dances with his daughter without a sword between them. That must count for something.”

Tyland’s gaze flickered back to the dance floor. Daemon was watching from the royal dais, his fingers tapping against the stem of his goblet. The smirk on his face did little to hide the sharp edge beneath it. He was letting Jason dance with you—but how much further he would let things go was another matter entirely.

“You can’t deny she’s a prize,” Alton continued, leaning forward with interest. “Look at her. She walks like a queen, and gods, that dragon of hers—Haelle. That alone makes her the most dangerous woman in the realm.”

“She is the daughter of Daemon Targaryen,” Tyland said, taking a measured sip of his wine. “Dangerous is in her blood.”

“Exactly,” Stafford said, shaking his head with a small grin. “And Jason, the reckless fool, is dancing straight into the fire.”

Tyland sighed, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied his brother’s movements. Jason was a master of charm, that much was undeniable, but you… you were different from the women who usually fell so easily under his spell. You held yourself with an authority that even Rhaenyra, the realm’s heir, could not match. There was something in the way you looked at Jason—not with shyness or demure flirtation, but with the same calculating assessment one might give a potential adversary.

And yet, you danced with him.

“She’s testing him,” Tyland murmured, more to himself than to the others.

Alton turned his head. “Hmm?”

“The princess,” Tyland elaborated. “She’s seeing how far Jason will go before he realizes she’s the one holding the leash.”

Stafford chuckled. “And what happens when he finds out?”

Tyland took another sip of his wine, watching as you leaned in slightly, murmuring something into Jason’s ear. Whatever you said made his brother grin, though there was a flicker of something else behind it—surprise, perhaps. Maybe even intrigue.

“He’ll keep playing,” Tyland said finally. “Because he won’t believe he can lose.”

Alton smirked. “And do you believe he will?”

Tyland’s gaze remained locked on the dance floor, watching as Jason twirled you, your silver hair catching the candlelight like molten starlight. The entire hall watched you—some entertained, others wary, but none indifferent.

The game had begun in earnest.

And Tyland, for all his caution, wasn’t sure if his brother realized just how dangerous his opponent truly was.

The dance between you and Jason was a slow, deliberate thing. Each step, each turn, each brush of his hand against your waist was performed under the scrutiny of the entire court. The Great Hall was alive with music, the lively melody filling the space, yet there was a tension beneath it—a quiet, anticipatory hum that carried through the crowd as they watched a lion and a dragon circle one another.

Jason led with confidence, his grip firm but not overpowering, his movements practiced and smooth. He was a man who knew his own appeal, who had likely charmed many a woman with his easy smile and golden tongue. But you were no wide-eyed lady from the Westerlands, no soft-spoken courtly maiden easily swayed by flattery and gallant words. You moved with effortless grace, matching his every step, a silent reminder that he did not lead this dance alone.

Jason leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your ear as he spoke. “I must admit, princess, you’ve caught me at a disadvantage.”

You arched a delicate brow, tilting your head just enough to meet his gaze. “How so, my lord?”

His lips curled into a smirk, his green eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “You spoke of my betrothal negotiations as though you were seated at the table yourself. I find that rather intriguing.”

You allowed yourself a slow, knowing smile. “Only a fool would return here without learning everything about this den of vipers.”

Jason let out a short, surprised chuckle. “Vipers, is it? And here I thought you might still see this court as home.”

Your fingers tightened slightly where they rested in his grasp. “Home,” you mused, letting the word roll off your tongue as if testing its weight. “Such a delicate thing. So easily turned into a cage if one is not careful.”

Jason hummed in thought, his grip on your waist pressing slightly firmer as he spun you, your silken skirts fanning out in a swirl of deep crimson and black. The movement was effortless, controlled. He was good at this—dancing, charming, making women feel as though the world revolved around him.

But you knew better.

“I wonder,” Jason mused, his voice dropping just enough for only you to hear. “What else did you learn, princess? Do I have other secrets I should be concerned about?”

You tilted your head, watching him through half-lidded eyes as you allowed a playful smirk to grace your lips. “That depends. Should I be concerned about how many women’s fathers you have sat across from, promising them the honor of being Lady of Casterly Rock?”

Jason barked a quiet laugh, his grip on you tightening for a fraction of a second. “Now that is an unfair assessment,” he mused. “It is not as though I am in the habit of making such promises. Just one or two… perhaps three.”

You smirked, tilting your chin up as you let him guide you through another turn. “How noble.”

“I am nothing if not honorable,” Jason quipped, though his grin betrayed his amusement.

You exhaled a quiet laugh, the sharp gleam in your violet eyes never dimming. “And yet, despite all this honor, here you are,” you murmured, your voice as smooth as silk. “Dancing with a woman who is not among those negotiations.”

Jason’s smirk deepened. “I am an opportunist, my princess. It would be a crime to let such a moment slip away.”

You studied him for a long moment, the dance moving through another slow, deliberate step. His confidence was unwavering, his charm effortless. But there was something else beneath it—curiosity, perhaps even fascination. He had danced with many, of that you were certain, but you were something different.

You leaned in just enough that your lips nearly brushed his ear, your voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me, Lord Jason, do you dance with all the women you court so publicly?”

Jason’s breath hitched for the briefest moment before he recovered, his smirk sharpening. “Only the ones who make my blood run hot.”

Your smile was slow, calculated. “How fortunate, then, that I am not in the market for a husband.”

Jason chuckled, his fingers pressing against your lower back as he guided you into another turn. “A tragedy, truly,” he said smoothly, though his voice held a thread of something more—something bordering on chaellenge.

You did not respond immediately, letting the music fill the brief silence between you as the two of you moved in perfect sync. Around the hall, whispers floated between courtiers, lords and ladies speculating, watching, assessing.

You knew what they saw.

A lion circling a dragon.

Jason, ever the confident rogue, thought himself the predator in this game. But you could see it now, in the way his grip tightened just slightly when your body brushed against his, in the way his eyes gleamed with something dangerously close to intrigue. He had entered this dance thinking to seduce a princess.

Instead, he was the one being ensnared.

And gods, he was enjoying it.

As the final notes of the melody rang through the Great Hall, the dance drew to a close. Jason's grip remained firm for a moment longer than necessary, his fingers warm against your waist, as if reluctant to let you go. But you had already decided the game would not be his to control.

With a graceful step back, you withdrew from him, dipping your head ever so slightly in acknowledgment. “A fine dance, my lord,” you murmured, your voice smooth as silk, deliberately impersonal despite the intensity of your earlier exchange.

Jason smirked, sensing the shift in your demeanor. You were retreating before he could press his advantage further. Clever girl.

“The pleasure was mine, princess,” he replied, his tone laced with amusement.

You turned before he could say more, stepping away from the golden lion and back into the sea of onlookers. And that was when the court descended upon you.

Like vultures drawn to fresh meat, lords and ladies swarmed, eager to claim a moment of your attention. Some came with flowery compliments, others with thinly veiled curiosity, their eyes hungry for any morsel of information about you.

“It has been far too long since we have seen you at court, Princess Y/N.”

“You dance as if the gods themselves had shaped you for it.”

“Your father must be proud to have raised such a striking lady.”

Questions came next, wrapped in silk but cutting as Valyrian steel.

“What has brought you back to King’s Landing?”

“Do you intend to remain at court?”

“Has His Grace spoken of a match for you yet?”

The last question was the one whispered most eagerly, rippling through the gathered nobles like a slow-burning ember. Because that was the heart of it, wasn’t it? The game of marriage, alliances, and power. A dragon returned to the Red Keep was no small thing, and they all wanted to know where you would fall on the board.

You answered them with practiced ease, offering smiles without true promises, words with just enough weight to keep them wanting more. You had spent years away from court, but the game had not changed. If anything, you had learned it better than ever.

Jason Lannister strode back toward his seat, his smirk wider than ever. He could still feel the ghost of your touch, the way your body had moved with his. He poured himself another cup of Arbor gold, feeling the eyes of his kin on him.

“Well?” Alton Lannister asked, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Shall we expect a royal announcement soon, Jason? Or did she turn you into cinders?”

Jason let out a rich chuckle, lifting his goblet in a mock toast. “I’d say I handled myself rather well,” he said smugly, taking a deep sip of his wine. “She did not burn me, nor did she bite. That, dear cousins, is a victory.”

Ser Stafford scoffed, shaking his head. “A victory? You think one dance is a conquest?”

Jason leaned back, grinning. “One dance is the start of many things. She did not deny me, did she?” He gestured toward the court, where you stood amidst the nobles, captivating the entire hall. “They may all be circling her now, but I had her first.”

Tyland, who had remained quiet during Jason’s boasting, exhaled sharply before finally speaking. “You’re a fool.”

Jason turned his head, raising an amused brow. “Oh?”

Tyland’s expression was tight, his hands clasped before him as he leaned slightly forward. “Daemon Targaryen was watching you like a hawk the entire time. If you truly think he will let you dance with his daughter freely, you’re more arrogant than I thought.”

Jason chuckled, clearly unbothered. “Daemon is many things, but he is not blind. He knows what his daughter is—she’s a prize, and he knows men will seek her. What better man than a Lannister?”

Tyland’s jaw tightened. “You’re playing with fire, Jason.”

Jason merely smirked, swirling his wine. “I rather like the heat.”

Tyland let out a sharp breath, his patience thinning. “You do not understand what you’re dealing with,” he said, voice low and edged with warning. “She’s her father’s daughter through and through. If you think you can win her with empty flattery and boasts, you’ll find yourself sorely disappointed.”

Jason tilted his head slightly, studying his brother. Then, to Tyland’s irritation, his smirk only widened.

“Is that what’s bothering you, little brother?” Jason drawled, his tone mockingly thoughtful. “You’re jealous because you didn’t have the courage to approach her first?”

Tyland’s expression darkened, his fingers tightening around the goblet before he set it down with deliberate force. “Do not be ridiculous.”

Jason chuckled, leaning closer. “Oh, come now, Tyland. You watched her just as much as I did. And yet, I was the one who walked up to her. I was the one who danced with her while the whole court watched. You? You sat here and brooded like a scolded child.”

Tyland’s nostrils flared, but his face remained composed, his eyes cold as steel. “I am cautious,” he corrected. “Something you seem to lack entirely.”

Jason grinned. “And where has caution ever gotten you, brother? Sitting at council meetings while the rest of us play the real game?” He took another sip of his wine, shaking his head. “You’re always so careful, Tyland. So restrained. But tell me, how long will you sit on the sidelines while I enjoy the spoils?”

Tyland said nothing, but the look in his eyes was dark and unreadable.

Jason laughed, slapping his brother’s shoulder before leaning back in his chair. “Ah, don’t sulk. There are plenty of ladies in court who’d welcome your attention.” He tilted his head toward you, watching as you effortlessly navigated the growing circle of nobles vying for your favor. “But that one? She’s mine.”

Tyland didn’t respond. He simply reached for his wine and took a slow sip, his expression unreadable. But something in his grip, the way his jaw tightened ever so slightly, told Jason that his words had struck their mark.

And that, perhaps, his younger brother was not as unaffected as he wished to appear.

Meanwhile, during the dance

The Great Hall shimmered with candlelight, laughter, and the hum of conversation as the wedding feast carried on. At the center of it all, King Viserys I Targaryen reclined in his seat at the royal dais, watching the court dance and revel. The unease that had settled over their table when Daemon arrived with you had lessened now that you had stepped away, but a shadow still lingered over his features.

Beside him, Queen Alicent sat stiffly, her green gown immaculate, her lips pressed into a thin line as her gaze flickered between Viserys and the court below. On the dance floor, Rhaenyra and Laenor moved gracefully in tandem, their laughter light and effortless, as if for one night, at least, they could play the part expected of them.

Daemon, lounging in his seat across from them, swirled his wine lazily in his goblet, his expression unreadable. His presence was as unwelcome as ever, but he looked utterly unbothered by it, his smirk never quite fading.

Viserys exhaled slowly, setting down his goblet. The weight of the crown felt heavier than usual tonight. With you away from the table, he finally allowed himself to speak more freely.

“She looks just like her mother,” he muttered, almost to himself, as his eyes followed you amidst the courtiers.

Daemon’s smirk faltered for the briefest moment.

Viserys glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “I have not seen that face in years, and now… it’s as if Daena walks among us again.”

A muscle ticked in Daemon’s jaw. He brought his goblet to his lips, taking a slow sip before answering. “She is her own woman, brother.”

“Perhaps,” Viserys allowed, though his voice remained distant, thoughtful. His eyes traced your movements through the hall, watching as lords and ladies swarmed around you, eager for a moment of your time. “She was meant to be my daughter’s sister by marriage,” he mused. “A match for the son Aemma and I never had.”

Daemon scoffed softly, swirling his wine. “And if Aemma had birthed a boy, do you truly think he would have been worthy of her?”

Viserys turned sharply at that, his expression darkening. “That was the plan.”

Daemon leaned back in his chair, smirking again. “Plans change.”

Alicent, silent until now, finally spoke, her voice measured but firm. “The princess has returned to court,” she said carefully. “Surely, Your Grace should consider her future—what will become of her?”

Viserys rubbed a hand over his brow. “She has just arrived, Alicent. Must we already speak of alliances?”

“Is it not prudent?” Alicent replied, ever the queen, ever practical. “She is a woman grown. And a princess of your blood. If her hand is left unclaimed, lords will fight for it soon enough.”

Daemon smirked, turning toward her with something dangerously close to amusement. “Is that concern I hear in your voice, good-sister?”

Alicent’s fingers tightened around her goblet. “I merely think the matter should not be ignored.”

Viserys sighed, watching you again as Jason Lannister spun you in a graceful turn. He could see the murmurs it was causing, the way the court whispered at the sight of a golden lion dancing with a dragon.

Daemon followed his gaze, his smirk deepening. “The Lannister seems eager,” he mused. “Would you have her as Lady of Casterly Rock, brother?”

Viserys frowned. “Jason Lannister is a braggart.”

“He is a powerful braggart,” Alicent interjected. “And wealthy.”

Daemon chuckled. “Oh, now this is amusing. Tell me, Alicent, do you think a Lannister would know how to handle her?” His voice was full of wicked amusement, and something else—something sharper.

Alicent stiffened at his tone. “It is not a matter of ‘handling’ her, Prince Daemon. It is a matter of what is best for the realm.”

Daemon scoffed, setting his goblet down with a soft clink. “What’s best for the realm?” He gestured toward the dance floor, where Jason was clearly reveling in his own success, his confidence growing with every turn of the dance. “Tell me, then. Would you see her given to a man whose greatest skill is pouring gold over his problems?”

Viserys exhaled sharply. “Enough.”

Daemon tilted his head slightly, watching his brother carefully. “Then tell me, brother—what is your plan for her?”

Viserys did not answer right away. His fingers tapped against the armrest of his chair, his gaze heavy as he studied you once more. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted at last. “But she is my niece, and she deserves a choice.”

Daemon’s smirk was slow, knowing. “A choice, you say? How generous.”

Alicent’s expression was carefully neutral, but there was something in her posture, the way she held herself, that spoke of unease.

“She is a woman grown,” she said again. “And no woman of noble birth has complete choice.”

Daemon leaned forward slightly, resting an elbow on the table, his gaze locked on hers. “You would know, wouldn’t you?”

Alicent’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

Viserys pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience thinning. “Daemon, must you always—”

“I’m merely stating the truth, brother.” Daemon’s voice was light, but his eyes were cold as steel. “We all make sacrifices, do we not?”

A beat of silence stretched between them.

Finally, Viserys exhaled, turning his attention fully back to the scene before them. The music was changing, signaling the end of the dance. Jason Lannister, looking immensely pleased with himself, was guiding you back toward the gathered nobility, where the next wave of suitors waited eagerly for their chance to approach.

The sight made Viserys feel… uneasy.

“She is the last of Daena’s blood,” he murmured, almost to himself. “She deserves more than to be a prize to be won.”

Daemon tilted his head slightly, his smirk fading for the briefest moment. “Then let her decide, brother.”

Viserys sighed again, rubbing a hand down his face. “I will speak to her.”

Daemon smirked. “Do that.”

Alicent sipped her wine in silence, her gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before she turned her attention elsewhere.

And so, the night continued, but in the shadows of the revelry, the pieces of a greater game had already begun to shift.

The morning sun bathed the Red Keep in golden light, cutting through the remnants of the previous night’s revelry. The Great Hall was quiet now, the last traces of spilled wine and crushed flower petals having been swept away by servants at dawn. Yet, in the lingering hush of the castle, whispers of the wedding feast remained, carried in the murmurs of courtiers and the amused glances exchanged in the corridors.

You had taken refuge on one of the open balconies overlooking the courtyard, reclining lazily against the carved stone railing. The air was warm but pleasant, a soft breeze lifting strands of your silver hair as you gazed at the sprawling city below. King’s Landing was loud, restless, always teeming with life—but from up here, it all seemed small, distant.

The events of the previous night had left you amused, entertained even, but not surprised. The court had flocked to you as expected, eager to assess, to charm, to scheme. Jason Lannister had danced with you beneath the watchful eyes of the realm, playing his game with all the confidence of a man accustomed to winning. And yet, even he had sensed that the victory was not his alone to claim.

A sudden clack of boots against the stone floor drew your attention, the measured rhythm cutting through the quiet. You turned your head slightly, expecting yet another bold lord eager to test his luck.

And then, you sighed.

“Of course,” you muttered, tilting your head as you watched the approaching figure. “There’s another one.”

Tyland Lannister came to a slow stop, his expression betraying nothing as he studied you. Unlike his brother, he did not smirk, did not grin like a man too confident in his own charm. His stance was relaxed, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.

He inclined his head slightly. “Princess.”

Your lips curled in a faint smirk. “I should have known House Lannister only moves in pairs.”

Tyland exhaled a quiet chuckle, stepping closer but maintaining a respectable distance. “An unfortunate reputation, I admit.” He tilted his head slightly, studying you with a level gaze. “Though I’d wager most would consider twice the attention from our house a compliment.”

You gave him a slow, assessing glance. “Would they?”

He did not answer immediately, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make his presence feel intentional rather than coincidental. Then, with the same calmness, he spoke again.

“Tyland Lannister,” he said smoothly. “In case you tire of calling me ‘another one.’”

Your smirk deepened. “And I suppose you are here to make your own attempt at charming me?”

His expression did not shift, nor did he reach for dramatics the way Jason would have. Instead, he merely gave a small shrug, as if the matter was of no true consequence. “Would you like me to?”

That was… unexpected.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, intrigued. Unlike his brother, Tyland did not seek to overwhelm with wit or flair. His confidence was quieter, subtler, a blade hidden beneath silk rather than one displayed openly for admiration. He was not playing Jason’s game. He was playing his own.

Interesting.

You leaned back against the railing, tilting your head. “And if I said no?”

Tyland didn’t hesitate. “Then I would simply continue on my way to the council chamber.”

Your smirk did not fade. “How dutiful.”

“I try,” he said, though there was a flicker of something behind his words.

You exhaled, shaking your head slightly. “Two Lannister brothers,” you mused. “One comes to me with theatrics and golden smiles. The other appears as though he could take or leave the interaction entirely.” Your violet eyes gleamed with amusement. “Tell me, Lord Tyland, which approach do you think is more effective?”

Tyland studied you for a moment, his gaze steady. Then, with deliberate slowness, he stepped forward, close enough that the space between you was no longer so impersonal.

“I suppose that depends,” he murmured, voice lower now. “Would you rather be chased, princess?”

You arched a brow, your fingers tapping idly against the stone railing. “Is that what Jason was doing last night?”

Tyland’s lips quirked slightly. “Jason is… determined. But determination does not always yield success.”

You exhaled a quiet chuckle, tilting your chin up slightly. “And you? Are you determined?”

He watched you carefully. “Not in the way my brother is.”

Your smirk deepened. “How fortunate. I was beginning to wonder if I should expect a marriage proposal before midday.”

Tyland let out a quiet breath of amusement, but he did not press further. His restraint was noticeable—calculated, even. Jason had filled the air with words, but Tyland allowed the silence to breathe, his presence speaking for itself.

You watched him for a moment, then let your gaze flick toward the corridor leading to the council chamber. “You should be going, should you not?”

His head tilted slightly. “Are you dismissing me, princess?”

You exhaled, shaking your head slightly. “No, my lord. I am simply wondering how long you plan to stand here, feigning indifference while ensuring I remember your name.”

Tyland’s expression remained unreadable, but you caught the flicker of amusement in his green eyes.

“A fair observation,” he admitted. “Perhaps I should take my leave before I become predictable.”

You leaned slightly closer, your voice barely above a murmur. “It is far too late for that.”

For the first time, Tyland’s lips twitched in something that almost resembled a real smile.

He inclined his head. “Until next time, princess.”

And with that, he stepped away, his movements as measured as before, as if the interaction had been nothing more than an afterthought.

But as you watched him go, your smirk did not fade.

Unlike Jason, Tyland had not sought to impress you.

And that, you thought, might have been his most impressive move of all.

102 notes · View notes

oldsoul007 · 1 day ago

Text

7 summers

joel miller x reader

summary: After seven years apart, you see Joel Miller again, and what once felt like a fleeting teenage fling comes rushing back, forcing you to confront the love you never truly let go.

a/n: suggestive scenes, kissing, angstyish, fluff

joel miller masterlist

The summer I was eighteen, I fell in love with Joel Miller.

Not that I ever admitted it—not to him, not to myself, and certainly not to Tommy. Joel was Tommy’s older brother, and Tommy was my best friend. He was the one person in my life who knew everything about me, who’d always been there when I needed him. The last thing I wanted to do was ruin that. So, when Joel and I started sneaking off together that summer, I convinced myself it was just a fling, a secret I could lock away and never think about again.

But it wasn’t.

That summer was everything. Stolen kisses by the lake, his rough hands trailing down my arms, the way his voice turned soft when he called me “darlin’.” He wasn’t just my first love; he was my whole world, even if I couldn’t say it out loud. I wanted to. God, I wanted to tell him. But every time I opened my mouth, the fear of what would happen—the fallout with Tommy—kept the words stuck in my throat.

By the end of the summer, I was gone. Off to work, off to whatever life waited for me outside of our small Texas town. I swore to myself I’d move on, forget him, and never let myself feel that way again.

But some loves don’t fade.

Seven summers later, I was doing just fine—at least, that’s what I told myself. Then I ran into Tommy at a bar. Same grin, same easy laugh. For a second, it felt like we were kids again, back when everything was simple.

“y/n l/n,” he said, pulling me into a hug. “Where the hell have you been hiding?”

We talked for hours, catching up, reminiscing about all the trouble we used to get into. By the end of the night, he’d convinced me to come over for dinner. “It’s been too damn long,” he said. “You gotta come by. I’ll cook, just like old times.”

I didn’t think twice about it. I should have.

When I walked into Tommy’s house two nights later, I saw him. Joel.

He was leaning against the kitchen counter, a beer in his hand, looking exactly like I remembered—but somehow more. Broader, older, rougher around the edges in a way that made my stomach twist. The second he saw me, he froze, his eyes locking onto mine.

“Y/n,” he said, my name soft on his lips.

“Joel,” I whispered, my heart hammering in my chest.

Tommy, oblivious as ever, waltzed into the room and clapped a hand on Joel’s shoulder. “You two know each other, right? Y/n used to hang out all the time when we were kids.”

Joel glanced at me, waiting, and I knew he was asking me to hold the line. To keep the secret we’d buried all those years ago. Somehow, I found my voice. “Yeah,” I said, forcing a smile. “We’ve met.”

seven summers ago

The room was dark, the only light coming from the soft glow of the moon streaming through the thin curtains. It painted faint shadows across the walls, moving slightly with the breeze that didn’t quite reach us. The night was warm and heavy, the air clinging to my skin, and the constant chirp of crickets outside filled the silence. I lay flat on my back, my head sinking into the flat pillow of the old, creaky bed in my family’s lakehouse.

Joel was beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him. His shoulder brushed against mine every time one of us moved, a gentle reminder of how little space there was between us. We hadn’t spoken for what felt like hours, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy. Dense with the weight of things neither of us wanted to say.

I turned my head slightly, just enough to look at him. The moonlight caught the angles of his face, his jawline sharp and his dark eyes fixed on the ceiling like he was trying to untangle some thought that wouldn’t let him go. I swallowed the lump in my throat and fidgeted with the frayed edge of the blanket resting around our waists, trying to quiet the thoughts spinning in my head.

“What do you think you’ll be doing in ten years?” I asked, my voice soft. It felt like the kind of question that belonged in a moment like this, one that could break the silence without shattering it.

Joel’s brow furrowed slightly, like I’d caught him off guard. He turned his head to look at me, the corner of his mouth tugging up in that small, shy smile he did so well. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice low and easy. “Probably still workin’ construction, maybe startin’ my own business if I’m lucky.”

I smiled at the thought of it—of Joel running his own business. It felt so… right. “You’d be good at that,” I said, meaning it. “You’re good with your hands.”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head like he didn’t believe me, but his gaze lingered. “What about you?” he asked, his voice quiet but steady. “What’s y/n gonna be doing in ten years?”

I bit my lip, my smile faltering as I stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know,” I said after a pause. “Just something far away from here.”

I felt Joel shift beside me, his voice hesitant when he repeated my words. “Far away?”

“Yeah,” I said, keeping my eyes on the ceiling. “I just… I’ve always felt like there’s something out there, you know? Something bigger. I don’t want to stay stuck in one place forever.”

There was a long pause, and I could feel his gaze on me even though I didn’t look at him. Then, slowly, I felt his hand brush against mine. My breath caught as his fingers tentatively laced with mine, his palm warm and a little rough.

“You won’t be stuck,” he said softly, his voice sure but carrying something else—something deeper.

I turned my head to look at him, our hands still tangled between us. “How do you know?” I whispered, my voice unsteady.

His eyes didn’t waver as they held mine, dark and steady. “’Cause you’re different, y/n. You’ve got somethin’—a spark or somethin’. You’re meant for more than this little town.”

His words hit me in a way I wasn’t prepared for, filling me with equal parts hope and fear. I wanted to believe him—to believe that I was different, that I was meant for something more. But the thought of leaving, of leaving him, made my chest ache.

“What if I don’t want to leave everything behind?” I asked, my voice so soft I wasn’t sure he’d hear it.

Joel’s expression softened, his thumb brushing lightly over the back of my hand. “Then don’t,” he said simply. “But don’t let anyone hold you back, either. Not me, not Tommy… no one.”

His words settled over me, heavy and full of meaning. He was giving me permission, I realized—not that I needed it, but it still felt like he was handing me something. Something I wasn’t sure I could take.

I turned my gaze back to the ceiling, my throat tight and my heart pounding. There were a thousand things I wanted to say to him, things I couldn’t untangle from the knot of feelings twisting inside me. I didn’t want to leave him. He was the one thing that made staying feel worth it.

But I didn’t say any of that.

Instead, I squeezed his hand, letting the silence take over again. It stretched between us, thick with everything we weren’t saying, everything we might never say.

Joel didn’t pull away, and neither did I. We just lay there, our hands still tangled together, the weight of the moment pressing down on us as the warm summer night carried on.

The smell of grilled steak and warm buttered rolls filled Tommy’s kitchen, a scent so familiar it made my chest ache. It was the kind of meal I’d had a hundred times at the Miller house, back when summer nights were spent on their back porch, laughing over cold beers and fireflies.

I hadn’t expected to feel so at home here after all these years. But I also hadn’t expected Joel to be sitting across the table from me, looking at me like I was some kind of ghost from his past.

It had been seven summers since I last saw him—since I left. Seven years of growing up, of moving on, or at least trying to. But sitting here now, it felt like no time had passed at all.

“So,” Tommy said, leaning back in his chair as he nursed a beer. “Y/n, what the hell have you been up to? Feels like forever since we’ve seen you.”

I smiled, shrugging slightly. “Oh, you know. Work, life. Moved around a little, but I’m back now.”

Joel, who had been quiet most of the night, finally spoke up. His voice was lower, rougher than I remembered, like time had left its mark on him. “Didn’t think you’d ever come back.”

His words weren’t harsh, but there was something underneath them—something I couldn’t quite place.

“Neither did I,” I admitted, meeting his gaze. “Guess life doesn’t always go the way you think it will.”

Joel scoffed, shaking his head as he cut into his steak. “Ain’t that the truth.”

Tommy grinned, oblivious to the tension thickening between us. “Well, now that you’re back, maybe we can finally convince you to stick around for good this time.”

I gave a small laugh, but before I could answer, Joel spoke again. “Surprised you ain’t married yet.”

I blinked, caught off guard. His tone wasn’t teasing—if anything, he sounded genuinely curious.

“Yeah,” Tommy chimed in, smirking. “I figured some poor guy would’ve snatched you up by now.”

I rolled my eyes at Tommy’s comment, but it was Joel’s reaction I was focused on. His fork was still in his hand, his knuckles just a little too tight around it, his eyes steady on me like he was waiting for an answer.

“Guess I just haven’t found the right guy,” I said finally, keeping my voice light.

Joel’s jaw tightened slightly. He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead, he just nodded, his gaze flickering away as he took a slow sip of his beer.

I felt my stomach twist. There were a hundred things I wanted to ask him, a hundred things I wanted to say, but none of them felt safe—not here, not with Tommy sitting between us, completely unaware of the unspoken history filling the room.

“So what about you?” I asked, tilting my head. “Married yet?”

Joel let out a breath of a laugh, shaking his head. “Nope”

I waited for him to say more, but he didn’t.

And just like that, the conversation moved on, Tommy rambling about something from work, and I forced myself to laugh along, to pretend like my heart wasn’t pounding, like Joel’s words—and the look in his eyes—hadn’t completely thrown me off balance.

But I could feel it.

That pull. That thing between us that had never really gone away.

And by the way Joel kept sneaking glances at me across the table, I knew he felt it too.

Dinner stretched on, filled with Tommy’s easy conversation and the occasional laugh, but I barely heard any of it. My mind was stuck on Joel—on the way he kept glancing at me, on the weight behind his words, on the tension that hummed between us like a live wire.

It felt like the past was pressing in on us, slipping through the cracks of time as if the last seven years had been nothing more than a breath between moments.

When the plates were cleared and Tommy started rambling about a game he wanted to watch, Joel stood, grabbing a beer from the fridge. He hesitated for a second, then looked over at me.

“Come out back with me?” His voice was casual, but his eyes told a different story.

I shouldn’t have gone. I should’ve made an excuse, said my goodbyes, and walked out that door before I let myself slip any further into something I wasn’t sure I could handle.

But I nodded anyway.

I followed him through the screen door onto the back porch, the night air thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and warm summer air. The old wooden planks creaked under our weight as we stepped out, the sound familiar in a way that made my chest ache.

Joel leaned against the railing, taking a slow sip of his beer as he looked out at the yard. I stood beside him, hands gripping the edge of the wood, waiting for him to speak.

After a long pause, he exhaled and said, “Didn’t think I’d ever see you sittin’ at our dinner table again.”

His voice was softer now, quieter—just for me.

I swallowed, staring down at my hands. “Didn’t think I would be, either.”

He was quiet again, then he asked, “Why’d you come back?”

I let out a slow breath, watching the way the fireflies blinked lazily across the yard. “Needed a reset,” I admitted. “Life didn’t exactly turn out how I thought it would.”

Joel hummed, like he understood that better than he wanted to admit. “You runnin’ from somethin’?”

I hesitated before answering, because maybe, deep down, I was. But not in the way he thought.

“Not running,” I said carefully. “Just… trying to figure things out.”

Joel nodded like he got it, his fingers tapping absently against the neck of his beer bottle. He looked over at me then, his eyes dark under the dim glow of the porch light. “Seven years, y/n. That’s a long fucking time.”

I met his gaze, my throat tightening. “Yeah,” I whispered. “It is.”

Another pause stretched between us, thick and heavy. Then, so softly I almost didn’t hear it, Joel said, “I missed you.”

The words knocked the breath right out of me.

I turned to fully face him, my heart hammering in my chest. “Joel…”

He shook his head, setting his beer down on the railing before rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You don’t gotta say anything. Just—” He exhaled sharply, like he was fighting some internal battle. “Hell… It’s just… weird, you know? Havin’ you here again.”

I nodded, because it was weird. It was terrifying. It was everything I hadn’t let myself feel in years rushing back all at once.

“I missed you too,” I admitted, my voice barely more than a whisper.

Joel’s eyes flickered with something—something deep and unreadable. His fingers curled around the railing, his knuckles flexing like he was holding something back.

I should’ve walked away then. I should’ve let the moment pass before it became something bigger, something neither of us could take back.

But I didn’t.

Because the truth was, I didn’t want to.

And judging by the way Joel was looking at me, like he was seconds away from breaking, neither did he.

The night stretched thick between us, heavy with words we weren’t saying, with memories pressing in like ghosts we couldn’t shake. Joel was still gripping the railing, his fingers tightening and loosening like he was trying to talk himself out of something.

I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to.

“Feels like a lifetime ago,” he finally murmured, eyes still locked on me. “You and me. Sneakin’ around, swearin’ we weren’t—” He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “—feelin’ things we both knew damn well we were.”

His words hit deep, settling somewhere behind my ribs. Because that was the truth, wasn’t it? We had never admitted what we were, never spoken those words out loud, and yet, we both had known.

I swallowed, forcing my voice to stay steady. “We were just kids.”

Joel turned toward me then, slow and deliberate. “That what you tell yourself?”

I didn’t answer, because we both knew the truth. We hadn’t been just kids. Maybe we were young, maybe we didn’t know how to say it back then, but it had been real. As real as anything I’d ever felt.

Joel took a step closer, not enough to touch me, but enough that I could feel the warmth of him, could smell the mix of beer and cedarwood that clung to his skin.

“You happy?” he asked, his voice quieter now, more careful.

The question caught me off guard, not because it was unexpected, but because I wasn’t sure how to answer it.

I looked up at him, at the way the years had settled into him—lines at the corners of his eyes, a little more weight in his stance, a quiet kind of tiredness in his gaze. But underneath it all, he was still Joel. Still the boy who once laid beside me on a summer night, our fingers laced together, talking about the future like it was something we had all the time in the world to figure out.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Are you?”

Joel exhaled, his jaw clenching just slightly before he shook his head. “No”

The word settled between us, bare and unguarded.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The sounds of the night filled the silence—distant laughter from inside, the low hum of crickets, the creak of the porch as Joel shifted closer.

Then, softly, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask, he said, “You ever think about it?”

I knew exactly what he meant.

I wet my lips, my heart pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it. “Think about what?”

Joel’s gaze dipped down to my mouth for half a second before coming back up. His voice was lower now, rougher.

“Us.”

I swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

Joel took another step, and this time, he was close enough that I could feel the heat of him, could see the way his breathing had slowed like he was holding something back.

“I think about it all the damn time,” he admitted. “What it would’ve been like if you stayed. If I—” He stopped himself, his hand flexing at his side before he finally met my gaze again. “If I hadn’t let you leave without sayin’ somethin’ real.”

I felt my breath hitch.

seven summers ago

The morning air was crisp for late August, the kind of cool that hinted at the coming fall. The sun hadn’t quite broken through the haze yet, and the lake behind Tommy’s house was still and gray, like it was holding its breath. My car was packed, the trunk stuffed to the brim with clothes, books, and the small reminders of home I couldn’t bear to leave behind.

Tommy leaned against the side of my car, his arms crossed and his usual cocky grin nowhere to be found. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him look this serious. His dark hair was a mess, like he hadn’t bothered to brush it, and his shirt was wrinkled from where he’d probably pulled it off the floor.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” he asked, his voice low and unusually hesitant.

“Yeah,” I said, though my voice wavered. “I think so.”

He shook his head, a small smile breaking through. “You’ve been talking about leaving since we were ten. If anyone’s ready, it’s you.”

I tried to smile back, but my chest ached too much to manage it. “Doesn’t make it any easier,” I admitted.

Tommy’s grin softened, and he stepped forward, pulling me into a hug that was tighter than I expected. He smelled like summer—grass, lake water, and a hint of the cheap cologne he always overused.

“Don’t forget about us little people when you’re out there changing the world, alright?” he said, his voice muffled against my hair.

I laughed, but it came out watery. “I could never forget you, Tommy. You wouldn’t let me.”

“Damn right,” he said, pulling back. His eyes were suspiciously shiny, but he blinked fast and didn’t let it show. “Call me, okay? I don’t care if it’s the middle of the night. I wanna hear about everything—college parties, classes, annoying roommates, all of it.”

“Promise,” I said, my voice thick.

He stepped back, giving me a mock salute before wandering toward the house. And that’s when I saw Joel.

He was standing on the porch, leaning against one of the wooden beams like he’d been there the whole time. He wasn’t smiling, wasn’t moving, just watching me with an expression I couldn’t read. His dark eyes locked on mine, and for a second, it felt like the whole world had gone still.

I hesitated, my chest tightening as I took a shaky breath and forced myself to walk toward him. The porch creaked under my weight, and when I stopped in front of him, he straightened, his hands shoved into the pockets of his worn jeans.

“Didn’t think you’d come say goodbye,” I said softly, my voice catching in my throat.

Joel’s jaw tightened, and he glanced away, staring out at the lake like it held the answer to whatever he was struggling with. “’Course I’d come,” he said after a long moment, his voice low and rough. “Wouldn’t let you leave without it.”

I swallowed hard, my hands curling into fists at my sides to keep from reaching for him. “I’ll miss you,” I said, the words barely above a whisper.

His gaze snapped back to mine, and for a second, I thought he might say something—something I’d been waiting to hear for what felt like forever. His mouth opened, but then he closed it, his shoulders stiffening as if he’d talked himself out of it.

“Don’t let anyone hold you back,” he said instead, his voice steady but distant. “Not me, not Tommy… no one.”

The words hit me like a punch to the chest. They were the same ones he’d said to me that night at the lake house, the same ones that had stayed with me long after the summer ended.

I wanted to scream at him, to shake him, to tell him that he wasn’t holding me back—he was the only thing making it hard to leave. But I couldn’t. The words stuck in my throat, too tangled up in everything I felt for him to come out right.

Instead, I nodded, blinking hard against the tears threatening to spill. “Take care of Tommy for me,” I said, my voice trembling.

Joel’s lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Always.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched so long it felt unbearable. Then, before I could second-guess myself, I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him.

For a moment, he didn’t move, and I thought he might pull away. But then his arms came around me, strong and steady, holding me tighter than I’d expected. I buried my face in his chest, breathing him in—sawdust, sweat, and the faint trace of cologne he only wore when he had to.

I wanted to stay there forever, to let the rest of the world disappear, but I couldn’t. I pulled back, my hands lingering on his arms for just a moment before I let them fall to my sides.

“Goodbye, Joel,” I said, my voice barely steady.

He didn’t say anything, just nodded, his dark eyes heavy with something I couldn’t name.

I turned and walked to my car, my chest aching with every step. As I slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine, I glanced in the rearview mirror. Joel was still standing on the porch, his hands shoved in his pockets, watching me drive away.

I didn’t look back again. If I had, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to leave.

“You think it would’ve changed anything?” I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper.

Joel’s throat bobbed. “I don’t know. Maybe.” He ran a hand over his face, letting out a breath like he was fighting with himself. “But I do know one thing.”

“What?”

He lifted his hand, hesitant at first, then finally brushed his fingers along my arm, his touch featherlight but enough to send a shiver up my spine.

“I ain’t ever felt nothin’ like I felt with you,” he murmured. “Not before. Not after.”

I sucked in a shaky breath, my body swaying toward his before I could stop it.

“Joel…”

He shook his head, his hand trailing down my arm until his fingers barely skimmed mine. “Tell me you don’t feel it,” he said, voice rough and strained. “Tell me you don’t feel like we lost somethin’ we weren’t supposed to.”

I wanted to lie. Wanted to say that I had moved on, that whatever we had back then was just young and reckless, something that wasn't meant to last.

But I couldn't.

Because I did feel it.

I felt it in the way my chest ached just looking at him, in the way his touch still sent a shiver down my spine, in the way every moment we spent apart felt like time wasted.

I swallowed hard, my fingers curling slightly under his. "I can't tell you that," | whispered.

Joel's breath caught, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around mine, like he was holding onto something he wasn't ready to let go of.

For a long moment, neither of us moved. The air between us was thick, humming with something too strong to ignore, too real to pretend wasn't there.

The air between Joel and I crackled with so much unspoken tension, it was almost unbearable. My heart pounded against my chest, every nerve alight with the pull between us, but neither of us moved. We were so close, I could feel the warmth of his breath on my lips, his hands lingering on my waist as if he were just waiting for me to make the next move. And I almost did.

But before I could, the sound of the screen door creaked behind us.

“Hey, you guys coming back in?” Tommy called out from the doorway, his voice loud and clueless as ever. “I got that game on, and I’m not drinking alone out here.”

I froze, every muscle in my body locking up, and for a split second, it felt like the world had just stopped. Joel pulled back, almost imperceptibly, his hands still resting on my waist but no longer holding me so tightly. We both turned toward the door, where Tommy was standing with a grin, completely unaware of what had almost happened.

Joel cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly as he took a half step back. “Yeah, we’ll be right in,” he called back to Tommy, his voice rough, like he was trying to hide the tension that had just exploded between us.

Tommy, oblivious to everything that had just passed between us, gave a lazy wave and turned back inside. “Don’t take too long, man! You know I need company for the game.”

I watched him disappear into the house, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft thud. A long, silent moment passed between Joel and me, and I could almost hear the words that neither of us was willing to say. But we both knew it—what had just happened. What had almost happened. It hung between us like a heavy fog, and yet, neither of us moved to bridge the gap.

Joel was the first to break the silence, his voice low and rough. “Guess that’s our cue.”

I nodded, my throat tight as I tried to process everything. The heat between us hadn’t gone away, not even with Tommy’s interruption. If anything, it only made it stronger. But now, standing here with Joel so close, with everything hanging in the air, I wasn’t sure where to go from here.

“Yeah,” I managed to say, my voice shaky. “Guess it is.”

Joel let out a breath, running a hand through his hair, the familiar gesture that always made him look like the same guy from years ago. He didn’t seem as certain as he had just moments before. There was hesitation now, uncertainty.

He gave a short nod, turning toward the door. “Come on. Let’s not keep Tommy waiting.”

I followed him back inside, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on me. The door swung shut behind us, and we both slipped back into the routine of being around Tommy, pretending like nothing had changed.

But it had.

I could feel it in the way Joel’s eyes lingered on me when he thought I wasn’t looking, in the way my chest tightened every time he spoke, like I was trying to hold myself together while something deeper, something real, threatened to spill out.

I wasn’t sure how we were going to handle this. How we were supposed to go back to the way things were. But for now, we were both content to pretend. Pretend that everything was fine, that Tommy hadn’t just unknowingly interrupted something that could change everything.

I stepped out onto the porch, the cool night air brushing against my skin, but my body still felt warm from the tension that lingered between us. I hadn’t expected things to go the way they had tonight—especially not after so much time had passed. But there was no denying it. The pull I felt toward Joel had never truly gone away.

“Let me give you a ride home,” Joel said, breaking the silence as he stepped up beside me. His voice was low, a little gravelly, and there was something in his eyes—something that made my heart race.

I hesitated for a moment, looking back toward the door, knowing I should just leave and get some space to clear my head. But the desire to be close to him again, even just for a little longer, was stronger than any of the reasons I told myself I should go.

“Yeah,” I said, finally giving in, “okay.”

We walked to his truck, the soft crunch of gravel underfoot the only sound between us. The night felt different now, charged with something neither of us wanted to acknowledge—at least, not yet. When we got to the truck, Joel opened the door for me, his eyes never leaving mine as I climbed in. The truck door shut with a soft thud, and I settled in, trying to steady my breathing.

The drive was quiet, the only sound the hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. But the air between us was thick with everything unsaid—the years apart, the memories we couldn’t forget.

When we finally pulled up to my place, I felt a lump form in my throat. I didn’t want to say goodbye—not yet, not like this. But what else was there to say?

Joel’s truck rumbled to a stop outside my house, but neither of us moved immediately. The air felt thicker now, heavier, charged with all the things we hadn’t said. My heart was racing in my chest, the silence between us louder than any words could’ve been.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said quietly, trying to force some kind of normalcy into the situation. But my voice trembled, betraying everything I was trying to hide.

Joel didn’t answer at first, just stared at me for a moment. His brow furrowed, his jaw tense, like he was struggling to keep control. Without another word, he climbed out of the truck and walked around to my side, his movements slow but purposeful.

I froze for a second, wondering what he was doing. But when he reached the passenger door, he opened it, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity I couldn’t ignore. “Let me walk you to your door,” he said softly, as though it was a question, though neither of us needed permission.

I nodded, my throat tight, and stepped out of the truck, trying to steady myself as I moved toward him. His presence was magnetic, pulling me in as we walked together, side by side, toward the porch.

The night was quiet around us, but everything felt loud—our footsteps echoing, the rush of my pulse in my ears, the space between us that felt far too small for both of us to be standing in. My mind raced, but my body seemed to know exactly what it wanted, gravitating toward him with every step.

When we reached the front door, Joel stopped, turning to face me. There was something in his eyes, something raw and desperate, like he couldn’t stand to let go of this moment. The weight of the unspoken hung between us, and for a split second, I almost thought he would say something, but he didn’t. He reached out, his fingers brushing against mine, a quiet, gentle touch that sent a shock through my body.

“Y/n…” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. His hand lifted to my face, his thumb brushing over my cheek as he took another step closer. My breath hitched in my throat as I looked up at him, barely able to hold his gaze.

The moment felt too fragile, and I couldn’t make myself say anything else. Slowly, I turned toward the door, my hand reaching for the handle. “Goodnight, Joel,” I said, my voice barely audible.

He didn’t speak as I opened the door, stepping back just enough to let me through. I kept my gaze focused ahead, not trusting myself to look back at him, afraid of what I might see, afraid of what I might feel.

The door clicked shut behind me as I walked into my house, the weight of the night settling around me. I wasn't sure what to do with myself. I'd told myself I wasn't going to give in, that I was going to walk away and let things be, but Joel's words, his touch, had made it impossible to ignore the truth l'd buried for so long.

I slipped out of my shoes and made my way into the living room, my heart still racing from everything that had happened. As I sank into the couch, the silence in the house felt suffocating. I closed my eyes, but all I could see was Joel-his face, his hands on me, his kiss.

I was trying to talk myself down, to convince myself that I could move on. That I should. But just as I was about to stand, I heard a knock on the door.

I froze. My heart skipped a beat.

I walked slowly to the door, trying to calm the rush of emotions flooding my chest. When I opened it, there he was— Joel. Standing in the dark, his posture tense, but his eyes searching mine like he had to say something, like he couldn't leave without it.

“I can’t walk away from you again,” he said, his voice shaking ever so slightly.

Before I could even respond, his hand reached out to gently tug me closer, and his lips crashed onto mine. The kiss was fierce, urgent, as if he was trying to make up for the years apart, as if he couldn't stand the space between us anymore. I gasped, my hands coming up to clutch at his shirt as I kissed him back, my body pressed against his, needing him as much as he needed me.

He pulled me fully into the doorway, his hands moving to my waist, guiding me backward into the house. The door closed behind us with a soft thud, but neither of us paid attention to it.

All that mattered was the way his lips moved against mine, the way his touch made me feel like I was finally coming home.

Joel's kiss deepened, his hands sliding up my back to tangle in my hair, pulling me closer until there wasn't an inch of space between us.

I felt the heat of his body, the way his muscles flexed as he held me, the way his breath caught when I tugged him.

When we finally pulled apart, I was breathless, my heart pounding in my chest. His forehead rested against mine, both of us struggling to catch our breath, to make sense of what had just happened.

My fingers curling into his shirt as I pulled him back to me, not wanting to let go, not wanting to fight this anymore. Neither of us was ready to say goodbye—not yet, not when the night was still young and the truth was finally out in the open.

The world outside disappeared, leaving only us in this moment, the only sound the rush of our breathing, the pounding of our hearts in sync.

He pulled away briefly, his forehead resting against mine, his breath shaky.

"I can't pretend anymore," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I never stopped wanting you, y/n. Not for a second."

My heart twisted in my chest, and I didn't care anymore about what we had to lose. "Neither did I," I whispered, before closing the space between us again, kissing him with everything I had left to give.

This time, there was no holding back. We were finally done running from the truth.

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alastorthirsty · 2 days ago

Text

Hooray For Makeup Sex! Chapter 3 - Alastor x f! fallen angel! reader

THIS IS AN EXPERIMENT

Words: 10101

Warnings/promises: Tons of smut, allusions to domestic violence, smoking, alcohol and drug use, angst, fluff, more smut, reader is a very good friend, arguing about work, piv intercourse, Alastor is a jealous man, Alastor says characteristically fucked up things, gelato

Remember the golden rule of fanfiction: You're responsible for your own reading experience! I trust you will stop reading if something bothers you. You're free to suggest tags to me.

Tags (this was originally going to be Herbert Saves The Day part 2 so you’re in the right place): @sirens-and-moonflowers @diffidentphantom @eris-norwega @1crazychick369 @thatbadassauthor @lukneetoonz @milkissesx @chibistar45 @songbirdpond @junieshohoho @modifiedmonster @screaming-potato @reath-solia @babyfoxflower and especially @genderlessdude92 💖💋

Chapter 1 // Chapter 2

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There is an eerie lack of sound, even for the night. Sweat, tears, and blood fall onto the nap of ancient velvet rugs that line the hallways of the Hazbin Hotel. Angel tries not to cry, certainly tries not to bleed, but he hasn’t yet gotten a bandage, so he settles for quiet. Silent tears, silent hiccoughs, vision going blurry as he tries his best to stop. He stops several times to lean against the wall or a random door to catch the breath that had just been knocked out of him not five minutes ago. Each time, his fingers tremble as they come up to wipe the contemptible tears that roll down his cheeks. The rosy rouge for the cameras had worn off on the journey between Val’s studio and the hotel.

The silence is somehow deafening. A dumb little saying, an oxymoron, but it’s how he’s perceiving things, and hey, it isn’t like he’s sober to begin with. It is so very quiet that any little creak, any little sigh is amplified through the corridor. He looks around, over his shoulder, around the corners. Didn’t Charlie and Vagina shack up close by?

Please no noise of fucking please no noise of fucking please—

He takes a deep, shaky breath when he stops in front of Room 126. It has been…a long, long time since he came knocking on your door in the middle of the night, scared and heartbroken and so utterly fucking alone. Angel knows he’s being selfish—what is it, four in the morning? But hey, extenuating circumstances, right? If he knows you at all, he knows you’ll come fervently to the rescue, and that brings a happy tear to his eye.

He knocks gently and holds his breath.

Silence.

Angel knocks again, he bites his lip. He knows it’s way too late, he knows, but the shuddering in his body won’t be ignored. He leans against the wall miserably, knocking one more time. He rubs his face and holds his hand out in front of it. His palm is smeared in blood, sweat, and dirt. His fist closes in a claw and the door finally opens—

“Aw, shit,” Angel says, dragging his hand down his face again. “Hey, disco ball.”

Herbert floats closer and closer to Angel, coming up to his height, and he appears to have…an incredible sense of empathy. He wraps his body, such that it was, around Angel, giving him little pats. “It okay. It okay.”

Angel sobs softly, but forces himself not to break down just because a somewhat-purple bag of lights is giving him a hug. He pats Herbert, but his fingers seem to phase through him, somehow. There was pretty much zero chance Angel himself would ever come to understand this creature, beyond the love that you feel for it and how much Alastor blindly hates it.

That’s when he notices his feather boa slowly being pulled away. He smiles at Herbert and helps him take it off, wraps it around him. Feeling glamorous, Herbert spins in place.

“So, uh…I guess this means your mama’s not here,” Angel says in a shaky voice. He sniffles again.

“Mommy?” Herbert says.

Angel nods. “Yeah, if you prefer. As kids, we always said mama, or ma.”

“Mommy!” Herbert takes Angel gently by the arm, somehow (again), and glides through the halls, up a set of stairs, and to door 369. When they stop, Herbert says it again. “Mommy!”

Ah, shit, it has to be Alastor’s room. Angel had feared he would have to do this to get to you, but he can’t stop here. Not now that he’s come so far already, not when…he really needs…

Herbert interrupts his train of thought. “Popcorn?”

Angel gives a laugh that was more of a gasp. “Popcorn? I don’t got it on me, little man.”

“Al has!” Herbert says.

With a deep, steadying breath, Angel lifts a shaking hand to the door and knocks a few times. His eyes close and he swallows, frozen in place, just waiting. He can’t hear any activity inside, but he hears a buzz coming from behind him and all of Angel’s hair stands on end. He can’t breathe for a moment. He turns around.

“He-hey, Alastor,” he says, arms around himself.

“Angel Dust,” Alastor replies, because it’s your preference that he does not call him ‘spider’ any longer.

Somehow it just makes the man more intimidating. Those teeth are glinting, those eyes are sharp. Angel swallows “I, um, is she…in there?”

“More specifically, she is sleeping in there,” Alastor says. “Her rest is particularly important right now, as you know she has not been…physically well.”

“Oh…” Angel closes his eyes and pictures himself mentally. He knows how pathetic he looks. His clothes are all messy from the fight, there’s still dirt and blood on his face, tears streaking down no matter how hard he tries to stop it. He knows how pathetic he looks, goddamn it. He knows, and he knows how disgusted Alastor must be, but he needs you.

“Listen, I, uh…” He rubs one of his arms against another one. “I…you know I wouldn’t even be here at all, knocking on your door, talking to you at all, if I didn’t have to. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t…”

“Feel that you have to,” Alastor supplies, a correction.

Angel swallows again. “If I didn’t need to. I do need…to. I need her, please. I stayed away, I never bothered you, I never asked her to give up a single second of her time with you for me. I never asked you for a thing in all the time I’ve known you, not that I should have, because I may not have the biggest brain around here, but I know better than to need anything from you…”

“How charming,” Alastor says, his head tilting at an angle. The radio static intensifies.

“No, n-no, I don’t mean it as an insult, I mean it as…you know, showing you how damn scary you are, I know you love hearing shit like that. Is that what you want me to tell you? I’d never have to face a fear like this if I didn’t need her more than I need anything in the whole of Hell right now. I’d give anything you wanted, maybe my goddamn soul, if I even had it to give.”

“I have no interest in a joint-venture with Valentino,” Alastor says, checking his nails.

“Right.” Angel closes his eyes and feels more tears fall down his cheeks. “Right.”

He’s mortified, but the tears keep coming and the silent corridor is suddenly filled with little sobs and sniffles as the last of Angel’s dignity pours right out of him. Alastor visibly becomes more and more uncomfortable, his shoulders tensing, his jaw clenched, until he’s forced to speak.

“If you stop,” Alastor says after several long moments, “I will rouse her enough to ask if she thinks it is worth waking up. For what it is worth, I think not, and resent you highly for this, but far be it from me to interrupt the bizarre little friendship that you share. Wait here.”

He doesn’t want to know what it means for Alastor to highly resent him, but within seconds Angel hears your rising voice, demanding to know why Alastor had kept him waiting, and he already feels much more hopeful. There’s some stumbling on the other side of the door, presumably you getting dressed, and when it opens, Angel feels like a new man, almost.

“Oh, Angel, honey, what happened?” Your arms come around him tightly, and he feels at home, like with…Molly…

Alastor sighs. “At least take Herbert with you. He knows he’s not allowed in this room.”

Herbert approaches him anyway. “Popcorn?”

The Radio Demon hums, snaps his fingers, and a red and white bag of popcorn appears. He looks at you. “Dearest, I hope you come back to bed.”

“I’ll just stay over at Angel’s. Oh, if that’s what you want me to do,” you say to the lanky twink in your arms.

“Please,” he begs, his hands raised.

You smile at him and then at Alastor. “You heard the man. I’ll see you tomorrow. Be good, don’t kill anyone that doesn’t need killing.”

Alastor hums in fake outrage and snaps his fingers. “Damn you, woman! Foiled again.”

With that, you laugh and walk up to the next floor with Angel. Herbert follows along, munching on his treat.

“So,” you say when you’re safely behind Angel’s door. “What happened, honey?”

Angel takes a few moments to think before shaking his head. “Something that made me desperate enough to face Alastor just for a shot of being with you tonight.”

He stands up, begins to pace the threadbare rug.

“Here, let me just…” you snap your fingers and all the blood, tears, and dirt disappear from his face.

“Shit, doll,” he says with a trembly chuckle. He sniffs. “What else you got in that bag of tricks?”

“Oh, I have absolutely no idea. Drives Al crazy. He wants me to ‘use my potential’ without me fully understanding what they are. These things, they just come naturally to me. When they present themselves, I intuit them and then…it’s mine forever. I recently removed a bruise from my cheek without any idea that I could do it before it happened. I figured it stood to reason that I would be able to clean your face for you. No puffiness, no nothing. You’re just as beautiful now as when I met you!”

Fresh tears are still coming and Angel’s affirmative response is slurred. He keeps up with his pacing, back and forth, back and forth. Then he suddenly snaps. “Drug time! Time for drugs!”

Your brows draw together with sympathetic concern. “I don’t know, Angie. Maybe you should lay off until you’re feeling at least thirty percent better. I don’t want you going into a drug-induced spiral while you’re already in another spiral. We both know how that turns out.”

He groans loudly. “Okay, Ma, I’ll wait a while before doing a line of coke. A few lines. Many lines.”

“Attaboy,” you say, sitting up in bed and giving him grabby hands. “At least let me hug you.”

Angel chuckles softly and lowers himself to the bed. He really does not want to feel so vulnerable and pitiful as he has been, but at least you would never judge him for it. He knows you to be fiercely loyal, as a friend. You would never judge, never blab about this, not even to Alastor. He doesn’t want to be vulnerable, but of course he loses his fucking shit as soon as your arms are around him. Angel sobs loudly against your neck, his whole body shaking so much that the bed creaks gently. He wraps all six arms around you, holding on for dear life, as if you’ll poof, disappear from his life forever.

You, for one, hold him exactly as he needs to be held. Your arms close around him and the hold is firm, yet gentle. Just enough to remind him that he is loved and protected. Your fingertips push through the soft fluff on his head, playing gently.

“I do mean it,” you offer. “You are still as beautiful as the day I met you. Just as sassy, too. If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to. You are not required to just hand over your vulnerability like that. Just know that I’m here. I’m here with you, and not even my husband can drag me away.”

Angel stops crying for a moment. “Husband?”

You laugh softly and hold up your finger. “Yeah. We decided we’re walking through eternity together, why not be husband and wife? Enough about me, enough about me. Sorry, not intending to make things all about me. Tonight is all about you.”

God, he hates himself for being so covetous of the pure happiness in those few words. He’d give anything to be in love with someone who loves him back. Well, at least he’s got you. That’s something. That’s love.

“I’m not ready to talk about my shit,” he says. “Maybe I won’t ever be. I don’t know. But I do want to know…what’s going on with you and your…situation?”

“My situation?”

Angel nods. “Last time we talked, you said you had an unwanted admirer, outside of Alastor. You were convinced he would end it if he found out. So…did he find out?”

“Angel,” you say gently, “this is your night. I don’t want to make it all about me.”

“What if what I need is for this to be about you for a while?” he asks.

With a little sigh, you begin to fidget at the drawstrings on the pyjama bottoms you had put on. Next you nibble at your already nearly raw lips, then you cross your jostling legs.

“Shit,” Angel says. “It can’t be that bad, can it?”

“It’s fucked,” you admit.

“Giddiyup, buttercup, I gotta know it now.”

Herbert curls up in your lap, his popcorn now entirely eaten; he’d gotten himself all sleepy. You stroke him slowly as you think, still troubling your lip. “He does know, and he didn’t leave me.”

“That much I could tell,” Angel says, nodding. “What does the stalker do?”

“He’s in a…unique position to be the greatest stalker Hell has ever known. He has me followed, he has people taking pictures of me, he takes pictures of me, he aggressively sends roses to me every day at the studio—don’t ask me how it’s aggressive, it’s weird. Just suffice to say. There’s so much more. I just…it terrifies me just to think about it.”

Angel nods, captivated by the misfortune of another person for a moment. Not that he wanted that for you.

You sigh and continue. “He does everything he can to let me know he’s in charge of things. Sometimes he kidnaps me—“

“What? Kidnaps you?”

Now it’s your turn to nod as misery plants itself all across your features. You sigh again and pull your hair up.

“He hacks my phones. I had to destroy them. He always finds me and my phone, no matter how hard I try to protect myself against him. I have no intuitive ability against him, I’m helpless.”

“But…you said Al knows now. Even if you’re helpless against him, which I don’t completely buy, mind you, he should be able to handle it, no worries. Has he?”

You shake your head, jaw clenched. “No. At least not yet.”

The air of incredulity is stifling.

“Why the fuck not?”

You hold up a hand. “Don’t be quick to judge.”

“Who is it?” Angel asks. “You know you can tell me. I won’t tell nobody.”

It takes several moments to build up to a response. Feelings of guilt, fear, and sheer helplessness cause you to pick at your fingernails. “It’s, uh…it’s…Vox.”

The way Angel gasps is borderline comical. “Vox? Vox? Vox?”

Your eyes widen before narrowing. “I don’t know whether or not to be offended.”

“Oh, it ain’t an insult, really! More just…shock? Come to think of it, Val’s been complaining he can’t fuck Vox no more because he’s into somebody. Can’t believe it’s you. Fuck, I’m sorry, doll.”

“So you see, it’s just not feasible for Alastor to just…go in, guns a-blazing. Not yet.”

Angel nods along. “Yeah, yeah, they fought before, right?”

“Yeah, they have. I don’t know the full details. If he wanted to tell me he would have. No, he has this multi-stepped plan for psychological warfare. Stress him out, piss him off, get him desperate, get him sloppy, where he’ll make mistakes.”

“What’s he doing then?”

“Well, he’s done step one,” you say. “He walks me to and from the studio every single day. He can’t appear on camera so the drone footage is warped and glitchy, so Vox can’t feed his obsessions by watching my every step.”

“Why is that?” Angel asks.

“Why is what?”

“His deal with him and video cameras. Is it by choice or by design?”

“Oh, hell, I have no idea. If I ask, he just starts talking about how radio is the proper way to express one’s self and giving him that opportunity is just no bueno. The last time it happened was an accident, actually, it just slipped out of me and he just kept going and going. I was so rude, I just got up and left. He followed me, though, and he never once shut up. He followed me to the library, to the radio tower, to the parlour, everywhere, and never once shut up, ever.”

Angel laughs at that and Fat Nuggets climbs onto his lap. He pets him absently. “So, step one is just to ruin the video. What’s step two?”

“Step two was acquiring the souls of every flower vendor in town and forbidding them to allow any flowers to be sent to me, except for him. Now Alastor is the one sending them. Lilies, tulips, orchids. Vox had a habit of sending roses every day with little messages and gifts.”

“Gifts? What kinds of gifts?”

“Shit that probably had bugs, tracking devices, who knows what else.” You pause. “I feel the need to tell you something you have to promise me you’ll never repeat. Ever. Not even to me.”

Angel nods, completely entranced. “Yeah, of course.”

You take a deep breath and sigh heavily. “I considered it.”

He looks at you blankly. “Considered it?”

“Can I smoke?” you ask, already pulling one from thin air. When Angel lights it for you, you take a deep drag. “So, when we first met it was just like nothing, there was no flirting, no nothing. The first time he sent flowers and a note, I thought…’Man, that would really piss off Alastor.’ We were broken up then, and I was feeling so bitchy and angry, and I thought…But all those fleeting thoughts did was make me miss him more. I missed him so much. I knew Vox was trash. It was never a serious thought, but it was one that crossed my mind.”

Angel chuckles. “Don’t kick yourself around for that. I thought you were going to say something bad. It was petty, but it’s not wrong to think of shitty ways to get back at your ex. That’s actually a franchised sport in hell, toots.”

“Just…not a word, okay? It’s not my proudest moment. Herbert, no.” You bat the little creature away from trying to grab at the cigarette.

“You know your secret’s safe with me. You got way worse dirt on me than that.” Angel leans against your shoulder. “Is it all going to be okay?”

“I’m going to make it all okay,” you say, just as always. “For as ever much I can.”

He tightens his hold on you, all six arms, and you kiss the top of his head. “I know, honey. I know. And I love you.”

“I still don’t wanna talk about it,” he says after a long while, and you nod.

“You don’t have to. Maybe you should change into something more comfortable, though,” you suggest.

Angel actually gets up to do so, which honestly surprises you. He makes a twirling gesture with his wrist. “Go on. Just keep talking to me about stuff. Talk about Alastor.”

“Hm…” You click your tongue a few times in thought. “Oh, I am getting fucked a lot.”

Angel snickers. “Oh really?”

“Yeah, literally morning, noon, and night. He shows up at the studio during my lunch hour, right? He makes one of those pocket dimension thingies and shoves me up against a tree and fucks me so rough and dirty that I have to take extra care not to have any leaves or bark in my hair afterward.”

“Why’s he doing it? How, uh…you seem a bit less shy now, so I’ll just ask, but how often did you do it…before?” Angel crosses his arms.

“At least five times a week. I’ve been fucked 90 times this month, though. I’m not joking. Now I am getting shy, though! So let’s do something else.”

A profound sadness came over Angel’s features. His eyes burn as he tried to hold back a surge of fresh tears.

You rub his back. “What, it makes you sad that Alastor’s hitting it so much?”

He shakes his head, leans against your chest, and he sobs, prompting your arms to wrap around him again. You pat his back gently, then rub gentle circles over it.

“Oh pumpkin,” you say, pressing a kiss to his hair. “What can I do? Tell me what could make you feel better and I’ll do it, my love.”

Angel continues to sob for some time, until his voice becomes hoarse and he just can’t cry any longer.

“Fuck,” he rasps, rubbing his raw, sore eyes. “Fuck, I can’t do this no more. Please, I gotta fucking…”

“No, not until you’re feeling thirty percent better. I mean it, Angel, just trust me and the process. I have no reason to not let you get high other than watching you go down that road too many times. Please, Angie, let’s do something else to make you feel better and then I promise we’ll get super fucked up.”

He closes his eyes as his foggy brain tried to come up with something, anything, not drug-related to calm himself down, to soothe him. Then, it hits him like a Mack truck.

“Oh!” he says. “I know! I don’t know if we can make it, though…”

You give his arm a gentle nudge. “Name it.”

“My Nonna used to make this unbelievable olive oil gelato on Christmas and Easter…”

“That sounds really good!” You stand up and pull him to his feet. “Let’s go downstairs! We’ll make it and I’ll keep anyone from disturbing us. I’ll close everything off.”

“It kinda takes a while to set up…”

“Not for Angels it isn’t. I’ll get it frosty right away, we just have to make the base.”

Angel cracks a smile for the first time in a while. “All right. Let’s do it.”

In the kitchen, he plays music. It’s obscene, but you expect nothing less from him. You use magic to block the doors off and soundproof the room and Angel finds a recipe he approves of.

It’s actually quite simple, too. Blend together sweetened condensed milk, extra virgin olive oil, and vanilla, then whip the cream, then fold it into the mixture, then just a little more magic makes it smooth and cold.

Angel sits upon the cupboard with his bowl and spoon, scarfing it down with gusto. He tells tales, the way his Nonna dragged him to Midnight Mass, the first time she let him have a sip of grappa, how she looked the other way when he started kissing boys. You smile more and more as you listen to him, laughing, eating the smooth gelato. When the bowls and spoons are magicked clean and the doors open, Angel stands tall.

“So,” he says. “Ready to get fucked up?”

“Let’s have one of our classic sleepovers!” You say. “I’ll go get copious amounts of alcohol. Do you have any coke?”

That makes him snicker and lift a brow. “That husband of yours okay with you doing coke?”

“Never stopped me before!” You kiss his cheek. “I’m just going to say goodnight to him and get the booze. I’ll leave my shadow with you, just in case you feel lonely. She’s very supportive!”

Your shadow wraps her arms and wings around Angel’s shadow.

He looks at you with a bit of wonder. “What exactly is your fuckin’ superpower, bitch face?”

You smile and shrug. “Like I said, who knows? Want to play Cum Sluts Vs Zombies?”

“Now we’re talking!” Angel says excitedly. “I’ll go find all the coke. I have to hide it now or Fat Nuggets will eat it.”

“Probably a good idea to keep Herbert away from it too. God knows what he’s capable of doing, all coked up. Or at all. I’m still not sure what all he can do, aside from stealing my jewellery. Okay!” You clap your hands together. “I’ll meet you back in your room with the hooch. You’ll be fine with Her.”

“Her?”

You point to the wall where your shadow cuddles his. “Her.”

With a wink and a blown kiss you’re gone, making your way upstairs to Alastor’s room. It hurt to see Angel suffer so much, but things were looking up, even if substance abuse was involved. A little now and then in hell couldn’t hurt. You smile when you see the light under the door come into view.

You open the door. “Al?”

He looks up from the book he’s reading by the fire. “Oh, quelle surprise. My lovely wife, sans spider.”

“He has a name,” you insist as you come to stand before him. He has to start getting that right, to start acknowledging the people that are part of your life, even if he doesn’t accept them into his.

“Angel Dust.” The book closes and Alastor stands. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

You smile at him. “I just wanted to say goodnight.”

“Why? I don’t sleep,” he says.

“But I do. Eventually. Maybe not until tomorrow afternoon. You won’t be seeing me for a while so I thought I would come say goodnight, a brief goodbye until I’ve sobered up enough for you to ravage my fucking body.”

He rolls his eyes. “Cocaine again? Really, it’s so pedestrian. That’s what poor veterans used to take after the Great War, cocaine and heroin.”

“And alcohol. Promises to be a wild night.” You wink at him. “But I missed you while I was gone. I’ll miss you more when the feelings are intensified by massive amounts of blow and vodka.”

Now he sighs and moves his monocle so that he can rub his eye. “Darling, for one you know I do not approve of vodka in any of its forms, and I don’t think—“

“You saw him,” you say in a gentle tone, squeezing his forearm. “You saw how he was. I’ve spent the past few hours cuddling him better, but that only gets so far with him. Now he needs to be free from thinking of it for a while. Come on. I’m your wife, and I’m his friend. Stand by me.”

He sighs again and rolls his eyes. “Fine. No phones, though. Do not even touch his. Do not let him so much as point the camera at you.”

You nod along. “I’m going to take his phone away from him anyway, when he’s on coke he has a tendency to text…unwise statements to Valentino. I’ll put it in a Faraday cage.”

His eyes light up and he stands straighter. “That’s actually quite a good idea. Maybe we should keep you in a Faraday cage.”

You scoff and push his shoulder gently, but then he suddenly pushes yours until your back touches the wall, and then he leans down to kiss you.

After a few moments, though admittedly blissful, you break apart. “No, no, not now, not now, I can’t. Angel is waiting.”

Alastor lifts a brow. “I think this is the only time you have ever denied me. What a new feeling.”

“Is it?” You tilt your head. “All the same, I should still—“

“I will wager that I can make you come in two minutes or less,” Alastor challenges.

You can’t help the smile that works its way to your features. “A bet, huh? What are the terms?”

“When I win, I am going to fuck you so hard you will be walking a slight bit funny when you go back to the spider’s chambers.”

“Angel Dust,” you correct.

“Indeed. Angel Dust. And if I lose, which I will not…”

You wait for a moment. “If you lose you can’t give me any kind of shit about all the booze and blow I’m going to consume tonight.”

His shoulders tense for a second before he relaxes again. “Very well. I will not even mention it. If I lose. I most certainly will if I win.”

You laugh, your hand on his stupid, precious face. “Yeah, I know, I know!”

“Are you ready?” he asks, pressing you against the wall again.

“You don’t want to do this in bed?”

“Nope.” Alastor easily reaches into your pyjama bottoms and stares right into your eyes as he touches you. “Aw, look at that. Already wet for me. Tell me, what did it for you?”

His fingertips, now blunted, move smoothly through your folds at the slick gathered in them. His grin turns lascivious, self-congratulatory.

Your head tilts back against the wall and you bite your lip when you smile at him. “What am I to do, apologise that you can get me wet?”

“No,” he says, “I just assumed it would take effort.”

You laugh softly, pull him down and kiss him. Rather quickly, though, you’re moaning against his lips. His middle and ring fingers slip inside you and his thumb works against your clit. Your grip on him holds more firmly, and he becomes bolder. Brazen, even.

“Ah, look at you,” he whispers against your lips, his fingers working faster, that fucking ‘come hither’ of his. “Coming apart for me, as always. Relax, darling, enjoy yourself. That is the point, and I want to see how soon I get you there.”

“Trust me, I’m not fighting it,” you whisper, your breath mingling with his.

He leans closer. “You’re such a good girl for me.”

That’s all it took. Your thighs clench around his hand, your pussy clenches around his fingers, and you’re screaming for him.

“Atta gal,” he says, grinning down at you.

“How long was that?” you ask, panting.

“Exactly one minute and forty-two seconds,” Alastor says, now pushing you over to the bed.

You laugh playfully, pulling his coat off of his shoulders. “Damn, that easy, huh?”

“Quite the contrary, my love,” he says, shoving you into the mattress. “It is not that it is easy to do, I simply know you. I know your body, every little bit of it, and it is so utterly and completely mine that I know how to play it perfectly. Every note, composed by me. Now, would you prefer to be on your belly or your back?”

“Hm.” You test the positions. “My back this time. I have mattress burn on my knees from earlier.”

“Poor thing.” He presses you down harder, a smirk on his face, when he completely rips away the clothes you’re wearing. His hands move up and down your sides, grazing over little marks his teeth had left earlier in the night. “Say it.”

“Say what?” you ask, chills on your skin from the heat of his fingertips.

His forehead touches yours; his hand dips down below your waist again, fingers moving in and out, keep you stimulated. “Say how much you love it. Say how much you need it. How much you need me.”

“Oh, darling, isn’t it apparent?” you ask, kissing your way up the side of his neck. “I could never have enough of you. Such a thing could never exist. I’ll hunger for you every day of my life until the end of it all. I love every fleeting moment your hands are on my skin. Your touch warms every part of me and leaves me wanting more. I need you so much, Alastor. Words are inadequate.”

Alastor’s free hand comes to cup your cheek. “You are all there could ever be. Understood?”

You smile at him and lean into his hand. “Yeah, understood.”

He carefully pulls his hand out from between your legs and quickly gets his pants open. His clothes disappear and he’s on you again, so deep inside you, and pushing further and further in.

“Goddamn,” you gasp, hanging onto him. He’s knocking the breath out of you, your diaphragm working overtime just to get enough oxygen flowing through your body. Your fingers finally dig into the fur on his back, hanging on for dear fucking life. You manage one single word: his name, spoken breathlessly in the crook of his neck.

One of his hands grips your hip so hard that it leaves blue marks, the other holds your head by the hair, twisting in it.

“Say it again,” he growls. “Who do you belong to?”

The way he’s slamming in and out of you makes it even harder to breathe, let alone speak, so it takes several moments for you to muster it.

“You, Al,” you whisper. “You.”

He shoves your right knee aside so that he can go deeper. The hand in your hand travels down to your throat. “You beautiful, beautiful little thing.”

He doesn’t squeeze, but he doesn’t have to. Never does. All it takes is the weight of his hand against your throat to push you ever the edge. Your pussy clenches around him, making him grunt, and he relishes every little moan and gasp that escapes your lips. For good measure, he fucks you harder and harder until his orgasm nearly breaks him.

“Oh my God,” you exclaim when you get up to dress after. A pleasurable little ache.

He smirks. “I told you that you would be walking a tad bit funny. Enjoy the alcohol and cocaine, dearest. I will be nagging you about it the next time that I see you.”

You blow him one final kiss goodbye before leaving the room. When you get up to Angel’s, two bottles of vodka in hand, that little wobble in your step, wearing different clothes after being gone for quite a while…

Angel cocks a brow at you, grinning. “You whore.”

###

The comedown from the coke was chased by alcohol and six hours of playing video games before you fell asleep together, with Fat Nuggets and Herbert nestled between you. When you finally woke up, it was only to find a quick note from Angel thanking you for being there for him and letting you know he’d left for Val’s studio/fuck-chamber. You sit up, stretch, and luxuriate in the fact that you’ve never had a hangover in your life, not even in hell. You make sure to give Nuggets before leaving him with his cartoons. Herbert slips out of the room with you, still wrapped up in Angel’s purple boa.

“You’re looking rather glamorous,” you say, smiling at him as you walk downstairs. “What a dapper little guy you are. You were so good last night! You’re going to have lots of apples today. Come on, I’ve got to wash all the coke and booze off of me and then we’ll go downstairs and get some breakfast. Or lunch. Maybe dinner? I’m not sure what time it is and I had to throw out my smart watch.”

You open your door and jump about ten feet when you see someone on your bed, but it’s just Alastor.

“Jesus Christ!” you exclaim, followed with frustration. “Herbert, go sit on him, he’s an asshole.”

This backfires; Alastor actually pats Herbert’s new feathers and lets him sit in his lap. “For your information, my love, it is one in the afternoon. I expected you much later.”

“Wait, then why are you here already?” you ask.

Alastor lifts a brow and crosses his arm. Herbert bounces up and down in his lap. “Am I not welcome in here just as you are welcome in mine?”

“You are, of course.” You sit beside him and kiss him. “How did you fill up all your time while waiting for me?”

“Work-related pursuits,” Alastor assures you. “I believe you said something about a shower.”

“You heard that?”

“I could hear a mouse breathe if I wanted to.”

“You’re so full of shit,” you say before standing.

“Would you like a bit of proof?” he offers.

“No, there’s no actual way to prove it, I can’t perceive things for you. But I did say I was going to take a shower. I spilt a good bit of vodka on myself and that I know you heard. It was a reasonable distance.” You kiss him quickly. “I’ll be fast.”

“I have no doubt in that, my dear,” he says before opening his book again.

When you return, towelling your hair, you sit down beside him again and he sets aside his book.

“Why did you come here to wait for me? Surely you know I’d seek you out.” you ask.

Alastor fiddles with his book. “I did not want to miss out on any quality nagging time, but the longer I sat here the more I pondered something.”

You lean your head on his shoulder and kiss his neck. “And what was that? Vox vengeance?”

“No, although I did have some new ideas about that last night after the spi—after Angel Dust stole you from my bed.” Alastor presents an apple to Herbert, who takes it to his nest. “I have something to speak about and it is very important to me. I have been modestly pushing for this for months and now I am going to assert it. Now, play with my ears.”

“That’s what you’re asserting?” you ask, putting a pillow in your lap and pulling him down to it.

“No, merely a bonus.” He closes his eyes when you touch his ear. “I am here to aggressively pursue the idea of moving to my hotel room.”

You smile as you look down at him. “No. I’m not living in a bayou.”

“It is a swamp,” he corrects.

“All the same. I respect that it’s for you, but it took a long time just for me to get used to sleeping in there, I don’t think I can live with it full-time.”

Alastor tenses, regardless of the sensory pleasure. “Then move into the room next door and we will open the doors between them when the situation calls for it.”

“How is that any different?”

“It isdifferent to me,” he insists before sitting up and taking your hands in his. “A lot has happened. Many things have transpired that change the nature of our relationship irrevocably. This is not the same as it used to be. We lived this way when we were not even in a proper relationship and now we are married. It is no longer tenable. I simply cannot live this way anymore. I want you with me. Just as you respect my living arrangement, I respect yours, but that does not mean change is not necessary.”

After a few seconds, you nod. “I see that. Okay. I have my own swamp-free space next door and at night I simply walk through the door to sleep with you, full time.”

He perks up. “Really? That is a commitment you are willing to make?”

“For you?” You smile at him and pull him back down to the pillow. “Of course I will. I was being a little selfish.”

“You were not,” he says. “My living space is unique, that is true, and I appreciate that you have never once attempted to change it. I respect that.”

“And Herbert can stay in my space,” you suggest.

“I can live with him being next door, never crossing over.”

“And Charlie won’t mind?”

Alastor waves the thought away. “It is the same amount of rooms used, and anyway, she more or less leaves me to my own devices and does not ask questions. I am the host of the hotel, after all.”

“Then it’s official. We’ll do it.” Your fingers move on to his antlers, which instantly branch out. “I love you.”

“And I you, beloved,” he says. “Now, I believe we have some time to make up for.”

“Make up for what?”

His hand touches your thigh and he takes you through the dark, to his bed. He shoves you down onto it.

“The way that I look at it, we should have been intimate by now. Twice,” he adds.

You smile and chuckle softly. “You’re insatiable.”

“Merely reacting to hormones and stimuli,” he says, eagerly taking off your shirt. Alastor nips your ear lobe, his tongue trails down your neck. “I love to pleasure you.”

Your eyes flutter closed and your fingers mesh through his hair, grasping, but not too hard. You knew each other’s bodies well. You moan when his nimble fingers conquer the clasp of your bra and the clothing is pulled away from your body. Your heart is already racing with the sheer potential of this, this shared moment. When he kisses you, your fingers go straight to the little buttons on his shirt.

His tongue is deep in your mouth when his scarred chest is finally revealed to your roaming hands. His shoulder twitches when your fingers pass along a particular long, deep scar, but he makes no move to stop you. When they trail lower, down to the zipper on his trousers, he growls and shoves you down onto the bed.

He runs his hand through his hair before looking down at you, how he’s holding you there. “You smell so sweet and I’ve hardly even touched you yet. I can tell that you’re wet and I haven’t even touched you there—yet. Look at you. Shameless. Brazen in your lust. Mine.”

Just before you speak, one hand completely covers your mouth, pressing you down harder against the mattress, while the others yanks off the bottoms you put on after the shower. The touch is rough, but not violent. Your sense of safety is never once violated. All you can feel is arousal and intense anticipation.

“Not a word,” he commands when his hand leaves your lips. He doesn’t pay attention to your nod of acknowledgment, but getting the rest of his clothes off; when they’re gone, he holds you down again, his hand covering your mouth again. “If you thought last night was intense, you should adjust your expectations and spread those pretty legs wide. For the next few hours, you will be in this bed. You will be fucked again and again. You will thank me for it, if you know what’s good for you. Do you understand me? Nod your head.”

You do, feeling a surge of heat between your legs before the head of his cock presses against you, rubbing along the lips of your pussy.

“You really do feel perfect,” he admits. “So good for me. Are you ready?”

The kiss you pressed to his palm was all the indication he needed before he pushed into you, all at once, bottoming out. His hand slips his hand away from your mouth, but he’s still pressing you down into the mattress.

“You beautiful fucking thing,” he says, his strokes hard, rough. “You feel so soft, so warm. I can hear how fast your heart is beating for me. I can hear how hard it is for you to take breath. You are the loveliest sight I have ever seen, every time, every day.”

He reaches down between you, his fingertips swirling around your clit. A soft moan escapes your lips, and he chases that. He chases every little moan, every muffled little gasp, chases them like they’re his own breath. When your pussy clenches around him he moans, too.

“You were made for my cock,” he says, fucking you harder and harder. “Your whole existence, that’s what you were fucking made for, my beautiful little dancer, all worked up, just for me.”

“Yes,” you whisper breathlessly.

He smirks. “So obedient, darling. That’s a good girl. Tell me, what were you created for? Piqué turns, or this?”

You’re quickly losing your breath again, and Alastor is not a patient man. He grabs your chin and forces your eyes to meet his.

“Were you made to twirl around a stage?” he asks.

“No,” you whisper, a rasp of a sound.

“Was your little cunt made solely for me?” Alastor asks, his pace brutal.

You cry out and nod as quickly as you can. “Yes, yes!”

His breath lingers over yours as he nods, apparently unable to speak again, not just yet. His eyes close and you look up at him with such long and wanting. Your pussy flutters around him as the pleasure gets closer and closer, grows, and the pressure around his cock forces his eyes open again.

“Oh, you’re filthy,” he says, fucking you harder and harder. His tongue flicks up to touch his lip. “Such a good fucking pussy. I’m going to do this to you every goddamn day, and you’re going to thank me for it, aren’t you?”

“Yes, yes,” you breathe, nodding as his hands grip your hips just a tad too tight.

“Good girl,” he says. “Good fucking girl.”

You gasp loudly, diaphragm working hard again. “For you?”

He gives an amused little huff. “For me, for eternity.”

You’re not the only one breathing a little harder, but for the most part he ignores the burn in his chest. There’s something so much better, so much more meaningful and important—namely those delicious little trembles of those thighs wrapped around him. He can tell that you’re getting close and he’s considering how merciful he should be. Let you come, or make you work for it?

He starts to rub your clit again and takes in all the little moans and throaty breaths that fall from your pretty lips. He wants to bite them. He wants to see that little wrinkle between your brows that always forms when you come, and he wants to see it now. He lets out a sharp gasp when he feels how your pussy is squeezing him. Not long now. He’s never fucked anyone else, but he still believes with all of himself that you’re still better than any other woman possibly could be. He’s never wanted anyone else, ever, hadn’t thought it was possible, until he did.

He’s pulled out of this little reverie when you shout and he realises just how close you really are. His fingers work quicker on your clit. “Come for me, sweet girl. Come for me.”

It’s always so beautiful when you come. That little crease he’d been wanting to see, but also the way your lips part. The feeling of your tight pussy fluttering and clenching around him, the feel of your chest heaving against his, and he doesn’t stop rubbing your clit until your whole body is shaking. He never normally does this without express permission, but he bites down on the side of your neck until a few drops of golden blood collect on his tongue.

That’s when the pleasure is almost unbearable. He comes inside of you, thick ropes running up your walls, and he pumps into you a few more times just for good measure before falling onto the bed beside you.

“Fuck,” he whispers against your shoulder before kissing it. “So fucking good.”

You’re still catching your breath, which makes him smirk. He wraps his arms around you.

“Come here,” he says, grabbing you closer, tucking your head under his chin. At the same time, he uses his fingers to shove cum back inside of you. He does that a lot, actually…

“Holy fuck,” you whisper breathlessly before laughing.

“Indeed, my darling. Holy fuck.” Alastor gives you a little squeeze. He swallows. “You are all that I love.”

You smile when you remember the last time he’d used that exact phrase. “I love you too.”

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he says. “You have fifteen minutes before I take you again, and there shall be no mercy this time.”

“Someone is waiting for you,” Natasha says quickly, marching past you quite quickly. It was lunch hour at the studio and every single dancer and instructor present knew not to go to the dressing rooms. You practically skip on the way there, whistling a tune Alastor had played yesterday evening during his radio broadcast. You catch a glance at yourself as you walk down the mirrored hallway, the lights bright, your leotard, practice tutu, and bun in perfect condition.

When you open the door, you see Alastor fumbling with something.

“What are you up to, troublemaker?” you ask.

“Hello, darling,” he says. “I am trying to figure out this device.”

You take a look. “That’s a balancing pad. Alastor, leave that alone, you’ll pop it.”

“What joy does this give you?” he asks, the tip of his staff now touching the delicate tulle and silk of your tutu. “Hm? This really is quite revealing. Ballet is thought to be so prudish but I can see the entirety of your gorgeous legs in this manner of dress.”

“Alastor if there’s blood on that—“

“Yes, I know, you’ll teach Herbert a new word. You know, that threat is rather…blunted, now. He says something new every day.” He smirks and moves closer to you. “There’s no blood, darling. I can touch you as much as I like.”

“Well, at least use your hands!”

And that was all the invitation he needed. Yes, he was very careful in removing the tutu, pulling it off of your body and onto a nearby clean surface, but that was the last thoughtful incident.

You, however, have other plans. Before he can summon up a swamp, you push him down onto his back on the rug.

He looks flummoxed. “Exactly what do you think you are doing, my darling?”

“I want it this way,” you say, and he flips your positions so quickly that it jars you. You’re on your belly, your cheek pressed against the rug.

Alastor gives an amused little chuckle when he pulls aside the crotch of your leotard, his thumb creating a hole and stretching it just wide enough. “I can see that you’re feeling like a rather naughty girl today. I can accommodate that, and quite gladly, I might add. If you move out of this position, if you so much as lift your head, I will punish you.”

There was no such thing as ‘funishment’ when it came to Alastor, but his promise makes you grin nonetheless.

“Not too hard, please,” you say softly. “I still have to dance after.”

“I am aware of your activities and will not stand in the way of your success, however much I would like for you to finally quit, but that is neither here nor there. Now spread your legs for me, slut.”

You try so hard not to giggle when he says that, and you do manage to cover it up as a slight cough into the rug. If he sees through the ruse, he says nothing of it. You do as you’re told, spreading your thighs wide for him, and he continues to stretch and pull at your tights until they rip further and further.  “Don’t worry about it,” you tell him. “I have like five extra pairs in my dance bag.”

“Lovely.” He just rips the fabric away now, stretching the material as much as he needs.

“Now,” he says, lowering down behind you as you breathe against the rug. “I want you to beg.”

You hear a bemused little chuckle when he touches your pussy and finds it as wet as ever. There’s a zip and then you can feel his cock against your lower back.

He presses you down harder against the rug. “I said beg.”

You take a few deep breaths, eyes closing. “Alastor, please. I need you to fuck me in this tiny little room with the paper thin walls that anyone can come into at any time. There’s not even a lock on the door. I need you to fuck me, please, fuck me here against this rug. Please, love, please.”

“You make a very compelling argument,” he muses, the blunt tip of his cock right against your entrance. “I suppose I should give you what you want. . .”

“What I need,” you supply.  “Well, if you need it. . .” Alastor, for the first time in days, pushes in slowly, almost lazy in its hedonism. His lips press against the back of your neck, and presses a kiss there. His arm comes around you as he fucks you, holding your hips the way that he wants them. All of his movements command control.

“Alastor. . .” You moan loudly. “You just fit. You fill me so perfectly. . .”

As he fucks you, deeper and deeper, a static growl emerges from his throat. “Say that again right now.”

“You fill me so fucking good, Al,” you whisper hoarsely. Your breath comes in uneven spurts as he pumps in and out of you. “You’re all I want, you’re what I need. . .”

He’s relentless now, but you can tell he’s keeping himself under control so that you can still dance properly once this is over. It brings a smile to your face, full of love and wonder. He hits your g-spot and you moan loudly, legs shaking.

Alastor lets out an amused chuckle. “Careful, darling. We would not want for everyone in this corps to hear what kind of desperate slut you are, hm?”

“God, I don’t know why it makes me fucking gush when you say shit like that but it does, what does that say about me?”

This time he laughs outright. “Because I am touching on the truth without touching it completely. I can call you a slut whilst the both of us know that it is limited to me. A slut for me. It makes you feel. . .closer, in a way. More intimate.”

“Does it make you feel closer? More intimate?” you ask.

“It embodies the power that I have over you, the control that you give to me. I think it is. . .different than what you feel, but I would say it’s equivalent in its effect. Darling, you’re squeezing me so good. . .”

You’re panting now. “Fuck, I’m so close.”

Your orgasm is a breath away, simmering beneath the surface, and he’s working harder and harder to force it out of you as quickly as possible, and. . .why make the man wait?

You cry out quietly, or as quietly as you are able, as your body trembles, your pussy clenching down around him, forcing a loud grunt from deep in his chest.

“Fuck,” he whispers against the column of your neck. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Pretty soon you’re both gasping for air as his cock spurts inside of you. When he pulls out, as he’s been doing here lately, he pushes cum back inside of you. It’s a tad odd, but never off-putting or even notable enough to comment on. If it’s what he wants to do, you won’t stop him from something so trivial.

When he lets you stand up, your stumble over to your dance bag to change your tights and leotard. “You see, I’ve been telling you how insatiable you are these days.”

“I’m not the one that shoved you down onto the rug first, my love,” he points out. “I believe it was I that hit the rug before you did, I simply followed your lead and had you ‘gushing’ on my cock. That was the word you used, wasn’t it?”

You laugh from your position in front of the mirror. Your bun definitely needed to be redone, so you pull out the elastic and reach for a hairbrush. “Yeah, gush.”

“See? My own dirty little slut.” His arms wrap around you from behind and he leans his head down to kiss the side of your neck.

You chuckle loudly. “You’re messing me up!”

Alastor takes the brush away from you and does it himself. “Oh, that girl I sent for you, what is her name?”

You had to think for a moment. “I think it was Natasha? If I’m remembering who came to me correctly.”

“Ah, Natasha.” Alastor ties the elastic in your hair again. A perfect high bun. “If she speaks to me again I will pull her spine through her throat.”

“Strong words,” you say. “I’ll make sure she knows. They’re all very, very afraid of you, even the instructors.”

“And no one will ever dare say a word to you about that,” Alastor says proudly. “They know what’s good for them.”  You smile at the mirror and then turn around to kiss him. “I love it when you visit.”

“And I have no intent to stop coming to visit. Perfect couple, honestly,” he says.

“Perfect couple indeed.”

He picks up his staff and twirls it. “Now. When shall I expect you to return to me tonight?”  You wince in anticipation of his next words. “Late rehearsals. You’ll just have to wait to get me when you’ll get me.”

“Quit.” he says loudly. “Just quit.”

“You know that I’m not going to, so why are you always pushing for it? I don’t want to end this interaction on a bad note, I don’t want us to part in anger. The performances are two weeks away and opening night is going to be huge for us, two of the Sins will be attending.” Technically three, since Lucifer had his ticket and let it be known that he would be present, but now wasn’t the time to tell Alastor that.

“Which Sins? Wait, I do not actually care which Sins are in attendance. Fine. If it gives you joy, then I will not stand in the way—but you will rest. I am not ‘playing’ with you, you will take proper time to rest and recover on the days you do not perform. Things are out of control. As if polar spells were not enough, you’re coming home exhausted.”

“Okay, okay! I promise I’ll find more time to rest, as long as you promise not to keep talking about this,” you say. “No nagging when I’m in compliance.”

“Fine,” he says eventually. He looks at his pocket watch and puts it back. “Now is the time for us to part, my love. I expect you’ll be coming to me as soon as you are done?”

You nod. “And you’ll get Mexican food?”

“Yes, all that you want.”  You smile at him and kiss him. “Thanks, my love. Go on a killing spree. There’s supposed to be some sort of parade today, maybe start there.”

“I believe I shall! Until tonight, dearest.”

“Until tonight.”

Once he’s gone, you take your water bottle to the sink for a refill and head back up front. Rehearsals stretched on for hours still, and when it was finally over, you were dead on your feet.

You’re just scooping your bag up from the floor when Natasha comes up to you again, but this time there’s something different.

“Someone’s waiting for you,” she says, just like before. “Back there. Someone is waiting for you.”

She’s gone before you can even thank her.

Fuck, had he even left at all? You pull the strap of your dance bag over your shoulder and head to the back. You head for the same room as before. When you touch the doorknob, there’s a pop of static, zapping your fingertips.

“Shit,” you say, looking down at your hand as you enter the room. “I just shocked the fuck out of myself.”

“Sorry about that, my love.”

You look up from your hand instantly and your lips fall apart.

“Vox,” you say softly, backing up to the door. “You shouldn’t be here. You can’t be here.”

“I know that he’s made it very hard for us,” he says, advancing on you until you’re close enough to take your hands in his. There’s no static this time, but it still feels as though his hands burn through yours. “I know that he’s selfish, that he hides you from me, that he doesn’t want us to be together.”

“I don’t want us to be together,” you manage to say before gulping hard. The hands in his shake, tremble.

Vox just chuckles. “Of course you do. He’s not here, there’s no need to pretend.”

When you shudder again, it’s from the cold. The intense, bone-biting cold that floods your body. You can’t stop shaking, but this can’t happen, not now!

“Vox, go. Go now.”

“What’s the matter?” he asks, tilting his flattened head.

You push him away weakly, but it does nothing. You sink down to your knees, trembling out of control as your skin grows lighter from the cold.

Vox sinks down next to you, pulls you into his arms.

“Ssh, it’s okay,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’ve got you.”

#Alastor x reader #hazbin alastor #alastor x you #hazbin hotel #alastor smut

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