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jolalibrary · 1 year ago

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vii. take care of me

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter seven of i like the way you

best friend! friends with benefits! frankie morales summary: what starts off as an offhand remark, quickly becomes a regular, scheduled 'stress relief'. the only problem is, both of you are in denial that you feel anything outside of friendship for the other.

warnings: friends with benefits. fwb! rules. flirting. idiots who are so in love it’s stupid. feelings. smut - p in v. reader has a bad day, soft romantic fucking.

word count: 4.7k

an: the biggest thanks to @thetriumphantpanda who read this before bake off and left me a bunch of comments that made me so excited, you almost had this chapter yesterday.

You had seemed downtrodden before he rocked up and ‘broke a rule’.

His pretence at forgetting all quickly seen through, as though he’s transparent. He had wanted to explain that he had only wanted to cheer you up, but you looked less in the mood for an apology than you did an explanation.

So he swallowed both.

From the middle of the week, he had suspected something was wrong. When he had finally managed to call you, you had sounded so close to tears, that he wondered whether he should drive back sooner.

Especially when you had barely laughed at a joke he made on one of his commutes back to the hotel—barely even answering when he asked it if was his movie choice or yours.

I don’t mind. You always mind. If I remember right, you have a real thing about me always pickin’ the movie, querida. Well, I don’t today, okay? You can pick—I—Frankie, I have to go.

When the end call tone flooded the bed of his truck, he’d strongly suspected that you’d fought your way off the phone with him so you could crumble. Cracking yourself open into a bunch of shards, all pressure-cooked by the weight of everything you take on, only to say you’re fine.

It’s why he had driven past your place the day before he had made plans to see you. Fighting with himself about getting out and going up to your door. Weighing up the options as to whether checking on you tonight or waiting for tomorrow would be best.

Then there was the fact he wasn’t sure if it was as your best friend or as someone who hopes for something more.

The lines blurred, practically erased. A speech is likely needed, but he’s as poor with words as he is with owning how he feels, so it’s easier to stuff them down—to drive away, wait.

It’s why he grabbed it to begin with. Why he’d been grabbing them since you put the darn rule in place anyway. A habit, a part of his routine seeing you—a thing he did to show you that you mattered, were important, cared for.

Which is why he’d wrestled with him again on whether to leave it in the car when he walked up to your front door or not.

“You broke a rule.”

You look glum, defeated. Whatever your working week had done to you, it had stolen more from you than you’d been able to—never mind willing to give.

And it fractured a part of him. Made his shoulders sink, his heart sinks—because nothing hurt him more than the look on your face. The one which should be full of smiles and twinkling eyes.

Kissing your cheek, he closes your front door behind him. “I think you’ll forgive me.”

You just snort. Momentarily smothering the sadness that had been there before he’d showed you the bottle—whatever had upset you buried, all of it being quickly hidden as you placed the wine down and picked up your water bottle.

It forces more confusion to swirl inside of him, more so as you begin to go back and forth with him on food, on what he wants to watch, and whether he wants to share a blanket or have his own.

He replies in his usual tone, even if his attention is split into equal parts—one part focused on the little things you do, the mannerisms you’re not aware to pretend. The other on the IKEA furniture he built, the memories pricking him, needling, making the zipper of his jeans suddenly feel uncomfortable over his cock.

“Work been okay?”

Your mouth falls open, all set to answer, but then something shifts in your eyes. A shadow—possibly—it dancing across the plain, suddenly all but desperate to thump its way out.

Then the words never come. Swallowing instead, discarding whatever you'd been about to say—pushing it back before any lingering parts of it are blinked away as you offer a nod.

“Yeah. Yours?” you answer, but your tone isn’t right.

It’s flat, without its usual infliction. There isn't any edge to your words, nor a tease or taunt, not even a Morales in sight. And, the smile you paint doesn’t quite reach the eyes.

It’s practically humming now, the fact something is wrong. It simmers, hanging around, whistling through the air.

Yet, you don’t break, don’t confess it all to him like you had once done with such ease. Instead, you just smear another smile on your face, nudging him, phone in hand as you mumble about food options and what he wants as you lead him to the sofa.

He knows on the surface, it looks the same—how the night is playing out. But it’s different. In all the ways he doesn’t want to put his finger on, and doesn’t want to acknowledge. Not as you order food, not as you chew the inside of your cheek as you wait for the order to be accepted.

Even less so when you mumble about the film, reaching for your remotes.

It's then he decides what he wants to do is take the remote from your hand as soon as you pick it up. Frankie wants to hold your fingers in his, even place a kiss on your wrist. He wants to place two fingers under your chin, and ask you again to tell him what has happened—wanting to be let him in, be shared with.

He wants you close, and not like friends do. A need to have your head to his chest, his fingers sliding gentle strokes against your cheek and neck, offering comfort, providing it in plenty.

His own head turns the options over, planning it out, trying to guess what the various outcomes are. Which, by the time he reacts, instead of managing to grasp your hand, he knocks the remote from your hand with a clatter.

Ears burning, he feels your glare before he truly appreciates it. It ripples out over him before it’s blinked away—a momentary flood of fire licking at his skin.

In the oddest way, it’s at least reminiscent of the person he knows. The sharpness in your eyes is more a friend to him right now than the gnawing going on in his chest. Especially, while the rest of you is lost to whatever you’re trying to pretend doesn’t exist.

“What?”

It’s simple, one word.

Almost feels normal. It's all sharp and layered, just like it usually is. Followed by your body sinking into the array of cushions you decorate your sofa with as you pull up his pick, rolling your head to him—nail-picking at the battery cover on your remote.

And he wants to ask again—just like he always would have done.

Instead, Frankie places his hand on your knee, thumb and index swirling over the cloth-covered bone as you look at the television briefly, before flicking back to him.

In the silence, it’s louder—the whistling. It's suddenly accompanied by the noticeable noise of your brain whirring, your cogs turning.

“Talk to me,” he whispers, but secretly he's pleading, begging.

He watches as your teeth pick at your lip, snuggling yourself further into the couch—knee abutting his leg as you sigh. “It's... nothing. Can we... can we just watch the movie?”

“Hey, of course we can. Is…”

He can't ask.

Fearful of asking. A lump forms in his throat, sticking, thickening second by second as he flicks his eyes over you.

Before you can blink it away, he spots it again. The shift in your eyes.

This time instead of a shadow, they fill with water. They vanish any part of your truth that wished to escape in its drowning. Before he can poke and push, you blink it away as quickly as it had first arrived.

And it needles him, pricks at his skin and stabs into his chest, twisting and twisting and twisting—

“I just… wanted my best friend,” you mumble.

“That it?”

You seem to fight it, whatever it is inside of you, before you curl against his arm again, tugging your blanket up closer. “I really missed you this week, that's all.”

It’s been on his to-watch list for ages, and yet he’s one hour into it and he has no clue what is happening.

The pizza box is still half-open on the coffee table, your plate still remaining with picked-at food that you never really made any dent in, and he blames that as to why he doesn’t even know who the good guy is and who is bad.

Because all of the parts of his brain that usually begin working on undoing and arranging what he thinks will and is happening, are working in overdrive on you.

It's also stopping his heart from hammering even louder down your ear. Because, even if the two of you have cuddled before—lots of times—it's not been post the whole sleeping together thing.

And, it feels nice having you against him, normal, right.

He likes the way your fingers occasionally clutch him a little closer, head turned in the direction of the television and the movie he should be watching.

Instead, he's piecing together the puzzle you've thrown on the floor. The one without the box lid, so no image to compare it to. Trying to assess where you missing him, lines up with the way your bottom lip almost wobbled as you confessed it, as though it was a sin and not a virtue.

Frankie tries to line it up with the fact he knows whenever he's found a moment to himself, he’s texted you. The sea of other unread messages piling up, collecting.

It adds to the knowledge that all of the normal conversation he has with you, quickly derails, slipping into something foreign yet wonderful. Casual phone calls, divert into him with his hand around his cock, listening to you breathlessly say his name and that you wish he was there.

And that somewhere between collecting the sweet noises you make and those innocent-but-not-innocent moments, are the soft moments he has where you’re resting—where Frankie has realised, decided and accepted, that there is nowhere else he likes being.

Not a single place.

Because he wants this.

Frankie wants the calmer person he is when he's around you, the thoughts which are less intrusive. He likes that the rain barely bothers him when he has you in his arms, that he doesn’t even overthink, if anything he just plans. Considering things, turning them over, thinking of a future that begins to sketch itself out and colour itself in.

Something which has been doing so since the time in the car.

Your words rolling and rolling, stitching themselves to other phrases you’ve let slip, until he’s sewing things together to create a gallery, a museum of moments he loves admiring and replaying when the world goes silent.

That's when he notices the movie, the shit-show of a plan formed involving a helicopter, and the words roll from him without stopping.

"That would never fuckin' happen. Not—can you imagine, if I said to you—" and he rambles. Feels himself doing so. So comfortable and at ease more and more things just flow and fall from his lips.

Even when the scene changes in the movie, more bright light than the softer one from before, forcing him to blink—he is still detailing how inaccurate it is. Only slowing to nothing when he realises you’re looking up at him. Hanging on to every word as though he's a poet reading something beautiful.

He feels the way they tracing him then, lightly glazing over all his features as he slowly holds your stare.

Because it’s the kind of gaze he sees in the movies you make him watch. The lingering ones—a blend of both fiery and craving. It all peppered with yearning, and swirling in so much he suspects you don’t want to say.

“You’re going to miss the movie.”

Blinking, you smile. Feeling you flick your eyes from him to his mouth. “Am I?”

Your smile slides further into your cheek, and he can’t help but brush his thumb over it. A dire need to touch you, brush your soft skin and remind himself how you feel.

He doesn’t expect it, but he likes that you curl into his hand. It allows him to trace his fingers along your jaw, down the side of your neck. Half-expecting you to tell him to stop, that tonight isn’t about that.

You don’t.

Instead, your hand cups his against your cheek, staring at him, lit up by the flickering scenes neither of you are paying attention to.

Faintly, blooming out in the shimmer of your eyes, he thinks he sees it again—what he thinks is adoration. It mixing, blending, swirling with care, love…

“Thought you wanted your best friend?”

“I do,” you say, low, just above a whisper, “So, take care of me.”

A second passes as your words drip into the air.

So take care of me.

His eyes flick over you. Likely needing you to say it again, give permission, tell him you want this.

You do. Fuck you do.

Your heart hammering against your chest like a drum because of it. All unable to speak, fearful, fucking petrified, with how much you want him.

Because all you do is want him, and if you speak, you worry you won’t stop telling him that.

Let it fall, leak. Slip out and stain like oil on a sheet.

Because you know it's only normal to miss him this much for one reason, and one reason alone. It's the same reason why you want him, crave him, and feel so desperate for him that you can’t think or breathe. It is all-encompassing, looming, forever there in between the days you don't see him and the waiting on replies to texts.

It’s so close to your tongue, held back only by your teeth.

It could come out, could escape. So you keep your mouth clamped shut. It is better, easier, and less bothersome than telling him you’ve been counting down the hours, minutes, and seconds until you could have your hands on him. Not for this, not because he makes you feel good and beautiful and wanted, but because you feel better. Happier. More you. You feel safe, like no bad work day could ever touch you.

“Querida…”

“I want y—”

The rest of your words are swallowed, stolen. Frankie seals his mouth over yours, barely needing a sentence, just enough.

And it’s searing, full of ache as his hands pull you close, your body singing, itching to come alive—has been since the scent of just him hit your nose.

The worst of days doesn’t matter when he’s around you, less so when his lips marry to yours, when he licks into your mouth, when he breathes you in, and you breathe him.

No one else has ever made you feel like he does.

Not the way your feet almost kick out when his message arrives, a smile gracing your mouth without control when he calls you.

Because he’s different, but then he always has been.

There's always been something, it thriving and growing, embedding vines you pretend are just because you're good friends. But you know, you do. It's hard not to.

Frankie saves you, oblivious to the silent plea for rescue—he just knows. He gets you. Understands every inch of you now, you're unsure how anyone else can ever read you as well. He's someone you could confidently rely on, knowing he’d never leave you alone, not even in the dark—forever a light, a way home.

You think you’re that for him too. Hope so anyway.

He moans your name. Kissing you like he never wishes to stop. He acts like he wants to drown in you, be overflowed by you, and fuck you want the same.

Mine. That’s what you want to say.

Instead, you bury it in a low moan when his mouth captures yours, tongue sliding past your teeth as his hands come to rest on your cheeks. Each touch softer, gentler—from the way he moves his fingers over your cheek, to the way he slides them over your jaw, landing on your neck.

Then, his mouth comes to your ear, breath dancing, all flooded with the flickering television—let’s go to your bed.

He doesn’t rip, he peels your layers off, leaving a trail leading right to your room. He smothers your body with his, his palm remaining flat to your spine, leading, hooking his fingers around the back of your neck as he steers you.

Careful, hermosa.

The consideration dripping from his lips like syrup, all adorned in affection, a taste you have to capture, spinning in his hold, hooking your arms around his neck as you pull him flush, close.

“Tell me you want me,” he hisses.

There's an edge that isn’t usually there but it’s pounding now, all sparkling and fucking shimmering.

You’re more sure of it when he lies you back on your sheets, his mouth exploring, taking his time, taking you to the edge with his mouth as you plead and plead—one hand sliding up over the softness of your stomach, as your back arches into him.

And you shudder, so close to your high—hips held down by his arm. “I want you, Frankie. Always want you. Want you inside of me.”

He pauses—cool air blowing over you as he flicks his eyes up from between your thighs, his skin flushes, a light beading of sweat at his hairline as he comes up onto his palms.

Watching him crawl up you, eyes enamoured, unable to look anywhere else even if they were commanded to. Because he’s more than a sight for sore eyes, he is the sight. He’s the best-looking thing you’ve ever fucking seen, clutching his face in your hands, feeling him drag the head of his cock through your slick walls, staring at you in waiting, like he couldn’t believe this is happening.

“Again,” he asks.

Taking your hand in his, he slots his fingers between yours, fitting, ever so perfectly, before he places your conjoined hands above your head. Eyes tracing up and down your frame, more so as you arch into him, hearing the breathed-out expletive as you wait for his stare to land.

“I want you.”

And, thankfully, Frankie doesn’t let you linger on it. Doesn’t allow you to hyper-focus on it, slowly sliding in, pushing in by inch until you’re full of just him—no more of him left that you can greedily take.

“Always take me so well, baby—“

“Frankie.”

You’re breathless. The air punched from your lungs—his hand remaining knotted in yours, grounding, your nails digging into his skin as his other hand finds a place on the back of your thigh, eyes dropping, all fixated on where the two of you are joined.

“Y'so good for me. Always so good for me,” he adds when his hips are flush with yours. “Take my cock so well.”

Letting his gaze return to you, you’re suddenly so grateful for the bedside lamp you’d left on hours ago because now you get to see him. Admire him, so much so, it makes your throat dry.

Able to watch his muscles contort when he moves, lips parting as he slowly cants his hips into yours, all deep strokes.

And, you know it’s still fucking, but it’s also not.

It’s a unique blend of need that feels right, and also wrong—lips messily finding yours, burying confessions as you eagerly swallow them.

Hoping your throat, lungs or stomach could begin to decipher them as you feel his hand slide down your wrist, and arm until it's cupping your face. His lips slide over your cheek, resting close to your ear, whispering compliments. Because he has to tell you that you’re gorgeous, he says; that you're always so stunning.

Each word that lands has more than an effect on you, as he stutters when you clench around him.

Mouth wrapped around an exclamation of his name as he slides out and sinks back into you.

Frankie has always felt big, but from this angle, like this—he’s somehow deeper, filling you more. He's in your soul. It all filthy and romantic and obscene, but it feels so good, makes heat bloom through your hips and up into your spine, it twisting, eroding the bad day, the bad week.

In a sense, he’s the perfect antidote. A person you trust, care for, lo—

“You’re perfect, you know that?”

Frankie’s hand slides back to grip yours, pressing it down—lightly against the pillow above you, before placing the other beside it. And he’s enveloped in part shadows and the light from the table, blessed in golden hues, giving just enough to see how wild his eyes are and how deep the brown in them goes, how blown his pupils are.

“Do you know how beautiful you look right now?”

You feel your cheeks warm, your ears—every bit of skin on show suddenly inflamed because of his words. His mouth lapping at your breasts, all arched into him, hips steadily meeting his.

“Always are, really.”

“Well. You’re handsome, Morales.”

It’s intentional, adding his surname. Taking the softness out of it, removing what you can, and adding barriers and throwing up walls.

He still sucks in a breath, eyes lingering on yours, fingers dropping to brush a line up and down your cheek as he continues to slide his cock in and out of you. You moan as the head of him keeps kissing that part deep inside you.

It’s different.

You know it; he likely does too. Thankful he slants his mouth over yours. Slowly rocking with you, thrusting into you as you murmur his name, it falling enriched in moans.

From the way you both kiss, to the way you keep an arm around his neck, desperate to keep as much of him against yours.

“You feel so good, Frankie.” Your fingers scratch at the base of his neck. “Always make me feel so full.”

Stuffed really. Packed in. Clenching around him, all tightening, purposefully wrapping your walls around him until he groans right into your ear. Each drag of his cock in and out feeling exquisite, perfect, amazing.

It’s never been like this with others, never been like this even with him. His fucked out face, the grunts and groans coming from deep within make your thighs unable to stop their twitching as fire floods up your spine and the way he plunges you in lust-filled brown.

And you clutch his face, feverish from him, quivering, shaking. Burying the words, “So close, I’m gonna—fuck, I’m close baby,” against his mouth.

Pressing each letter in, stamping it—ensuring he knows it’s him doing this to you. Making a mess of you. The only person you ever want to make a mess out of you.

It thumping inside of you, hammering—all balled up fists and desperation because you want to tell him. Shout it at him. Paint the walls in it as he paints yours in white.

“Need you, Frankie.”

It’s close to the truth. Barely an inch from it.

“I know, need you too. Need to feel you come around me, hermosa. I need it, please. Please give it to me. Let me feel—fuck—feel you coming around my cock.”

And you hear it, the way he pleads—as well as realise the double meaning. You in the car, whispering words so close to the ones he’s spilling now.

“I will if you stay.”

He doesn’t still, but he does jolt. A hesitation in his pistoning.

Then he drops to his elbows around your face, cradling you, caging you in, as he kisses you—sloppily, messily, sweetly. It’s soft, but also full of heavy moans he wishes to force down your throat. It’s indulgent, a thing you never thought you’d have so now you take as much of it as you can get.

“Course I’ll stay. Never—fuck—anywhere I want to be but here, baby. Nowhere else.”

His eyes fix on you, digging the words in.

And, even if you knew it before, you realise how under your skin he is. How he’s woven in around tendons and ligaments, found a home, left marks against your bones you never want to rid.

You’re sure it’s that and not the words which make everything else mute.

Even if it’s all you can hear. Not the television in the other room, not the headboard clattering against the wall, not the sounds you’re making each time he drags his cock through your walls.

Just his words. Whatever he blesses you in. Your thoughts are all incoherent other than that. All shaky, practically vibrating; all gasping and torturous heavy heat, all unable to breathe and yet never wanting any of this to stop.

His hand slides around your thigh, pulling on your knee, bringing it closer as his grip almost grows bruising on you. He’s deep. Fucking into you so hard, hearing the concoction of his hisses, gasps and moans, before his mouth lands back on yours.

It’s overwhelming. The height you’ve reached, the way your mouth is only able to say his name as you watch him lick his thumb and distinctly feel it slide between the two of you. Finding it. Barely struggling to press the pad of it to your bundle of nerves before you lock up, the knot tightening, almost ripping inside of you.

It fraying from how much you’re fighting it, so close to bursting—

Then he draws quicker circles, all persistent, expertly, and you snap.

It surging, all white-hot, all blistering and mind-melting. You become both light and heavy all at once, your nails finding purpose in his side and your sheets, twisting, knotting to root yourself in this, in him—in how much you fucking love him.

“Fuck, querida—that’s it.”

You can’t respond, can’t even think up a response, but you do yank his mouth to yours. Pressing those three words there, laying them down, as well as thanking him, over and over until you slide your mouth against his cheek.

“Be good for me now, Frankie.”

His eyes flick to you, all ablaze and engulfed in want. And so you nod, knowing he can see it, feel it.

“Look so good, baby,” you add.

The noise is strained that comes from him, all sucked in breath. Then, his hips stammer, convulsing, all strangled, tightly entangled in a mess of your name and fuck.

And you kiss him.

Happily licking into his mouth to taste how delicious his moan is.

You try to fight the way your heart drops when you return from using the bathroom. Biting the inside of your mouth as you see the bed empty, sheets a mess, your throat swallowing back whatever sob wishes to escape.

Because the edges of your happiness crumble, your arm wrapping around the other, bottom lip almost wobbling.

That is, until you feel his hand on your lower back. Your head turns quickly, seeing him there. All hair-wild, and soft smile.

“Water, baby?”

Smiling, you thank him, taking several sips before handing it back to him, watching him do the same. Studying the way his throat bobs as he does, the faint marks of your mouth still lingering there on his skin.

“C’mon,” he whispers, kissing your cheek. “Let’s get in bed.”

“Oh, but the—“

“I’ve sorted it. Turned it off—folded the blanket, put the plates in water.” His hand wraps itself around yours. “So, let’s sleep.”

All you can muster is an okay. It leaves soft, slightly webbed at the edges from the way it catches on the growing lump in your throat.

It isn’t until you’re curled against him,

“Is this okay?” you whisper.

He lets out a laugh, little and breathy. “More than okay, hermosa.”

Guiding your leg to hook over his. Keeping his body flush as the two of you cuddle. His thumb swipes across your cheek, forehead close to yours as his fingers fan out over your hip, and he presses a kiss to the space between your brows.

You’re pretty sure your heart just tripled in size.

And those three words, the ones which have amassed into a chunk in your chest have suddenly begun pulsing all on their own—a beat completely separate, you find, to the one which pumps blood around your body.

CHAPTER EIGHT ->

#frankie morales x reader #francisco morales x reader #francisco morales smut #Frankie morales x reader smut #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales #jo: iltwy #triple frontier x reader #francisco morales fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #francisco catfish morales x reader #catfish morales x reader #frankie morales smut #triple frontier smut #frankie morales x f!reader smut #pedrostories

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heartfullofleeches · 5 months ago

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I NEED TO SPREAD PROPAGANDA ABOUT MY BLOROBOS (your oc's XD)

What would the poly gang (baron Maddox Alasdair) and dea do if reader had a particularly painful period? (← totally not self-indulgent)

(↑lie)

Baron

Doesn't know a thing about periods, but mate is in pain = I must drop everything to do what I can to eradicate their suffering.

With a quick crash course, Baron is in even more awe of you. "Every single month?!? Why didn't you tell me about this sooner?!"

His arms are your throne- If the moment doesn't unsettle you further, Baron will carry you wherever you need to go if you absolutely have to get out of bed.

Dude's practically a living heating pad already so snuggles are a must if you're up for it. Compliments and horn rubs make his skin nice and toasty.

Maddox

Offers you their hoodie first and foremost. It's big on them and comfy, like a good comfort blanket should be.

Tries to distract you from your pain- They'll raid the medicine cabinet for whatever pain relief is available and would work best for you, and while they're kicking in Mad would create a little pillow palace for you in bed or on the couch. Whichever works best.

Plays videos games with you or if those aren't up your alley/sitting up right makes things worse for you - sets up a mini theater wherever you're located with snacks, blankets and of course shows/movies for you both to binge.

Alasdair

Angel mom. Knows you're suffering even before you tell anyone. Really pushes the mommy status by monitoring your diet since certain foods can make cramps worse. Will get off your case if you press him, but if you're fine with the arrangements he'll prepare you meals that are both safe and foods you enjoy.

Did his research before coming to earth and likely has products tucked away for occasions such as this. Heating pads, pain medicine-

Will happily lend his wings if you need a softer place to rest your head. May also take the advantage to read you some of the books he's gotten into lately.

Dea

Funnily enough, they're like a perfect combination of all three.

Wraps you up in their robes which feels like the safest material known to man. Stresses themselves to the point of feeling faint if you choose to walk around on your own, but respects your decision if you decide to.

Dea's tears actually cure most ailments mortals may face. Understands drinking their tears might not be the most pleasant experience for you so they'll cook/bake them into something you enjoy.

"Here you are, my grace. I hope you enjoy-"

Still dotes on you for days after you're feeling better because they love you and want you to be 100% at all times (except for moments when you can't)

#Baron my oc #Alasdair my oc #Maddox my oc #Dea my oc #yandere #yandere x you #yandere scenarios #yandere headcanons #yandere imagines #yandere x reader #yandere insert #yandere blurb #male yandere #yandere oc #supernatural harem #period mention #period tw

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punksyeet · 1 month ago

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ᰔᩚ Mama To Be ᰔᩚ

Plot: While expecting their first daughter, Gianna (OC) and her boyfriend Josh are going through all the emotions. Specifically Josh, who’s a nervous wreck and trying to protect his girls 24/7.

Warning: Hefty flirting & mature language!

My eyes flutter open as I wake up to an uncomfortable feeling in my lower stomach.

I look down and see my belly button area slightly moving, signaling that baby girl is awake and kicking.

I look over at the clock on my nightstand - 3:04am.

Motherhood is not for the weak!

I shake my head and smile softly, gently rubbing my belly.

I lay back on my pillows and look over to my left, my eyes met with my favorite sight: my beautiful man peacefully sleeping, his muscular and tattooed chest rising and falling, alongside light snores pouring from his parted lips.

It brings me so much joy to see him at peace, especially since he's gone through hell and back for this baby already.

Josh has been a very protective father so far.

He feels the need to be by my side 24/7, helping me with everything.

Even if it means staying up all night, he wants both me and our baby to be protected at all times.

I gently kiss his lower lip and lay back down, deciding to scroll on my phone for a bit.

About 15 minutes later, my stomach starts to rumble.

Not me being hungry at 4am! 🥲

I gently wiggle out of his arms, doing my very best not to wake him.

If he finds out that I'm leaving the room - or even the bed - without him, he'll throw a fit.

I swing my legs off the bed, step into my slippers, and quietly shuffle out of the room to the kitchen.

After a little while of seeing what we have, I settle for my current favorite craving: ice cream.

I take out one of the many containers of "Half Baked" from Ben & Jerry's that Josh got me yesterday, grab a spoon, take a seat on the counter, and dig in.

The flavor of the cookie dough and brownies mixed with the vanilla ice cream satisfy me immediately.

** Josh's POV **

Half asleep, I roll over to cuddle my lady some more.

When I feel an empty space and only bed sheets, I sit up immediately.

Where the hell is my girl?

"Baby?" I call, hoping she's just in the bathroom and that I'm overreacting.

When I get no response, panic starts to set in.

What if she's hurt?

What if she fell?

What if something happened to our baby?

Fuck!

I quickly hop out of bed and search all over the room.

From the closet, to the bathroom, to even under the bed - she's nowhere to be found.

I throw on some sweatpants and a hoodie, and race downstairs to grab my keys from the key hook near the front door.

I need to find my lady. And fast.

Just when I'm about to unlock the front door, I hear a familiar voice call from the kitchen.

"Baby?" Gianna calls from, what sounds like, the kitchen.

I instantly spin around and, when I see her, I fall to my knees in relief.

"Gianna," I say breathlessly. "Thank God."

She walks over to me and places a comforting hand on my back. "Baby what's wrong? Where are you going?"

I look up at her. "I couldn't find you and I panicked. Babe, it's 3:30 in the morning. Whatchu even doing up at this time?"

She takes a deep breath before responding. "I had a craving. And I didn't wanna wake you after all the stress you've been under lately."

She rubs her belly when saying that last part.

I hang my head, still trying to watch my breath, before standing up.

"Baby," I say, looking down at her and cupping her face. "I don't give a fuck if I'm up for two days straight and finally getting some rest. You need to tell me when you plan on going anywhere. So I can be with you."

She bites her lip and looks me in the eyes before responding. "Joshua, I'm pregnant. Not crippled."

"What?" I ask, tilting my head.

Where is this coming from?

Since when is me looking out for her an issue?

"Ever since I showed you that the test came back positive," she begins, tears starting to form in her eyes. "You've been super overprotective. And don't get me wrong, I love you for caring about me. For caring about our baby. And I know it's gonna pay off when he or she comes. But I need some freedom before I explode."

** Gianna's POV **

After finally telling Josh how I've been feeling, he just sits there with an unreadable expression on his face.

Is he mad?

Is he offended?

Fuck!

Why would I do this?

How could I do this?

After a long silence, I finally decide to speak up again and break it. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

As tears begin to roll down my face, I look down.

I hear Josh take a deep breath before gently lifting my face up by my chin.

"You don't need to be sorry," he reassures under his breath. "Because you're right."

My face goes from regretful to confused. "I am?"

"You are,” he replies with a soft smile on his face, stroking my cheek with this thumb.

"I've been so overprotective about you and our baby," he continues, reaching out and stroking my side. "That I didn't even take a second to think about how it might overwhelm you."

I bite my lower lip gently, not responding.

"The truth is," he speaks up again. "I'm scared to death. I'm scared to be a father for the first time. I'm gonna be responsible for a human being for the rest of my life. For the rest of our lives. And I've been one big ass worrywart. I'm sorry, baby."

He sniffles and lowers his head, wiping his tears away with his sleeve.

I just sit there watching, allowing the comfortable silence to roll on, not knowing what to say.

It’s not because I don’t wanna comfort him, but because he’s never opened up about the baby like this.

It’s almost comforting in a way, to know that he cares this deeply.

Of course I knew he does, but to hear him finally be vocal about his feelings, it means so much to me.

"I'm scared too," I finally reply, my voice just over a whisper, fiddling with my fingers.

He lifts his head again and allows our eyes to meet once more. “Really?"

I nod, giving him a soft smile. "Terrified. But I know that once baby is here, we're gonna rock parenthood. And we're gonna rock it together."

He smiles back and gently kisses my forehead before pressing ours together. "I love you so much."

"I love you too," I reply, wrapping him into a hug. "You're gonna be the best daddy."

He immediately hugs back, kissing my shoulder and rubbing my back.

Once we pull away, he cups my face and we share a deep and passionate kiss.

"Half baked?" he asks, licking his lips once we pull away.

"Only the best flavor," I respond, folding my arms and smirking.

He gives me a mean mug. "Girl, hell nah. Cherry Garcia is where it's at."

"I guess we all can't have good taste," I tease before rolling my eyes playfully.

"Girl bring yo ass-" he squeezes my cheeks and pulls me in by my face for another kiss.

I giggle against his lips and, hand in hand, we make our way back upstairs to the bedroom.

He helps me back into bed and hops in himself afterwards.

Once we get comfortable, he lays on his stomach and rubs my belly.

"Daddy can't wait to meet you," he coos, feathering light kisses onto it. "And he loves you so much."

I lean my head back on the pillow and smile softly, playing with his hair.

I can't wait to watch him experience fatherhood - he's gonna be the best dad in the world.

Liked by uceyjucey, jonathanfatu, trinity_fatu, rikishi, and 91.3k others

giannamacri ⏳🖤

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uceyjucey Proud of you baby 🫶🏽

jonathanfatu Can't wait ❤️

trinity_fatu SO EXCITEDDD 🥹😭😍

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uceyjucey Strongest woman I know 🖤

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giannamacri best daddy in the world 🔜 🥹🫶🏽

jonathanfatu Love yall ❤️

wwe So happy for you two! 🥰

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athenasgotu · 10 months ago

Text

title: you're all i need.

pairings: teenage!ellie williams x female!reader

summary: after so many things happening in your life. a break up, sister passing away, and then losing half of your friends. only one person stuck with you and it was ellie. she never left your side, and overtime you grew feelings for her. but you can get your hopes up.

warning: mentions of suicide, swearing, and lots of angst. (minors dni!)

authors note: part 1 is more on y/n story and how she feels. ellie will be there to comfort her.

MEN DNI❗❗

part 2

╔══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╗

one more month. one more month and no more school, no more stress, no more fake friends. how could someone possibly be this sad? mom is over it, why aren't you? your boyfriend calling you a slut? no biggie. just act like you don't care then no one will notice.

you walk out of your room to brush your teeth. numb. that's all you felt. you have no one. no friends. no love. no sister. wait.. ellie. how could you forget the one person who hasn't done one thing wrong? god, she's an angel. she hasn't left me, yet. you can't even dress nice for school, just sweats. your mom tries to get you to be happier. therapy, not working. quality time, making it worse. talking to her.

communication was never good with her, will it ever be? how can you tell her how you've been craving death? wanting to be with your sister. she was your light. she made you smile on days you couldn't. i mean sure, you had your rough times. but that's how siblings are, right?

or did she secretly hate you?

faked it all?

faked her love?

no. she couldn't have, hah. its funny to think i even thought of that.

suddenly, the time changed late. twenty minutes in the bathroom? jesus. time passes, you're in school.

you see your old friends, teachers, then her. she smiles at you and waves.

"hey! you feeling ok?" ellie asks.

am i? i spent twenty minutes in my own thoughts earlier.

"i'm good." you smile. great acting.

ellie nudges your shoulder and hands you a plastic bag with a cookie, she baked every once in a while even though it wasn't the best. she knew i like sugar cookies. she's so sweet..

"thanks els." you smile, but it was real.

ellie was the only one who could get you to smile. not even your own mom could make you really smile. ellie was special. really special.

as you two walked in the crowded halls, she makes it to her class.

"see you later?" ellie smiles at you again.

gosh, that smile..

you nod and smile back at her "mhm." you mumbled.

you walked to your class, attempting not to be late again. but it was math, you were already failing horribly in math. school makes everything worse for you. tears your soul down. not always though, your sister made those long eight hours fun and exciting. too bad she's gone. you groan under your breath. these thoughts weren't helping. you take your earbuds out and put on a song.

you sigh in relief. finally, you can relieve some stress.

╭──╯ . . . . . hours later . . . . . ╰──╮

you were finally at home, alone. your mom was still at work, she wasn't coming back until midnight.

long shift, as usual.

you laid down in bed sighing. everything is going to be ok. you kept telling yourself. was it though? your life was already fucked up enough. how could it possibly get better?

⇢˗ˏˋ beep beep !! 📞

you pick up your phone to see a message from ellie. you smile, she always messages you.

she worried so much.

she's so nice.

you put your phone down and turn off your light. hopefully, tomorrow will be a better day.

╰┈➤ end of part 1

#ellie williams #lesbian #wlw #female!reader #fanfic #tlou2 #angst #smut #ellie the last of us #lgbtq

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 11 months ago

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Napoleonville [Chapter 5: The Haunted House]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, smoking, drinking, drugs, infidelity, kids, parenthood, Adventures With Aegon, Targ family dysfunction, bodily injury, no Willis this time yay!!! 🥳

Word Count: 7.3k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

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Every house is haunted, not just by phantoms of the past but by the ghosts of what could have been. They live in shadows, in doorways, in the periphery of your vision; you walk through them like smoke or mist. Their blood—pooled and pulseless—is a cold spot in a sweltering room, their fingerprints are the woodgrain swirls of floorboards. If you listen closely, you can hear them at night in the chorus of the cicadas and the owls and the wet westbound wind. They whisper questions you’ve never been able to answer: Have I made the right choices? Have I done the best I could? Is love a myth or does it only exist for other people? Am I a prisoner of the past or the future or myself? Why have I never been chosen?

In the bathtub, you stare at the pale blue walls veined with cracks like the legs of a spider. On the tree swing in the front yard—here long before you moved in, inherited from the effort and care of another family’s hands—you skim your bare feet over emerald blades of grass and watch the lightning bugs appear at dusk. In Cadi’s room, you play the Nintendo when she asks and try to forget who gave it to her; and when she asks about Aemond, you say he’s busy with work, because how else can you explain his absence to a child? In the kitchen, you break eggs into glass bowls of vanilla, sugar, flour, butter, baking powder, but you keep getting pieces of shell in the mix, something that almost never happens anymore. You snap, grab an egg, pitch it against the refrigerator where it explodes into calcium carbonate shrapnel and sterile yellow gore.

Amir looks up, startled. Behind his rectangular tortoiseshell glasses, his eyes dart between you and the viscera that stains the refrigerator door. At last he says softly, seriously: “What is it you liked so much about him?” Implicit in this statement are others: You’ve never liked a man this much. You’ll never see Aemond again.

You study your palms, tools of creation, tools that destroy. “I spend every second of my life consumed by responsibilities. The house, the car, the bakery, the bills, Cadi, Willis, myself, even you. There’s no one to tell me what the right thing to do is. There’s no one who can carry the weight for me. I can’t show it when I’m tired or frustrated or scared. And so to have someone who—even for an hour, even for fifteen minutes—could take care of me, and make all the decisions, and convince me to trust him…it’s the closest I ever get to being at peace.”

Amir gives you a sad, vanishingly small smile. “I’m so sorry.”

“Me too.” And you wet a dishcloth so you can begin to clean up your mess.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Thursday, and you’re coming home after delivering cakes for a birthday party down in Thibodaux. Your car radio is blaring Message In A Bottle by The Police. When you roll into the gravel driveway, the red Audi Quattro is waiting for you: parked right beside the house, like he belongs here, like he owns it. You throw open the door of your Chevy Celebrity and rage up the sloping, groaning steps of the front porch.

The first thing that hits you is the cold. There is an ambient humming, a chill that raises goosebumps on your bare arms. When you rush to the kitchen, you find an air conditioning unit in one of the windows, a metal box that turns the Fall-Down House into a tundra. They’re sitting at the hastily-cleared counter: Aemond leafing through the ledger book containing the financial records for the bakery, Amir beside him sipping a glass of sweet tea. Aemond glances up at you and then back down at the pale green pages, the lines of his face intense, focused. Amir greets you with a nervous titter, hiding behind his sweet tea. Ice jangles in the glass.

“What the fuck is that?”

“Our new air conditioner!” Amir says, overjoyed. “The customers are going to love it. No more waiting around in a stifling kitchen. You know how miserable it gets in here during the summer. We won’t be able to get rid of them! They’ll be purchasing cupcakes by the dozen just to have an excuse to get out of the heat!”

Aemond is still scrutinizing the ledger. “Why aren’t you buying in bulk?” he asks Amir. “The shelf life on things like sugar and flour has got to be six months at least.”

“We don’t have the liquid capital. We can’t spend cash if we don’t have cash.”

“And all these business expenses—mixers, coolers, pans, blenders, knives, the gas you burn when you make deliveries, the water you use to wash dishes—those are all tax write-offs, right?”

Amir hesitates. Aemond is aghast, his eyebrows shooting up into the blonde hair that shags over his forehead. The strands are damp with sweat and curling at the edges; he’s been working hard. He’s the one who heaved the air conditioner up onto the window ledge. His Marlboro jacket is draped over the back of his barstool. He’s wearing jeans, a black MTV t-shirt, and his Adidas sneakers.

“Please tell me you haven’t been paying income tax on money you aren’t actually keeping.”

“I didn’t know what we were allowed to write off, I was petrified to make a mistake! I don’t want to end up in Rikers!”

“They don’t put people in Rikers for tax evasion. You’d only go to minimum security.”

Amir rolls his eyes. “Well now you’ve convinced me.”

You are betrayed, furious. “You’re showing him the book?”

“He’s very bossy,” Amir says, slurping his sweet tea. “As you know.”

Aemond asks you, making notes on a legal pad he’s commandeered: “Do you have an IRA?”

“A what?”

“An IRA,” Aemond repeats slowly, emphasizing every syllable. “An individual retirement account.”

Should I? Could I? What the hell is that? “Um. I don’t think so.”

Aemond sighs, exasperated. He jots down another bullet point on his legal pad. “You need one.”

“I need you to get out of my house.”

“Shh!” Amir pleads. “He bought us an air conditioner!”

“Do you know how much that’s going to cost us in electricity? The bill is going to go through the roof. We’re not going to be able to afford this. And he doesn’t care, because he hasn’t even thought of it. Drop an oil rig into a lake and solve the unemployment crisis. Throw an air conditioner in a window and buy someone’s loyalty. He doesn’t understand us. He doesn’t care about us. He’s not capable of it.”

“I’ll pay for the electricity,” Aemond says. Now he’s looking at you.

“Get out,” you demand.

He seems—perplexingly—to be genuinely wounded. “I’m trying to help you.”

“Get out!”

Aemond stands, walks to you, backs you up until your shoulder blades hit the refrigerator. The metal door is cluttered with Cadi’s drawings, secured there with multicolored alphabet magnets: dinosaurs eating people, Rambo, astronauts rocketing to the moon, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Aemond is so close you can smell the cigarette smoke and cologne and sweat on him, see the smudges of ink on his fingers. His right eye travels all over you, defiant and hungry. His left eye—and you only notice when there’s no space left between you—is an impassive, glassy, not-quite-identical blue that never moves. It’s an imposter, and a very good one; but it’s not him. You think, unable to say it: What happened to your face? Who hurt you? Instead you strike out to shove Aemond away with both hands.

“Get out of my house—!”

“You want to get rough with me? Will that make you feel better?” he murmurs darkly, ignoring your palms when they collide with his chest, his collarbones, his jaw. Your flesh can’t hurt him, it can only graze his skin like stray bullets. “You want to hit me? Go ahead. I’ve had worse. I promise you I have.”

“I hate you!”

But you haven’t said the right word, and you both know it. He grabs your wrists, holds them still, whispers low and menacing into your ear as you struggle to rip your hands out of his grasp. “I dreamed about you all night. Tying you down, stretching you open. I want that. I think you do too.”

“I don’t want it,” you hiss; but already you’re imagining him on top of you, inside you, in control of you, and to resist that is like trying to fight the instinct to seek water, sleep, sunlight.

“Then tell me to stop.”

You glare up at Aemond, raging, burning. His gaze locks with yours and stays there. You are suddenly aware of the heat of his fingers linked around your wrists, of the pressure of his hips against yours as he pins you to the refrigerator. You can’t say it. I don’t want him to stop touching me. I don’t want him to leave and never come back.

Again, Aemond dares you: “Tell me to stop.”

From the kitchen counter, Amir is gawking at you both, his eyes huge, stunned, painfully uncomfortable. Nonetheless, he doesn’t look away. “I’m not leaving,” he informs Aemond. Just in case you’re weak enough to agree to something you’ll regret later; just in case you need a friend.

The spell breaks, the curse lifts. Aemond releases you and takes several steps back. He breathes deeply, running his fingers through his damp hair, composing himself. “You’re a good person,” he says to Amir.

“Thanks. I’m afraid I can’t return the compliment.”

Aemond turns back to you. Now he’s penitent, measured. Already, a part of you misses the weight of his bones on yours. But that’s not why Aemond is here. “Let me talk. Let me explain.”

No, you almost say. I’m not interested. I don’t want you anymore. There’s nothing you can tell me that will make me feel at peace with you again.

Instead, after long moments colored by waning sunlight and the whirring of the new air conditioner in the window: “Okay.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re on the tree swing, gripping the ropes and swaying slightly back and forth as you push off with your bare feet, rocking from your heels to your toes and then back again. Aemond lights a cigarette and takes a drag as he sits cross-legged on the grass in front of you. Amir keeps peeking out from between the blinds of the living room windows. Aemond glances around the yard, and you realize he’s searching for the alligator. His Marlboro jacket is folded neatly on the ground next to him.

“The gator’s not here right now, Aemond. She’s probably over in the trees. She’s not going to hurt you.”

He nods, but he doesn’t seem convinced. He fidgets restlessly with his cigarette.

All that money, all that power, all that ecological ruin, and he’s petrified of a five-foot gator that’s probably never eaten anything bigger than a pelican. It’s ridiculous. You smile weakly. “I think you have a phobia.”

He gestures to his scar, to his ruined left eye. “I’m afraid one will sneak up on me and I won’t be able to see it.”

He’s never spoken like this to you before, acknowledging his limitations, his impairment. He’s trying to be honest. He really is. “Where’s Christabel?”

“Back in the U.K.”

“When are you getting married?”

He shrugs, uninterested. “A few months from now, I guess. July. August. It doesn’t matter. I’m not really involved in the planning.”

“You’re a cheater,” you say. It comes out less accusatory than mournful. Why did you have to disappoint me? Why did you have to ruin this?

Aemond is dismissive. He puffs on his cigarette. “Everyone cheats.”

“No they don’t.”

“Everyone from my world cheats,” Aemond amends. “You marry for money or status or land or whatever, to prove you can snag someone who should be above you, to make your parents proud of you, to make sure your children have the right last name and titles. Then when the novelty fades—and it does, it always does—you find passion elsewhere.”

“That’s barbaric.”

“That’s aristocratic. Poor people get divorced two or three times. They have public brawls and call the cops on each other. We just have a different solution to life’s inevitabilities. My mother cheats with Criston, Daemon and Rhaenyra cheated with each other, I cheat with you, Aegon cheats with…I couldn’t even list them. A lot of people.”

Aegon. So that’s the debaucherous brother’s name. “Not all fancy rich people cheat. Prince Charles doesn’t cheat.”

Aemond bursts out laughing. “Of course he does! He’s been fucking Camilla Parker Bowles since like 1970!”

Your stomach sinks. Poor Diana. “I thought they were just friends now.”

“Yeah, sure, that’s what the tabloids say.” He inhales smoke—cancerous, lethal—and then exhales it in a grey gale like fog. “I think they stopped for a few years after he got married. But presently they spend as much time as they possibly can rendezvousing at all their friends’ country estates. Charles and Diana are miserable, but they’ll never split up. She’s entertaining herself with a cavalry officer named James Hewitt. Who looks suspiciously like Prince Harry, by the way.”

“And who does your father fuck on the side? Nancy Reagan?”

“He prefers the memory of a dead woman to my living mother. I’d say that counts as infidelity.”

The photograph Aegon showed me on the Targaryens’ refrigerator. Rhaenyra’s mother. And what else had been on that refrigerator? Pictures of the rest of the family? Old sketches and report cards? Souvenirs? A calendar with upcoming birthdays circled or starred? No. There was nothing. You consider Aemond with a disorienting blend of pity and barbed, venomous frustration. “I’m sorry Viserys has never been a good father to you. But that’s not an excuse to ruin other people’s lives.”

“Look, what you did…” Aemond begins with sizable effort. He puts the end of his cigarette out on the sole of one of his Adidas sneakers. “To walk away from something you believe isn’t right when everyone else is telling you to stay…that’s not easy. And maybe for you it didn’t feel so insurmountable because you’ve had to learn how to survive painful things on your own before. But all I’ve ever done was break my own bones so my father would notice me. I don’t mean that as a metaphor. I’ve fractured my ribs, my hands, my skull. And it’s still not enough. Love isn’t given in my family. I have to earn it. It’s all I know.”

“You could learn something new.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t. I won’t. That’s not a language I speak.”

Exactly how bad of a father was Viserys Targaryen? “Aemond, what happened to your face?”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

You study him. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to be my Camilla,” Aemond says.

“No. No way.” But you’re amazed by how badly you want to say yes. One word and he’ll touch me again? One word and I can have him back the way we were before? It doesn’t seem possible to resist that. It’s not something that should be expected of any mortal.

“I want to be around you. I want you to keep making me feel the way you do, because it’s…it’s…it’s not something I get from anyone else. And I want to make your life better. I have the ability to do that.”

“Because you’re an oil tycoon.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees. “I was born to be one, and so I am. But even if I wasn’t—if I refused, if I died—it’s not like the trillion-dollar industry would just disappear. There’s Jade Dragon, sure, but there’s also ExxonMobil, Shell, British Petroleum, Chevron, Valero, Marathon, a hundred others. Someone would be drilling on Lake Verret regardless. But the person in charge might be less scrupulous than I am. I’m doing the best I can here.”

“Were you in Ketchikan when the spill happened there?”

“No. I’ve never been to Alaska. That was someone else’s project. It was a fuckup, it was Jade Dragon’s fault. But my father is the one fighting it in court. I have no control over that.”

Someone else’s project…

“Come to my house tonight,” he says.

“No, Aemond.”

“Then come over on Saturday.” And you think: He remembered which days Cadi is usually with Willis.

“I don’t want to be your mistress.” I want to be more than that, oh God, I want so much more. You think of Christabel touching him and wrenching nausea cuts through you like a blade. You imagine Aemond’s hands taking off her clothes—zippers, buttons, ribbons, belts—and you feel like there’s almost nothing you wouldn’t do to stop it from happening.

“We’re from two very different words,” Aemond says calmly, sensibly. “And it’s going to be impossible for us to understand each other unless we make an effort to learn about where we’ve come from. You’ve invited me into your home, your business, your family, and I’m very grateful for that. Now I need to do the same. And I think if you see more of my life, you’ll realize why I make the decisions I do and what it would mean for us to be together. Because in my experience, husbands and wives aren’t soulmates like they are in books or movies. It’s someone else who you actually…” He breaks off, then continues once he’s decided on the phrasing. “Spend most of your time with.”

Part of you knows that this arrangement would be hopelessly inadequate; you would feel like you were settling for less than you want, you would feel unchosen. But the louder part of you is clinging to it like a life raft. I want him to touch me again. I want him to make me forget about everything else. “I’ll think about it. Visiting the house, I mean.”

“Please do,” Aemond says. “How was Cadi’s weekend fishing?”

He really does listen to you; he remembers things. Even things you mention once and then never again. “She loved it. Willis knows more about the bayou than I’ll ever know about baking. They caught three catfish, four breams, and a bass, and then they made them into fish sticks. Thank God she has one parent who can cook. Even if Willis thinks Hungry Jack mashed potatoes are a vegetable. You know what he puts in the pot instead of milk? Coffee creamer. Cups of it.”

Aemond doesn’t seem pleased to be reminded of Willis’ existence. He says, rather mechanically: “I’m really glad Cadi enjoyed herself.” He grabs his Marlboro jacket, rises to his feet, scans the yard for the alligator. She’s made an appearance at last: she’s sunbathing about ten yards away, nowhere near close enough to be a nuisance. Still, Aemond frowns. Then he clears his face and looks back to you one last time as he strides towards his Audi Quattro. “And Cupcake?”

You peer up at him, shielding your eyes from the late-afternoon sun. “Yeah?”

“When you come to the house…” He grins. Not if. When. “Bring your swimsuit.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You cut the engine and survey the grand entranceway of the house that the Targaryens call The Last Desire, words in Greek that you couldn’t pronounce. The blue merle Great Dane—Vhagar, you recall, yet another bizarre foreign name—is lurking between the towering white columns of the wraparound porch. “Fantastic,” you mutter, stepping out of the car. It’s Saturday, 2 p.m., hot and muggy and cicadas screeching in the southern live oaks. Green anoles dart across the cobblestones and freshly-painted white wood of the porch. Whooping cranes, haughty and fragile, ogle you with reptilian yellow eyes.

You pause when you reach the bottom step of the porch. The Great Dane growls at you, her lips curling up to show long fanglike teeth. You’re carrying two bakery boxes stacked on top of each other: one contains a dozen blueberry pie cupcakes, the second filled with fresh Cap’n Crunch Treats. You glance around for someone to assist you with the hostile dog situation. You have no interest in attempting to shove her away like Alicent did on the day of the engagement party.

Blessedly, the head butler materializes in the doorway and beckons you inside. When Vhagar snarls as you approach, the butler pulls a small plastic water gun from the pocket of his black dress pants. “I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience,” he tells you, and then squirts the dog several times. Vhagar reluctantly lopes away. “Please allow me to escort you to the pool. Mr. Targaryen instructed us to be on the lookout for you.” Then he breezes into the house without checking to make sure you’re following him.

You trot after the butler through the white-and-gold foyer, the deep red living room, and then out into the garden. There is a long row of neon green lounge chairs on the side of the pool opposite of the water slide. Three of the chairs are occupied. Helaena is stretched across one wearing a frilly one-piece, floral with ladybugs; her chameleon is perched on the top of the adjustable backrest. Alicent is in the chair beside her, dressed in a turquoise blue coverup that matches the pool water and reading The Silence of the Lambs. They both wave nonchalantly, seemingly unsurprised by your presence. And then there’s Aegon. He’s smoking a joint as a black boombox beside him plays The Cure’s Why Can’t I Be You? You place both bakery boxes on a table shielded from the sun by a large green umbrella.

“What’s in there?” Aegon asks. He’s wearing pink plastic sunglasses, a radiant fuchsia sunburn, and a Speedo patterned with pineapples. His ferret is curled up in his lap and napping.

“Blueberry pie cupcakes and Cap’n Crunch Treats.”

“Yes! Pass me one of each.”

“Don’t be rude, Aegon,” Alicent says dully, turning a page of her book. “She’s not a servant.”

“She’s a literal baker. I’m asking for baked goods.”

“Dear, I’ve been singing your praises to every single person I cross paths with in this jungle of a town,” Alicent tells you, ignoring him. “Have you noticed yet?”

You hand Aegon his treats; he marvels at the miniature blueberry pie placed atop the cupcake frosting before scarfing it down. “I think we’ve had more customers than usual this week, now that you mention it. Thank you so much! Amir and I are more grateful than we could ever express.”

“Oh, it’s the least I could do, love,” Alicent says. Criston appears with a strawberry daiquiri and gives it to her, complete with a swirl of whipped cream and a little pink toothpick umbrella pierced through a wedge of lime. Criston wears a pair of roomy Hawaiian board shorts and his single gold earring. Alicent takes a sip. “Heavenly! I am completely revived.”

“Helaena, would you like one?” Criston asks.

“Yes please.”

“And one for Aemond’s friend too, please,” Alicent says. Criston nods and hurries off again. Nobody asks if Aegon wants a strawberry daiquiri. He gnaws moodily at his cupcake and then when it’s gone moves on to the Cap’n Crunch Treat. Helaena’s chameleon snatches a dragonfly out of the air with its tongue. Alicent shudders.

Aemond’s friend? Friend?? You sit down on the lounge chair next to Aegon, still wearing your pale pink coverup. He tells you: “Aemond should be back soon. He got a phone call and had to swing by the rigs after lunch but he didn’t think it would take long.” Then Aegon smiles toothily, and you notice he has residual white powder around the corners of his lips and just inside his nostrils. “It’s good to meet you properly this time, now that I’m aware of all your talents.”

“You know about Aemond’s…uh…preferences?”

“Oh yeah, and I knew he had a girl. He always has to have a girl. I just didn’t know it was you. He doesn’t usually bring them around the family.”

You steal a glimpse of Alicent and Helaena. If they’re listening in, they’re doing an excellent job of not acting like they are.

“I think we should address this,” Aegon says.

You are stymied. “Address what?”

“It would never work, me and you.”

“I hadn’t even thought of it.”

“Sure you haven’t,” Aegon says. He flourishes a hand melodramatically. “You need a dom. I am, lamentably, an irredeemable sub. I’m a sheep in wolf’s clothing.”

“Okay, Aegon.”

“I just needed to break the tension.”

“I think you’re imagining that.”

There are footsteps, the slapping of flip flops against the cobblestones, and then someone who looks like a younger, more cheerful, more sober Aegon arrives at the pool. He is dressed in royal blue swim trunks that stop at his mid-thigh; his wavy blond hair is down to his shoulders. Like his family members, he also does not seem at all surprised to see you. “Hi,” he says, shaking your hand. “I’m Daeron. I didn’t get to introduce myself at the engagement party. I’m sorry about that. I was entangled in a very competitive tennis match on the courts out back for most of the day.”

Alicent asks: “Daeron, love, would you like a strawberry daiquiri when Criston reappears?”

“Yeah, Mum, that would be great.” He parks himself on the available chair beside her and begins asking about her book. As they chat, a blue macaw flaps through the garden and uses its long, leathery talons to claim the backrest of Daeron’s lounge chair.

“It’s so sweet of you to take an interest in my reading, Daeron,” Alicent gushes. “None of my other children ever do…”

Aegon groans loudly. Everyone ignores him. Criston arrives with two strawberry daiquiris, one for you and one for Helaena. You take a sip through a plastic straw with several loops in it: icy cold and jarringly sweet.

“And one for Daeron too please, Criston,” Alicent requests. “Did you hear that he just got another article published? It’s about evaluating rock wettability.” Her tone suggests that she has no idea what this means; nonetheless, she is ardently enthusiastic.

“That kid is going places,” Criston says admiringly.

Aegon counters: “That kid’s had phone sex with Michelle Pfeiffer.”

You laugh, thinking that it’s a joke. Daeron just gives you a sheepish smile. Oh, you think. Not a joke.

Criston hustles back inside the house. An old man passes Criston as he strolls out to the pool. He looks around blearily, like he’s hungover or has just woken up from a nap or both. His bloodshot eyes skate over you without much interest. He squints at the pool floats that bob in the rippling, crystalline water, sparkly rings and an assortment of foam noodles and a giant cartoonish alligator.

“How was Kiribati?” Aegon says.

“Much better than here. This goddamn humidity!”

“I can’t believe you missed the engagement party, Father,” Alicent says glumly.

“Oh no, how could I! I’ll never have any way of knowing what transpired!” He plops down onto a chair near the end of the row. His bare feet are gnarled, his toenails long and yellowed. “Let me guess. Cake was served, champagne was toasted, people bragged about their stupid hobbies and their ugly children, that girl scuttled about with her perpetually-startled eyes and asinine comments. Do you remember when she tried to give me her condolences when she learned your mother passed away years ago? Why would I want some moonstruck idiot’s condolences? She didn’t know your mother. She doesn’t know anything.”

“Christabel is very young,” Alicent offers gently.

“She’s very something, that’s for sure. Very useless. Very irritating. This family would be in a much better state if Viserys wasn’t the one making all the decisions. His judgment has declined precipitously.” He casts a poisonous glare at Aegon. Aegon pretends not to notice.

“I like Christabel,” Helaena says. Her chameleon gobbles up a butterfly that ventures too close.

“Yes, I’m sure you do.” The old man’s voice is kinder now. “You see the best in everyone. But dear Helaena, we are in for a lifetime of insipid simpers and vapid conversations.”

“A lifetime?” Aegon says. “So not much longer for you, Grandfather. What a comfort.”

The old man glowers at Aegon. “We should have left you in Alaska to have your throat slit by those animals.” And you hear Aemond’s words reverberating in your skull: I’ve never been to Alaska. That was someone else’s project.

Aegon is rolling himself a fresh joint, accidentally spilling sprinkles of weed on his slumbering ferret. He snorts. “I don’t care what Alaskans think of me.”

Daeron says: “Aegon, you poisoned 1,000 square miles of the ocean.”

“The fucking ocean,” Aegon mutters. “What do we even need the ocean for?”

“Vacations,” Otto says.

Helaena adds: “Sushi.”

Daeron is distressed. “Actually, the ocean is super important.”

“Why are we talking about the ocean?” Aemond asks as he strolls through the garden and pauses by the edge of the pool to dip a foot in to test the temperature. He’s wearing black swim trunks and nothing else, just his skin, just his scar and his glass left eye. He sees you, smiles, goes to the bakery boxes and lifts out a cupcake. He sits down on the edge of your lounge chair as he licks off the wave-blue frosting. No one makes any comment, and no one brings up Aegon’s role in the Ketchikan oil spill again.

Criston returns once more with a strawberry daiquiri for Daeron. “Well, I’ve just about killed the blender, so hopefully we don’t need any more—”

“But Criston!” Alicent cries. “What about Aemond and my father? Perhaps they are in need of refreshments.”

Criston sighs. Crestfallen, he looks at Aemond. “Do you want a strawberry daiquiri?”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll just have a few sips of hers.”

Aegon says: “Can I get a pina colada?”

Criston turns towards the old man. “Otto? Daiquiri?”

“No, but if you could immediately teleport me back to the South Pacific, I would greatly appreciate it.”

“Pina colada??” Aegon says again.

“Okay, Aegon,” Criston snaps. “Calm down. Let me figure out if we have any more coconut cream.” Alicent’s part-time bodyguard and personal assistant, part-time babysitter, part-time affair partner vanishes into the house yet again.

Aegon lurches to his feet. “No one listens to me,” he tells you morosely. “You see that? No one remembers. That’s how you know they don’t care.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Alicent tells Aegon, not looking up from her book.

“Wait, someone is missing…” Otto muses, stroking his beard.

Aegon staggers to the edge of the pool, drags over a sparkly turquoise inflatable ring, and flops onto it. He paddles himself out towards the center of the pool. His ferret bounds after him, leaps into the water, and swims until it reaches Aegon, wriggling through the blue like a golden-furred snake. “Hey Sunfyre, you wanted to come too?” Aegon lifts the soaked ferret from the water and places it on his chest, soft and sunburned. “My bad. I assumed you’d prefer dry land.”

Otto—cantankerous and grating—looks around, baffled. “Wait, where’s Viserys?”

“He’s inspecting some of the rigs out in the Gulf of Mexico,” Aemond says as he finishes the cupcake and takes a slurp of your daiquiri. “He won’t be back until the end of the week.”

“Thank God,” Aegon exclaims from the middle of the pool.

Alicent changes the subject. “How long have you been baking, dear?” she asks you.

“Forever, basically. But I started getting serious about making it a business when my daughter was really young, about nine years ago. Now Amir and I sell hundreds of items a week, sometimes thousands.”

Daeron is nodding along, but he appears a little confused. He has gotten himself a Cap’n Crunch Treat and is feeding pieces of it to his blue macaw. “And you do that because…you want to?”

“Well I have to pay rent.”

“Oh. Right. Of course.”

“And I could have been a checkout girl at the Doller General, or worked seasonally harvesting soybeans or sugarcane, or begged my ex-husband to get me a job in the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office…but I wanted to do something that didn’t make me miserable. And something that was really mine, that I chose.” Aemond is watching you thoughtfully. The other Targaryens are a tad interested but far more perplexed. They can’t understand work the way you do. They can’t understand money as something that must be counted.

“Brilliant!” Alicent declares at last. “Well, maybe one day we’ll have you making six cakes for Helaena’s engagement party, who knows!”

“It would be my absolute pleasure. Do you have a potential husband hanging around, Helaena?”

She giggles, covering her blushing face with both hands. Her chameleon creeps down to cling to her shoulder, as if to make sure she’s alright. Its conical eyes flit in random directions, an unmitigated freak of nature. You should have more compassion for it.

Aemond grins. “Helaena is responsible for no less than three broken engagements. She can’t commit.”

“And she’s only into guys who look like Aegon,” Daeron adds.

“No!” Helaena objects. “That is such a lie, that’s not true!”

“Evander?” Daeron says.

Helaena pauses to think. “Okay, yes, he looked kind of like Aegon.”

“He did, didn’t he?” Alicent frets, nibbling at the fingernail of her pinky.

“Dimitri?” Aemond says.

“Oh no,” Helaena moans; but she’s laughing too. “Oh no.”

“Sebastian?” Aegon says, and now they’re all howling.

Otto shakes his head. “Freud would definitely have some thoughts about this.”

“Bloody hell,” Helaena whimpers, swiping tears from her face. Her chameleon nudges her jaw with its shimmering, blue-green muzzle. “I totally only date guys who look like Aegon.”

Aegon shrugs from where he’s floating in the pool with Sunfyre. “Good taste, I’d say. Fuck them all, homegirl.”

“Aegon!” Alicent shouts, scandalized.

Criston dashes out of the house and to the edge of the pool, clutching a pina colada that is swiftly melting. “You better paddle yourself over here, kid. I don’t offer in-water delivery.”

“You’d do it for my mother.”

“Probably. But you’re not her.”

Aegon groans as he splashes around without making much progress. “Okay, okay, give me a second…”

Aemond turns to you. “How do you like the house? I realized I never got the chance to ask last weekend.”

“I like all the stained glass, and I like that every room is a different color. The living room is red, the dining room is yellow, the kitchen is teal, Aegon’s bedroom is black—”

“Wait, how do you know?” Aemond is alarmed.

You chuckle. “No, no, not like that. I was lost and looking for a bathroom.”

“Didn’t do anything,” Aegon announces from his pool float. “Didn’t do it, didn’t try it, didn’t even think about it. Well…maybe I thought about it. But I definitely did not do anything.”

“Okay.” Aemond exhales, relived. “Close call.”

“What color is your room?”

He’s not going to waste the opportunity to extend an invitation. “Let me show you.”

On the same floor as Aegon’s punk rock bedroom and the lilac bathroom, you trail Aemond to the end of the hallway. At last he opens a door to reveal a room that is a deep, vivid blue like sapphires. The bookshelves that touch the ceiling are filled not with texts on engineering or the energy industry but histories of people whose names you don’t recognize. He has a massive wooden canopy bed swathed in dark blue velvet patterned with circling koi fish made of stars. He has a writing desk, a wardrobe full of suits, a television with an extensive VHS collection. The stained glass windows are a whirlpool of cerulean, navy, aquamarine, indigo, steel, azure. When you peer through the glass, you can see the gleaming currents of Lake Verret and the twisted dead ends of the bayou that forms at its edges, treacherous and untamed.

And when you start to feel that if Aemond tried to grab you, undress you, tie knots around your wrists you wouldn’t stop him, you tell him that you want to go back outside to the pool; and Aemond listens, and he doesn’t try to touch you even once.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Monday, two days later, and Aemond calls to ask if he can bring you and Cadi dinner. He shows up with all the trappings of what he insists is real Italian food, doubtlessly prepared by his family’s private chefs: focaccia, caprese salad, ossobuco, risotto, Bolognese, panna cotta. He forgets the red wine, so you drink sweet tea instead, the three of you crowded around the kitchen counter, ceaselessly passing dishes back and forth while the little pink Panasonic boombox plays You Spin Me Round by Dead Or Alive.

“Hey Mom?” Cadi says as she chomps on a hunk of focaccia.

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you ever cook dinners like this?”

There’s a tiny little gut punch, something you’re used to swallowing down even if it bruises you to the heart, to the bones. She doesn’t know any better. You can’t cry, you can’t get mad. You shrug, dispassionate. Aemond glances over at you, abruptly tense but not saying anything. “Well honey, it’s probably because my job can be really busy sometimes, and I spend most of the day in the kitchen, so when dinner time comes around the last thing I want to do is cook. But we always have food to eat, right?”

“Yeah. Like Amir’s leftovers or frozen pizza or something. But all my friends’ moms cook nice dinners most nights. Can’t you do that? When I go to Michelle or Erica’s house for dinner their moms make barbeque ribs, gumbo, seafood boils, etouffee, tasso ham, homemade macaroni and cheese, like real dinners. I want us to have that too. What if my friends want to eat dinner here sometime? I can’t bring them over and then just throw some Swanson’s meals at them.”

Aemond has put his fork down on his plate and is clasping his hands together, trying to figure out what to say. But he shouldn’t say anything. It’s not his place.

You tell Cadi, as calmly as you can: “Different families have different kinds of dinners, and that’s okay. I bet your friends’ moms don’t have cakes and cookies around all the time, but you always have tons of dessert options. Our situation looks different than theirs, but there’s nothing wrong with either one.”

“But desserts aren’t even good for kids. Dinner is way more important. You can’t say I get cakes instead of dinner, too much cake will give me diseases or something.”

“Okay, Cadi. That’s enough. Let’s talk about this later.”

“I’m just saying it seems totally unfair that my friends get real dinners and I almost never do.”

Michelle and Erica’s moms don’t work. They have husbands to support them. So they can spend all day babying a fucking tasso ham, but I don’t have that luxury. And I don’t want to be chained to a man. I don’t want to trade having a say in how my life turns out for being able to slave away over dinner for four or five hours. “I regret to inform you that I’m not like Michelle and Erica’s moms.”

“I wish you were,” Cadi murmurs, entirely unaware of what she’s done. You bite your lower lip so you don’t snap at her, or try to explain, or break down sobbing. You taste blood, hot sharp copper that blooms like wildflowers.

Aemond stands up. His barstool squeals against the sloping wooden floor. “Hey, can I talk to you outside for a minute?” he asks Cadi.

“Aemond, what…?” you begin, but he’s already headed for the front door.

Cadi blinks up at him, horrified. “Why?”

“You’re not in trouble or anything. I just want to show you something. Come on. It’ll be quick.”

“Okay,” Cadi says doubtfully, looking at you. You give her your best reassuring smile, and she slides off her barstool and follows after Aemond. The front door opens and shuts. You don’t hear shouting, you don’t hear much of anything except the air conditioner and the boombox and the mourning doves, the long-eared owl, the cicadas, the bayou, the universe. You go to one of the living room windows and part the blinds to peek outside.

What you see is strange. Cadi is sitting on the swing, and Aemond is kneeling in front of her so they’re just about at the same eye level. You can see half of Aemond’s face; Cadi is blocking the rest. He’s explaining something to her with patient yet insistent gestures of his hands. Cadi says something, and Aemond nods and replies. He points to his scar, his glass eye, and says something else. Cadi asks a question, and Aemond hesitates. Then he acquiesces and moves closer to where she is perched on the tree swing. He reaches up towards the scarred side of his face, but you can’t see his eye. When he lowers his palm, there’s a small piece of curved, oval-shaped glass that glints in the dying sunlight.

“Cool!” you can hear Cadi exclaim, muffled through the windows that are now closed on account of the new air conditioning unit. She says something else, and Aemond agrees. You watch her hand extending towards his face, towards the injury he has revealed to her for reasons you can’t comprehend. You rush to other windows, trying to get a better view, but there’s no way for you to get a clear line of sight. Before you know it, your hear their footsteps drumming up the porch steps. The front door opens just as you’re scrambling back onto your barstool.

“Everything alright?” you say, more nervously than you intend to.

“Yup,” Cadi replies. She climbs into her seat and resumes wolfing down focaccia and Bolognese.

You look over at Aemond, bewildered. His glass eye is back in its socket. He appears composed, but you notice the fresh sheen of sweat on his forehead, at his temples, at the nape of his neck. He gives you a casual little smirk and then returns to his barstool. He picks up his full glass of sweet tea and drains it in three massive gulps.

“Hey Mom,” Cadi says, and your throat is suddenly full of embers.

“Yeah, honey?”

“Tonight is really fun,” she says. She twirls her fork in the pappardelle pasta of the Bolognese, splattering red sauce over her cheeks. “This is great. I want to do this more often.”

And the embers in your throat cool, vanish, are replaced by something vast and free.

“You really do need a new house,” Aemond says as he helps you clean up after dinner; Cadi has already abandoned you both for her Nintendo. “There are new constructions a little further down Route 401, between here and Lake Verret. Three bedrooms, two baths. Not a castle or anything, just the right size for you and Cadi. We can go look at them sometime.”

“I don’t need a whole new house. There are midcentury homes all over the place down here. They’re small, and they might need fixing up, but they’re a lot cheaper.” Then you add, because it sounds less pathetic: “And maybe it’s nice to have a house with some history, some character.”

“Old can be charming and quaint, sure. But brand new is better.”

“Why’s that?”

He smiles. “No ghosts.”

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond #aemond x you #aemond x y/n

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misshoneyimhome · 5 months ago

Text

500 FOLLOWERS FESTIVAL

“You can rest your head on me, I don’t mind.” I Joseph Woll ✿

Requested: yes/no [I hope this is close to what you imagined bb]

Summary: From the moment Joseph Woll steps into the small café, everything shifts. Despite the shadows of your past, no one seems a better match than the goaltender in his shining hockey gear.

Tropes & warnings: no warnings, it's just pure fluff 😊✿ strangers to lovers, hesitant reader, adorable boyfriend!Joe x reader

Other notes: At our next stop for the Followers Festival, I'm thrilled to introduce Joseph Woll once more 🤗 He’s as charming as ever, and with his extension with the Leafs, he remains close to our hearts ❤️

Word count: 3.6K

➼｡ﾟ

When you started your shift as nothing but a regular barista on this seemingly ordinary July morning, you had no idea what the day had in store for you. The air was already warm and slightly humid, typical for Toronto in midsummer, and the sun peeked through the buildings, casting a soft golden glow on the cobblestone streets. You took a deep breath, savouring the stillness of the early morning before the city fully awoke. Everything seemed perfectly normal.

You unlocked the doors of the small, cosy café, tucked away in one of the hidden corners of the city, its charm known only to locals and a few lucky tourists. The scent of freshly baked pastries from the bakery next door mingled with the aroma of coffee beans, creating a comforting atmosphere that always lifted your spirits. You spent the first hour preparing to open, moving through the familiar routine with practised ease. The rich, earthy scent of coffee filled the air as you ground the beans, the soft hiss of the espresso machine breaking the silence.

The café itself was a quaint little place, with mismatched furniture that somehow fit together perfectly. Vintage posters adorned the walls, and small potted plants added a touch of greenery. You arranged the pastries in the display case, making sure the croissants, muffins, and cookies looked enticing. You wiped down the tables, fluffed the cushions on the worn leather sofas, and set up the chalkboard sign outside, detailing the day's specials in your best attempt at fancy handwriting.

Despite the tranquillity of the café, your mind was a whirlwind. It was going to be a slow Sunday, just what you needed after the stressful week you had endured. The memories of several heated arguments with your now ex-boyfriend played on a loop in your head, as the fights had been intense, filled with hurtful words and accusations. Yet, the breakup, though painful, had brought a strange sense of relief. You were free from the constant tension, but the wounds were still fresh, and the loneliness was starting to creep in.

It had been everything you dreaded. The two of you had been together for three years, slowly growing older together. But you were both still very young, only 20 years old, just stepping into adulthood and trying to navigate the complexities that came with it.

You worked your part-time job at the café alongside your studies in English literature, as you had always been captivated by romance novels, losing yourself in stories of passionate love and soulmates. You dreamed of experiencing the kind of love that made your heart race and your breath catch. But your boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend as of two days ago—was far from any of the book boyfriends you’d read about. He was sweet and kind, sure, and he treated you well enough and never harmed you. Yet, you never felt like you were truly in love, like how they described it in those books. You never had the flutter in your stomach or the difficulty in breathing just thinking of him. Your palms didn’t get sweaty, and your knees didn’t go weak. You could think perfectly logically, and you never longed for him when you were apart.

With your ex, you simply felt secure. It was as though you were fulfilling the norms and expectations of society by finding a partner to settle down with. Everything was planned. When you’d both finished your studies, you’d then move in together after finding secure jobs and a stable income. And then you’d prioritise building a family after your wedding. It was all mapped out.

But you couldn’t help but feel like it was all wrong. Over the years, he grew less sweet and kind, becoming more rude and cruel in the way he spoke to you. His once gentle words turned harsh, and his patience wore thin over the smallest things. You had never been an explorer in regards to sexual activity, yet he’d encouraged you to try things out with him. Though a part of you felt pressured, you went along with it, but you never truly experienced the wonderful high many women spoke of. It was more just him doing his thing while you followed along until he reached his release. It felt wrong. It was nothing like you imagined a romantic relationship should feel like. Nothing like the tales you read about.

As time went on, you grew more convinced that those stories were just that—stories. The passionate love, the soulmates, the fairy tale endings—they all seemed like fantasies, unattainable and unrealistic. Your relationship had become a checklist of societal expectations rather than a journey of love and discovery. Moreover, your boyfriend wasn’t as good a person as you’d thought all those years. And though the realisation was painful, it also brought a sense of clarity. You knew you couldn’t continue living a life that felt so hollow, so far removed from the dreams you once cherished.

And so, you made the difficult decision to end things. For the first time in a long while, you felt a glimmer of hope, a belief that perhaps, somewhere out there, the kind of love you had read about in your beloved romance novels could exist for you.

You took a moment for yourself, leaning against the counter and closing your eyes. The café was your sanctuary, a place where you could escape from the chaos of your personal life. Here, you could lose yourself in the rhythm of making coffee, the friendly chatter of regular customers, and the peaceful ambience. You embraced the day with a smile, determined to find solace in the simple joys of your job.

So, as you flipped the sign to "Open," you took another deep breath, ready to face whatever the day might bring. The familiar routine was comforting, and you hoped the slow yet steady stream of customers would help keep your mind off your troubles. Little did you know, this ordinary July morning was about to turn into something far from ordinary.

And his name was Joseph Woll.

You were wiping down the counter when the bell above the door chimed, announcing the arrival of a new customer. You looked up and were greeted by a tall figure stepping inside, shaking off the light drizzle that had just begun outside. At first, you didn’t recognise him. His scruffy beard was a departure from the clean-shaven look he sported in all the pictures and interviews you had seen. Yet, it added a rugged charm to his already handsome face. But then, his eyes—those dreamy, captivating eyes—met yours, and it hit you. Joseph Woll, the Toronto Maple Leafs goaltender, was standing right in front of you.

Joseph approached the counter with a relaxed smile, his presence bringing warmth to the otherwise dull day. "Good morning," he said, his voice soft yet confident. "Can I get a medium latte, please?"

You could hardly believe it. Here was a professional athlete, a local celebrity, standing in your little café. Yet, you managed to respond, though a bit shakily, "Of course, coming right up."

And as you began preparing his order, you couldn't help but steal glances at him. He was casually dressed in a hoodie and jeans, yet he carried himself with a relaxed elegance. You noticed how his eyes scanned the café, taking in the cosy decor, the mismatched furniture, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. And when his gaze then returned to you, there was a softness in his expression that made your heart skip a beat.

Joseph was an absolute sweetheart.

You felt his eyes linger on you a little longer than perhaps they should have, just like yours lingered on him. It was as if there was an inexplicable connection, a silent understanding that passed between you. Your cheeks warmed under his gaze, and you hoped he didn't notice the blush creeping up your neck.

You were almost unable to speak, yet you managed to say the simple words any barista would instinctively say to a customer. "Here you go, one medium latte." Your hands felt slightly shaky as you handed him the cup, but you managed to keep your composure.

Joseph took the coffee with a grateful nod. "Thanks," he said, his eyes twinkling.

As he turned to leave, you couldn't help but mentally facepalm yourself. What’s wrong with me? you muttered under your breath. It was the first time someone, let alone a stranger, had made you feel so weak in the knees, caused your heartbeat to quicken, and your lips to tingle.

You watched him walk out into the drizzle, the bell above the door chiming softly as he left. It was just a brief encounter, a one-off experience, and you knew you’d probably never see him again. Yet, you felt a thrill you hadn’t experienced in a long time—a flutter of excitement that lingered long after he was gone.

For the rest of your shift, you couldn’t wipe the smile off your face. Every time the door opened, you found yourself hoping it was him coming back - the memory of his kind eyes and warm smile stayed with you, a small beacon of light in an otherwise grey day. Even though you knew it was probably unlikely, you couldn’t help but feel a spark of hope. It was a sensation you’d thought was reserved for fairy tales, a feeling that maybe, just maybe, those romance stories you adored could hold a kernel of truth.

However, to your great surprise, the following Sunday, Joseph came back. It was the same early morning time, just as the sun was starting to break through the clouds and cast a soft light into the café. The shop was quiet, with only a few regulars occupying the cosy corners. When the door opened and the bell chimed, you looked up to see him standing there, a familiar, charming smile spreading across his face.

"Good morning," he greeted, his voice warm and friendly. "One medium latte, please,” he placed his order, and you noticed how his eyes seemed to light up when they met yours.

"Coming right up," you nodded, trying to keep your composure, but inside, your heart was racing.

And as you prepared his drink, you couldn’t help but steal glances at him again, feeling that familiar flutter in your stomach. When you then handed him the latte, he thanked you with that same sweet smile before turning to leave. The bell chimed again as he exited, and you found yourself staring after him once more, a small, hopeful smile on your lips.

The next time you saw Joseph was on Wednesday evening, when you were working an extra shift to earn a bit more money during the summer. The café was busier this time, with a steady stream of customers keeping you on your toes. Yet, as you were in the middle of making a cappuccino, you saw him walk in again, causing your heart to skip a beat, and you had to remind yourself to breathe.

He waited patiently while you finished the order you were working on, and when it was his turn, you shared a silent moment of recognition. "Medium latte?" you asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yes, please," he replied with a chuckle, his eyes twinkling.

And as you yet again prepared his drink, you felt his gaze on you, and you couldn’t help but look up. Your eyes met, and for a moment, it felt as though the rest of the world faded away. You then handed him his drink, and he offered a quiet thank you before turning to leave. Yet, just as he reached the door, he glanced back, catching you looking in his direction - causing you to quickly look away, feeling your cheeks flush.

"Shit…" you muttered to yourself, slightly embarrassed.

Over a week passed before you saw Joseph again, this time on a sunny Saturday afternoon. Most people were out enjoying the lovely weather, so the café was relatively quiet. And with only one other coworker busy chatting with a friend, you decided to pick up one of your favourite romance novels to pass the time.

You had no idea how long you had been absorbed in your book when a familiar, endearing voice suddenly broke into your dream world. "What are you reading?"

Startled, you looked up to see Joseph standing there, his handsome face alight with curiosity. "Oh, um… it’s just a silly romance… nothing special," you stammered, feeling a bit self-conscious.

"It must be pretty engaging if you were so absorbed," he chuckled. "I think I’ve been standing here for about ten minutes and you didn’t even notice me."

"Oh my god, I’m so sorry about that," you quickly apologised, feeling rather unprofessional.

But Joseph simply laughed, waving off your apology. "It’s fine. It was actually quite entertaining watching you read."

You felt your cheeks flush a little. "So… the usual?" you asked, trying to steer the conversation back to familiar ground.

"Yes, please. And maybe you could help me with something else…" he trailed off, a hint of mischief in his eyes.

"Sure, anything," you replied, curious.

"So, how many times do I have to come here and hope that you’re working before it doesn’t seem weird for me to ask for your name and number?" he asked, his tone playful yet sincere.

You found yourself gasping, completely caught off guard. "Well… um… maybe… this could be the final one?" you managed to say, a shy smile forming on your lips. “I’m y/n.”

Joseph’s smile widened, and he handed you his phone. "Great. Here you go. I’m Joe by the way.”

With trembling fingers, you then typed in your name and number, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness. And as you handed his phone back, you couldn’t help but feel that this might be the beginning of something special, something that could finally make you believe in the kind of love you had always dreamed of.

Dating Joseph Woll turned out to be remarkably close to what you’d imagined from your romance novels, and it felt as though the universe had conspired to make your dreams come true. And with it being the hockey off-season, Joseph had plenty of time to spend with you, and he made every moment count.

Your early dates were a delightful blend of excitement and comfort. Joseph would pick you up with a thoughtful compliment and occasionally a bouquet of your favourite flowers. You visited cosy cafes, museums, explored Toronto’s hidden gems, and enjoyed long walks by the lake, where he’d hold your hand and listen intently to your stories and dreams.

One evening, he then surprised you with a picnic at a quiet spot in High Park. And as you sat together on a chequered blanket, sharing laughter and homemade sandwiches, you felt a deep sense of contentment. Joseph’s gentle, caring nature made you feel cherished in a way you’d never experienced before. His eyes often lingered on you with a tenderness that made your heart flutter, and every touch, every gentle kiss, felt like a promise of something beautiful and romantic.

Then during another one of your dates, you found yourself at a quaint bookstore. And as you browsed through the shelves, Joseph noticed you eyeing a romance novel. Quietly, while you were distracted, he decided to purchase it and later that evening, he presented it to you with a shy smile. "I thought you might enjoy this," he said, his eyes twinkling with delight. It was a small gesture, but it meant the world to you.

Except for one week when he had to go home to St. Louis, Joseph was always around. During that week, you missed him terribly, but he made sure the distance didn’t feel so great. You chatted or called every day, sharing the little details of your lives, your hopes, and your dreams. His voice over the phone was a comforting balm, and his laughter a melody that brightened your days. And as the days passed, you both exchanged pictures and videos, keeping the connection strong despite the miles between you.

And the week apart only strengthened your bond. When Joseph finally returned, he wrapped you in a tight embrace, lifting you off your feet as he whispered how much he had missed you. The separation had only made your hearts grow fonder, and you realised that this was the kind of love you had always dreamed of—a love that was patient, kind, and unwavering.

Joseph had a way of turning even the simplest moments into something magical. Whether you were cooking together, watching a movie, or simply enjoying a comfortable silence, he made you feel like the most important person in the world. His steadfast support and understanding helped you heal from the wounds of your past relationship, and for the first time in a long while, you felt genuinely happy. And as the summer days gave way to crisp autumn evenings, your relationship with Joseph only continued to flourish.

However, as you and Joseph grew closer, he began to notice the subtle signs of your hesitation. Despite the kisses and intimate moments you shared, he observed how you occasionally tensed up or hesitated before fully relaxing into his embrace. There were times when, while wrapped in each other's arms, he could sense a flicker of uncertainty in your eyes or a momentary withdrawal in your touch. It was as if you were constantly bracing yourself, hesitant to fully surrender to the emotions you were feeling.

So, Joseph chose to approach you with a gentle patience that he didn’t mind at all. His priority was to make you feel completely at ease with him. He focused on ensuring that every touch was tender, every word was kind, and he never pressured you into anything more than you were ready to give. He believed in creating a space where you felt safe and cherished. Every date, every conversation, and every shared moment was filled with understanding and care. He became attuned to your needs, ensuring that his actions and words always conveyed his respect for your boundaries.

But one evening, as autumn shadows began to lengthen and the first hints of a chilly breeze crept through the open windows, something felt off. It might have been the stress of the new hockey season starting or perhaps the quiet, introspective mood you’d been in all night. Joseph couldn’t quite pinpoint the source of your discomfort, but he could sense that something was troubling you.

So, as you both sat on the couch, the soft glow of the TV casting a gentle light over the room, he turned to you. His expression was serious yet full of concern.

“You can rest your head on me, love, I don’t mind,” he said softly, his voice laced with genuine care. “Or if you need to cry or just need a moment to relax. I don't care. I just want you to feel comfortable and happy with me.”

His words cut through the fog of your thoughts, and you felt a pang in your chest. It was clear that Joseph was offering you an emotional sanctuary, and you knew it was time to open up. You took a deep breath, feeling the warmth and reassurance of his embrace, and finally allowed yourself to lean into him.

“I’ve been cautious about fully committing because of a bad relationship I had before,” you admitted, your voice trembling slightly. “Not that I think you’re anything like that. On the contrary, you’re so perfect that I’m scared of making a mistake.”

Joseph listened attentively, his hand gently stroking your back as you spoke. When you finished, he pulled back slightly to look into your eyes, his expression a blend of warmth and understanding.

“You don’t have to worry about making mistakes, Y/N,” he said softly. “I want you just the way you are—past relationships and all.”

You exhaled slowly, feeling a mix of relief and vulnerability. “But why? Why are you so patient with me?”

The tenderness in his gaze was unmistakable, and his smile was both gentle and reassuring. “I get it now,” he said quietly, “you’ve never been in love before.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, confusion knitting your brows together.

“Y/N, you could never do anything wrong with me. I am so in love with you that it doesn’t matter what you say or do, as long as it’s not that you don’t want to be with me. All I want is to be with you, to see you happy. And when you’re ready, I’d love to ask you to be my girlfriend.”

You couldn’t help but feel your heart sink as you took in the moment. Here was the sweetest man you’d ever known, and he was with you. The realisation of his unwavering support and love brought tears to your eyes.

“I think… I think I’m in love with you too, Joe,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “You make me feel all those wonderful, amazing, mind-blowing, and indescribable things that no one else ever has.”

Joseph’s smile widened, his eyes shimmering with joy. He pulled you closer, his lips gently brushing your forehead. “That’s all I ever wanted to hear,” he murmured. “I promise to always be here for you, to make you feel loved and cherished every single day.”

And as you nestled into his embrace, a profound sense of peace washed over you. For the first time, you let yourself fully believe in the love you had always dreamed of, knowing that with Joseph, it was not just a dream, but a beautiful reality.

#500 followers festival #jw60 #joseph woll imagine #joseph woll x reader #toronto maple leafs imagine #nhl hockey fanfiction #hockey goalies #nhl hockey imagine

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butterfly-lies-chase-them-away · 29 days ago

Text

Office Hours/Bells - Jonathan Crane x Fem!Reader (Part 6)

Pairing: Professor!Jonathan Crane x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 10,676

Warnings: Obsessive behaviour, Professor x Student, manipulation, violence, kidnapping

Summary: Jonathan's been working so hard lately, with his work as Scarecrow, as a professor, and Y/n's protector.

A/N: holy fucking shit, has it been a hot minute, but here we are! Did not mean for this to take ages but it's me, so what can you really expect, lol. Here it is, hope you enjoy :) 💚

(Office Hours/Bells Masterlist)

(Part 5) - (Part 7)

Y/n could see the strain Jonathan was under lately. Between his responsibilities at Arkham, his role as a professor, and the added weight of keeping her safe, the stress was etched into every line of his face. He worked tirelessly, his days blending into nights without rest. Despite his guarded demeanour, Y/n noticed the exhaustion in his eyes and the tension in his movements.

The knowledge made her ache to find a way to ease his burden, even if it was something small. She couldn’t shake the feeling that he was carrying everything alone, bottling up his worries and pushing himself to the brink for her.

She had already baked him a batch of cookies, which he devoured immediately without much thought. To Jonathan, food was just fuel, even when loaded with chocolate and sugar. Y/n knew her gesture barely scratched the surface, the sweet distraction was a temporary relief at best. What she really wanted was to see him unwind, to take even a moment to breathe without the weight of his world bearing down on him. But there was only so much she could do.

Settling on the couch, she watched him across the room, his back hunched over his desk, his head down, completely absorbed in his work. She could see the movement of his arm as he scribbled, his notes likely filled with complicated chemical equations.

Chemistry was never Y/n’s strong suit, she was more of a biology girl herself, so looking at his notes meant nothing to her, so she couldn’t even help with that. Every now and then, he’d pause, lean back slightly, then dive right back into his notes.

Despite the shadows under his eyes, despite the furrow in his brow that spoke to his stress, Y/n couldn’t help but admire him. She found something endearing in the way he wore his lab coat, as if it were his armor. He insisted on keeping it on even here, in the quiet of their hideout. It clung to his frame, the stark white making him look both distinguished and a little odd.

It was moments like these, watching him so intensely focused and wholly himself, that reminded her why she cared for him so deeply.

Y/n stood up from her spot on the couch, moving quietly to the small dining table. She pulled a chair closer to Jonathan’s desk, positioning it beside his chair, facing him. Sitting down, she folded her leg up, resting her chin on her knee as she watched him in quiet admiration.

Jonathan gave her a brief glance, his eyes meeting hers for a split second over the rim of his glasses. "Yes, my dear?" he asked, his voice steady but softened with curiosity.

Y/n only smiled, her gaze steady. "Just watching," she replied simply.

He shook his head, before he returned to his work. "You’d be more entertained in front of the television," he said, pushing aside the page he’d just filled with scrawled notes and diagrams.

"I don’t think so.." Y/n said softly, her eyes lingering on him, tracing the determined set of his jaw, the way his hand moved with swift precision.

As she looked at him, she noticed a stray strand of hair that had fallen from his otherwise neat hair, sitting stubbornly over the edge of his glasses. She briefly considered suggesting a headband or hair clip but decided against it, knowing he'd likely scoff at the idea. Instead, she enjoyed the subtle imperfections, the hard look of concentration on his face that only seemed to amplify her attraction to him.

Sitting there, observing him up close, she felt a warmth, a mixture of admiration and something deeper. She could see the tension etched into his features, the weight of his responsibilities evident in the furrow of his brow. And yet, in his unrelenting focus, there was a certain charm, a captivating intensity she couldn't look away from.

Scooting her chair even closer, Y/n leaned into him, resting her chin gently on his shoulder. She felt his shoulder shift slightly under her, but he didn’t pull away. Slowly, she lifted her hand, letting her fingers trace softly along the back of his neck before she began running her nails gently through his hair at the nape.

A small, subtle shudder ran through him as her fingers traced delicate patterns on his scalp. His hand, steady moments before, faltered mid-scribble, leaving a faint, unintended mark on the page. She could sense his body caught between the usual tension he carried and a reluctant relaxation. The way his shoulders rose and fell, slightly stiff at first but slowly melting under her touch, told her he was trying to ignore how much he enjoyed her affection.

She continued, her fingers moving in slow, soothing circles, occasionally grazing the sensitive skin at his neck. She could feel his pulse quicken slightly beneath her touch. Smiling to herself, she knew he’d never admit how much he liked it, how much he needed this quiet, grounding moment.

After a beat, he let out a quiet sigh, barely a breath, but she caught it. She pressed a gentle kiss to his shoulder, whispering, “Why don’t you take a break.”

Jonathan stayed silent, but the slight tilt of his head, letting her fingers linger in his hair, was all the answer she needed.

Y/n straightened up, her fingers curling around the pencil as she gently pried it from Jonathan’s hand, setting it aside on the table. Without breaking eye contact, she clasped his hands in hers, giving him a gentle tug. "Come on, Jonathan," she coaxed, urging him to stand.

“Y/n, can’t we just stay here?” he protested, voice tinged with both reluctance and a trace of amusement as he resisted her pull. He didn't make it easy for her, keeping himself firmly rooted to the chair.

She shot him a determined look. “You’re supposed to relax, Jonathan, away from your work!” she insisted, her voice light but firm.

Jonathan’s eyes narrowed with that familiar glint of challenge. “Since when did you start calling the shots?” His voice dropped, carrying a low, teasing authority that dared her to press further.

Before Y/n could respond, Jonathan surprised her by pulling her back down, guiding her onto his lap as he settled back into his chair. She felt her cheeks flush as she found herself perched atop him, her legs straddling his and her hands instinctively bracing on his shoulders for balance.

He leaned back, one arm curling around her waist while his other hand came to rest on her thigh, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. “So, this is your idea of helping me relax?” he murmured, his gaze tracing her features, the playfulness in his eyes hinting at something deeper.

Y/n smiled, letting her hands rest on his shoulders as she matched his gaze. “If I have to hold you hostage on this chair to get you to unwind, I’m not above it,” she replied, her voice soft yet resolute. She let her fingers trail along his shoulders, pressing just enough to soothe the tension she knew was there.

Jonathan’s expression softened just a bit, his usual guarded nature slipping as he allowed himself a rare moment of vulnerability. The edges of his lips curved up almost imperceptibly. “Alright,” he conceded, his voice quiet and thoughtful, “I’ll allow it...for now.”

Y/n smiled softly, leaning in until her lips met his, brushing against him with a tender warmth. Jonathan didn’t hesitate, his hand coming up to cradle the back of her neck as he deepened the kiss, his touch both assured and surprisingly gentle. His other hand slid down to her thigh, his fingers tightening as he gave her a gentle squeeze, pulling her just a little closer.

She melted into him, feeling the tension in his shoulders finally begin to ease as he allowed himself to indulge in the moment. Their breaths mingled, and for just that instant, it was as though the worries and pressures that constantly weighed on him faded away, leaving only the quiet intensity of their connection.

As Y/n pulled back slightly, her forehead resting against his, she whispered, “You need to relax more often..” Her fingers traced along his jaw, grounding him as much as herself in the closeness they shared.

Jonathan let out a quiet sigh, his eyes meeting hers with a softened, appreciative gaze. "With you, I think I just might have to," he murmured, his thumb brushing gently over her thigh.

Jonathan’s fingers slipped beneath the waistband of Y/n’s pajama shorts, the tips brushing against her skin in a teasingly slow gesture. He tugged them down just slightly, his gaze locked on hers, reading her expression as if savoring every second. Y/n responded with a quiet, encouraging nod, lifting her hips to give him better access. She felt a shiver run through her as he took his time, sliding the fabric down her thighs with a mixture of care and intention.

With each inch he revealed, his touch seemed to grow more deliberate, as if he wanted to memorize every curve and detail. Her breath caught in her throat as he trailed his hands down her legs, letting her shorts and underwear pool at her knees before pulling her closer to him to help slide them off.

Jonathan’s eyes traveled back up, lingering on her with a look that was both adoring and possessive. She felt his hand glide back up along her thigh, gentle but firm, as he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her jaw.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low and almost reverent, sending a spark through her. Y/n could feel his warmth, his focus entirely on her, as if she were the only thing that mattered in the world.

Jonathan’s long fingers drifted between her thighs, exploring with a slow, deliberate touch. His fingertips traced along her warmth, feeling the slickness gathering there as he gently circled her entrance, letting her arousal coat his fingers.

Y/n’s breath hitched at the touch, a shiver rippling up her spine as he teased her, drawing soft, unsteady gasps from her lips. Each sound seemed to spur him on, the tension between them building with every movement.

Listening to her quickening breaths, Jonathan slipped a finger inside her, his touch firm yet gentle. Y/n's head fell back, a moan escaping her as her body responded instinctively, arching into him.

His lips found her neck, pressing soft, lingering kisses against her skin, before he began to suckle, drawing a flush of warmth to the surface. She felt his hot breath against her pulse, his mouth exploring slowly as his finger moved within her, expertly building her pleasure with unhurried intensity.

Another finger joined the first, stretching and filling her, while his thumb brushed her clit in gentle, tantalizing circles. The combination sent waves of pleasure radiating through her, her body clinging to his touch as her gasps grew louder.

His lips traveled up to her ear, his voice a low, tantalizing murmur, “You’re absolutely intoxicating,” he whispered, his breath hot against her skin, his movements unrelenting yet tender, holding her in a rhythm that pulled her deeper into his embrace.

Jonathan slowly withdrew his fingers, leaving Y/n’s body with an aching emptiness that made her release a soft, involuntary sigh. Her chest rose and fell with need, her gaze heavy-lidded and fixed on him. A faint smirk tugged at his lips as he took in her reaction, clearly savoring the effect he had on her.

"So impatient," he murmured, a hint of amusement lacing his words.

His eyes glinted with something darker as he deftly unfastened his trousers. His fingers moved with unhurried precision, peeling away the fabric as he held her gaze, every motion a promise of what was to come.

Y/n’s breath quickened as he positioned himself, his intense gaze holding hers captive. He took his time, savoring the anticipation that hung thick between them, letting her feel every second of the build-up. She could feel her heart pounding, each beat echoing in her ears as her body pulsed with anticipation. Jonathan's hand trailed up her thigh, steadying her, his touch both commanding and tender as he prepared to close the space between them, pulling her closer with a deep, simmering intent.

Jonathan released his member from his pants, his cock pressing hot and firm as he aligned himself at her entrance. His hands gripped her hips with a possessive hold as he held her steady, drawing her closer with each subtle shift. The heat between them intensified, a magnetic pull, as he hovered at her entrance, making her feel every inch of the anticipation.

He paused for a brief moment, eyes locked with hers, the air thick with tension. With a soft exhale, Jonathan leaned in, brushing his lips over her collarbone as he pushed in, allowing her to adjust, savoring the way her body responded to him. The closeness, the weight of him against her, filled every nerve in Y/n’s body with electricity, sending a delicious shiver up her spine as they connected fully, leaving no distance between them.

As Y/n lowered herself onto him, a contented hum escaped her lips, sending a shiver through Jonathan. His hands instinctively gripped her hips, fingers pressing into her skin as he steadied her, his breath hitching at the warmth enveloping him. Their eyes met, and for a moment, time felt suspended in the quiet intensity of their gaze.

With her knees settled on either side of him, Y/n began to move, slowly at first, a gentle rhythm that built as she grew more comfortable, feeling his gaze follow every rise and fall. Her movements became more confident, her pace quickening, each shift causing a delicious friction that sent waves of heat through both of them. The sound of their shared breaths filled the room, mingling with soft gasps and murmurs, creating a symphony of intimacy and connection.

Jonathan’s hands slid up her waist, guiding her movements as his grip tightened in response to the pleasure sparking between them. He traced a line up her back, his fingers brushing over her skin, leaving a trail of warmth. Y/n tilted her head back, eyes closed as she lost herself in the sensations, feeling completely wrapped up in him, her own hands moving to rest against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her palms.

Each motion, each shared look and soft touch, brought them closer, a shared rhythm and unspoken language that spoke of desire, trust, and a deep, unbreakable connection between them.

As much as Jonathan relished the view of Y/n moving above him, his desire to take control grew overwhelming. With a sudden, determined motion, he gripped her waist firmly, hoisting her up and setting her down on the edge of his workbench. Y/n let out a surprised squeal, her hands instinctively bracing against the table’s cool surface as her legs wrapped around him to steady herself.

Never pulling out, Jonathan pressed closer, eyes dark with intent as he leaned forward, his lips hovering near her ear. "Can’t have you calling all the shots now, can I?" he murmured, his voice a low, husky growl.

Without missing a beat, he drove into her, the intensity of his thrusts sending waves of pleasure through her. Her back arched against the hard surface, fingers gripping the edge of the workbench as she let out a breathy moan, her body meeting his movements with fervor. Each thrust was more commanding than the last, a testament to his need to seize control, to make her feel everything he wanted her to.

Jonathan’s hands traveled up her sides, possessive yet tender, anchoring her as he set a steady, relentless rhythm that echoed the pounding of their hearts. With each stroke, he was drawing her deeper into his world, ensuring that in this moment, she was entirely his, until she could think of nothing else but the feeling of him.

Jonathan's pace grew steadily more insistent, his breaths mingling with hers as the intensity of their movements built between them. His hands slid from her sides up to her back, pulling her flush against him, eliminating any remaining space as he wrapped her in his hold. The workbench creaked beneath them, but neither paid it any mind, too wrapped up in the warmth and fervor of each other.

Y/n's head fell back, her hands gripping his shoulders as he continued, each movement sending waves of heat coursing through her. She clung to him, her moans breaking with each gasp as he held her close, his focus unwavering. Jonathan’s gaze was sharp, studying every expression that crossed her face as if committing them to memory.

Leaning in, his lips brushed over her collarbone, trailing up her neck and finally finding the corner of her mouth, catching her moans before they even had a chance to fill the air.

“You’re all mine,” he murmured, the words spilling out in a possessive whisper, his voice rough with desire.

With one hand still pressed firmly to her back, the other moved down to grip her thigh, pulling her leg higher around his waist, allowing him to sink deeper with each thrust.

The sensation sent a shiver through her, and her nails dug into his shoulders, grounding herself in the intensity of it all. She felt her heart pounding wildly, matching the fervent rhythm he’d set, a rhythm that threatened to consume them both.

“Jonathan…” she managed to breathe out, her voice almost a plea.

His only answer was a heated kiss, claiming her mouth with a ferocity that left her dizzy, until they were nothing but a tangle of need and warmth, utterly lost in each other.

Jonathan's thrusts became erratic, each one more desperate than the last, as he held Y/n against him with an unyielding grip. The heat between them had built to an almost unbearable level, their bodies moving in perfect sync as they neared the edge together.

Y/n’s breath hitched, her nails dragging down his back as waves of pleasure began to surge through her. “Jonathan…I’m close,” she whispered shakily, her voice a mixture of desperation and ecstasy.

Her words seemed to drive him further, his pace quickening as he buried his face in her neck, his warm breath fanning against her skin. “Come for me,” he rasped, his voice low and commanding, sending a shiver down her spine.

With one final, deep thrust, Y/n cried out, her body tensing and trembling against his as she tipped over the edge. Pleasure surged through her in waves, her vision momentarily blurring as the world around her melted away.

Jonathan wasn’t far behind. The feel of her tightening around him, the sound of her cries, and the way her body shook in his arms were enough to send him spiraling. He groaned against her neck, his grip on her tightening as he found his release, his body shuddering in unison with hers.

They remained locked together for a moment, their heavy breaths mingling as they clung to each other. Jonathan finally lifted his head, his forehead resting against hers, his expression softened and sated. A rare, almost tender smile crossed his lips as he brushed a strand of hair from her damp face.

Y/n laughed breathlessly, leaning into his touch. “Feeling better, Doctor.”

“Much, my dear, thank you,” he said, his voice low and affectionate, a stark contrast to the usual sharpness in his tone.

Y/n laughed breathlessly, leaning into his touch. “I could say the same about you, Doctor.”

Jonathan huffed softly, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips before pulling her closer, savoring the quiet aftermath of their shared intensity.

Jonathan sighed, resting his forehead against Y/n’s for a moment longer before straightening up, the softness in his gaze quickly replaced by his usual sharp focus.

“As much as I’d like to keep you here all night, I have to get back to work,” he murmured firmly.

Y/n groaned dramatically, her head falling back as she rolled her eyes. “Seriously? You just took my ability to walk, and now you’re ditching me for a stack of papers?”

Jonathan rolled his eyes, his hands gently sliding down her sides as he pulled away. “Science waits for no one, my dear. Not even you.”

“Ugh,” Y/n huffed, crossing her arms as she sat on the edge of the workbench. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“And you’re distracting,” Jonathan replied, his tone hardly teasing as he adjusted his trousers and fixed his shirt.

He leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead before stepping back. “Go clean up and get some rest. I’ll join you when I can.”

Y/n watched him for a moment, her lips pursed in frustration. She knew he was right, this was just who Jonathan was. Still, it didn’t make it any less annoying. “Fine,” she grumbled, sliding off the workbench and retrieving her clothes. “But if you don’t come to bed at a reasonable hour, I’ll…be pissed.”

“Noted,” Jonathan said, already turning back to his notes.

Y/n headed to the bathroom, muttering under her breath about mad scientists and their lack of priorities. She cleaned herself up quickly, her cheeks still warm from their earlier passion, before slipping into a comfortable set of pajamas.

As she climbed into bed, the room felt oddly quiet without Jonathan by her side. She turned onto her side, clutching a pillow and staring at the empty space next to her. Despite her frustration, she couldn’t help but smile softly, thinking about how stubborn he could be when it came to his work.

“Goodnight, you workaholic!” she yelled out to him below before closing her eyes, letting sleep slowly take her as the faint scratching of Jonathan’s pen filled the distant background.

Y/n stirred awake, her face buried in the soft pillow that still held Jonathan's faint scent. Stretching, she slowly opened her eyes, only to freeze in pleasant surprise.

There he was. Jonathan Crane, the workaholic, the man who rarely allowed himself the luxury of sleep, lying peacefully beside her. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, his face soft and serene in the dim morning light. Y/n couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him asleep, it felt like an eternity ago.

A small, content smile crept onto her lips. She resisted the urge to reach out and brush the stray strands of hair from his forehead, afraid to disturb this rare, quiet moment. He looked so different like this, unguarded and almost boyish. For a brief second, Y/n entertained the idea of staying in bed just to admire him a little longer.

But curiosity got the better of her.

Sliding out from under the covers as quietly as she could, Y/n tiptoed out of the bedroom. Her bare feet padded down the stairs, her destination clear in her mind. Jonathan's work desk.

The same desk where he'd been tirelessly scribbling the night before.

Once she reached it, she settled into the chair and began sorting through the scattered pages. Most of it was the usual chemistry formulas and toxin prototypes. She frowned at one of the pages labeled FT - Variant 6, likely meaning fear toxin. The detailed notes described a formula designed to trigger hallucinations of one’s deepest fears in mere seconds.

"Ugh, of course," Y/n muttered to herself, shaking her head. She loved Jonathan, but his obsession with his fear toxins was something she didn’t care for. She quickly shuffled the page aside, uninterested in his chemical warfare.

But then she spotted something different.

A map.

Leaning closer, her eyes widened as she took in the carefully marked routes and notes scrawled in Jonathan’s neat handwriting. The title at the top read Waylon’s Extraction Plan.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Jonathan had a plan to help Killer Croc escape Arkham.

Excitement bubbled up in her chest as she scanned the page. The routes were detailed, accounting for guard rotations, security blind spots, and emergency backups. It was genius, of course it was.

“He’s really going to do it,” Y/n whispered, grinning.

She could already imagine the chaos this plan would bring, the ripple effects of freeing someone like Waylon Jones. But more than that, the thought of seeing Killer Croc out of that dreadful institution made her heart race. Jonathan was actually going to help him, and she couldn’t wait to see it happen.

Folding the page carefully, Y/n placed it back where she found it, not wanting to disturb anything. Her excitement burned brightly in her chest as she quietly crept back upstairs. Jonathan was still sound asleep, and for once, Y/n felt truly content with his plans.

Settling into bed beside him again, she smiled to herself. Atleast he listened to me.

The office was quiet except for the soft scratching of Jonathan’s pen against paper and the occasional rustle of Y/n shifting in her chair. The room smelled faintly of old books and leather, remnants of Jonathan’s ever-present work.

Y/n lounged comfortably in one of the worn armchairs near the corner, her legs draped over the armrest. She absentmindedly flicked through a book she had picked up from the coffee table, though her eyes barely registered the words. Her attention kept wandering back to Jonathan, hunched over his desk with his usual intensity.

The overhead light cast a warm glow over the office, illuminating the stacks of papers, and open books. Even in his university office, he carried on doing her devious work.

“You really need to get a cleaner in here,” Y/n teased, her voice cutting through the silence.

She gestured to the clutter around the room. “One wrong move and this whole place will come down like a house of cards.”

Jonathan didn’t look up. “And risk someone tampering with my research? Hardly.”

Y/n snorted, tossing the magazine onto the coffee table. “Your research. You mean your elaborate fear toxins and terrifying lesson plans?”

“Precisely,” he quipped, his tone dry.

Pushing herself upright, Y/n swung her legs over the chair and propped her chin on her hand, watching him work. His concentration was unwavering, his pen gliding across the page with precision. She admired how dedicated he was, even if his obsession with his work sometimes made her want to shake him.

“Do you ever take a break, Dr. Crane?” she asked, her voice light but laced with genuine curiosity.

He finally paused, setting his pen down and turning in his chair to face her. “I take breaks,” he replied, his tone matter-of-fact.

Y/n arched an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “Oh? Name one.”

Jonathan leaned back slightly, his gaze narrowing thoughtfully. “Last month. The gala. We went together.”

“That doesn’t count,” Y/n said with a laugh. “You spent half the night networking and the other half analyzing the psychological profiles of the guests.”

Jonathan shrugged, “It was entertaining.”

“For you,” Y/n shot back, shaking her head.

Jonathan turned back to his work. Y/n leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “You know, I wouldn’t complain if you spent just one afternoon not plotting someone’s nightmare or grading boring papers.”

“Boring papers keep the university happy. And plotting nightmares…” He trailed off, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “Well, that keeps me happy.”

Y/n rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t help but smile. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Of course,” he replied smoothly, returning to his notes.

Y/n leaned back in her chair again, watching him quietly for a moment. Despite his stubbornness, she couldn’t help but admire him still, the precision in his work, the way his mind was always racing. Even if she’d never understand his obsession with fear toxins, she respected the brilliance behind it.

Eventually, the comfortable silence returned, and Y/n resumed her lounging, content to simply share the space with him while he worked.

Y/n stretched her arms above her head, glancing at the clock on Jonathan’s desk. The minutes seemed to crawl by in his office, especially during his supposed office hours. She tilted her head, smirking as she observed the completely empty space around them, aside from the two of them, of course.

“Jonathan,” she began, breaking the silence, “why do you even bother having three-hour-long office hours when literally no one ever shows up?”

Jonathan didn’t even look up from his papers, his pen continuing its steady rhythm. “Perhaps, one day, one of those idiots will come to their senses and realize I’m an important source of knowledge.”

Y/n snorted, leaning back in her chair. “Oh, please. They’re more likely to go to a tutor’s office hours before coming to you.”

Jonathan paused, finally glancing up with an arched brow. “And why is that?”

“Because,” Y/n said with a teasing grin, “most students prefer their help served with a side of approachability, as I’ve said before. You, on the other hand…do I need to finish that sentence?”

Jonathan cocked and eyebrow. “Watch it, girl.”

Y/n shrugged, unbothered. “Uh huh..”

Jonathan shook his head, turning back to his work with an amused huff, while Y/n chuckled to herself, feeling victorious.

"Remember," Jonathan started, his tone measured as his pen paused mid-stroke on the paper, "I helped you when you came to me the first time."

"Yeah," Y/n replied, her voice laced with dry humor as she lounged across the small couch in his office, "then you drugged me and kidnapped me. Truly, a tale of chivalry."

Jonathan's hand stilled completely, his sharp blue eyes flicking toward her. "That’s how you choose to frame it?"

"Well, it’s not exactly the stuff of fairy tales, is it?" Y/n shot back.

It wasn’t a topic that came up often between them, mostly because neither of them really knew how to approach it. She wasn’t exactly bitter about it, she’d made her peace with the bizarre start to their unconventional relationship. Jonathan, for his part, wasn’t one to apologize for the choices he made, but he had stopped attempting to justify his methods to her long ago.

He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he watched her. "You’re still here, aren’t you?"

"Yeah, yeah," she waved a hand dismissively, "I’m not holding a grudge. Just pointing out how helpful you were." Her tone was light, but her eyes glimmered with playful challenge.

Jonathan’s lips curved into a sly smile. "If I recall, you weren’t particularly hard to convince to stay."

"Maybe I just didn’t want to risk getting drugged again," Y/n quipped, sitting up straighter.

He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "You’ve got a way of making everything sound so dramatic."

"And you’ve got a way of making everything actually dramatic," she countered.

Jonathan hummed thoughtfully, returning his gaze to the paper in front of him. "Well, you’re still alive, and arguably better off. I’d say my methods worked."

Y/n rolled her eyes but couldn’t entirely suppress her grin. "Sure, let’s go with that. Real knight in shining armor vibes, Jonathan."

"I prefer 'strategic pragmatist,’" he corrected smoothly, his tone dripping with mock seriousness.

Y/n laughed, leaning back into the couch. "Whatever you say, Professor."

Y/n stood and stretched, the faint creak of the chair beneath her. Jonathan glanced up from his papers, his brow furrowing slightly. "Where are you going?"

"Relax, Professor Crane," Y/n said teasingly. "Just grabbing an energy drink from the vending machine."

Jonathan's frown deepened. "Those things are terrible for you.”

She paused, throwing him a mischievous look over her shoulder. "So are you, and yet here we are."

His lips twitched with the ghost of a smirk, but he said nothing more as Y/n slipped out of the office.

The hallway was quiet, the hum of fluorescent lights filling the empty space as Y/n approached the vending machine. Fishing a few coins from her pocket, she punched in the numbers for her go-to drink. The machine whirred, and she waited for the can to clatter into the deposit tray.

As she stood there, a prickling sensation crept up her spine, the unmistakable feeling of being watched. Her eyes flicked up cautiously, scanning the corridor.

Her gaze landed on a figure leaning against the wall further down the hall, almost in the shadows. They were too far to make out details, but they were clearly looking in her direction, or at least it seemed that way. Y/n stiffened but quickly shook herself.

This is a university, Y/n, she thought firmly. It’s broad daylight, and you're literally in Jonathan's building. Don’t be ridiculous.

Still, she couldn’t entirely shake the unease, but she refused to let it get the better of her. She grabbed her drink from the machine with a quick motion and turned to head back to Jonathan’s office.

As she walked, she tried to play it cool, not glancing back even though every nerve in her body urged her to. "You’re not some damsel in distress," she muttered under her breath.

By the time she pushed open the door to his office, her expression was neutral, maybe even a little brighter than before.

Jonathan looked up from his work, giving her a brief once-over. "You were gone long enough to consider your life choices."

"Yeah, yeah," Y/n replied breezily, plopping back onto the chair and cracking open the drink. She took a sip, forcing herself to relax as if nothing had happened.

Jonathan raised an eyebrow at her unusually chipper demeanor but said nothing, returning to his notes. Meanwhile, Y/n kept her face calm and her thoughts buried, determined not to let her earlier discomfort show.

The clock on Jonathan’s office wall ticked softly in the quiet room, its hands marking the end of office hours two hours ago. Despite this, Y/n lingered, lounging on the worn couch with her legs stretched out, scrolling absentmindedly on her phone. Jonathan sat at his desk, hunched over his computer, the glow of the screen illuminating the sharp lines of his face.

When Jonathan finally pushed back his chair and stood, Y/n perked up.

“Done?” she asked, hopping up and stretching, a playful smile on her lips.

“Half,” Jonathan muttered, his tone laced with exhaustion.

Y/n’s smile softened as she took in his tired features. It had been a grueling day for him, office hours, meetings, endless paperwork, and he’d have to do it all again tomorrow. She admired his resilience but wished he didn’t push himself so hard.

The two exited his office, their footsteps echoing down the empty halls of the university. The campus was eerily quiet, with most lectures having ended hours ago. Only a few stragglers remained, students huddled in study groups or waiting for late tutorials.

As they approached the staff carpark, Y/n noticed the distinct lack of working cameras in the area, something Jonathan had assured her was an advantage for them. They didn’t have to worry about being seen together, which was always a concern given his position.

Jonathan unlocked the car, and they slid into their seats. Just as Y/n was buckling her seatbelt, Jonathan cused loudly.

“What’s wrong?” Y/n asked, glancing at him.

“I left a file in my office,” he said, his voice tense with frustration.

“Do you need it now?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Yes,” he growled, clearly annoyed with himself.

“Alright, I’ll wait here,” Y/n said with a shrug, leaning back in her seat.

Jonathan hesitated, his furrowed brows and thinly pressed lips betraying his irritation. He let out another low curse before slamming the car door shut and striding back toward the building. Y/n watched him go, the tails of his coat fluttering behind him.

Left alone, she sighed and shifted in her seat, glancing around the dimly lit carpark. The quietness of the campus was unsettling, but she brushed it off, chalking it up to the late hour.

Y/n drummed her fingers idly against her lap, her gaze drifting out the car window. There wasn’t much to look at outside, but there wasn’t much else to focus on. She sighed, shifting in her seat.

Her phone buzzed suddenly in her pocket, pulling her from her thoughts. She pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

It was a message from Jonathan, asking for a hand back in his office.

Y/n let out a small huff, shaking her head with an amused smile. “Bloody idiot,” she muttered under her breath.

She had no idea what he could possibly need help with, but knowing him, it was likely something trivial that he didn’t want to admit struggling with.

Sliding out of the car, she locked it with the key Jonathan had left her and started toward the university building. The faint sound of her boots against the pavement was the only noise cutting through the stillness of the night.

Halfway to the entrance, her phone buzzed again, this time with a call. Glancing at the screen, she frowned slightly, recognizing the number immediately.

Pressing the answer button, she brought the phone to her ear. “Haven’t heard from you in a while, Eddie,” she greeted casually, her tone light despite the lateness of the hour.

“Y/n,” Edward’s voice was sharp and urgent on the other end, cutting through the calm she’d been trying to maintain. “Get back in the car. Now.”

Y/n slowed her steps, her brows furrowing. “What are you talking about?” she asked, confusion lacing her tone. How did Edward even know where she was?

“That wasn’t Jonathan,” he interrupted firmly, his voice dropping into something darker, more desperate.

Her heart stopped, the blood in her veins turning ice cold.

“What do you mean it wasn’t-”

“Go!” Edward barked, his urgency snapping her out of her shock.

Y/n spun on her heel, panic surging through her veins as she darted back toward the car. She barely made it a few steps before colliding with a man blocking her path. A startled noise escaped her lips as she stumbled back, turning to flee in the opposite direction, only to find herself face-to-face with another man.

Her breath hitched, the air caught in her throat as dread settled like a weight in her chest. Edward’s voice was still shouting frantically through the phone, but she couldn’t focus on his words. Her hands trembled as she fumbled in her pocket, her only lifeline flashing through her mind.

Jonathan’s canister.

Without hesitation, Y/n whipped it out, her fingers finding the trigger as she aimed it at the men. A sharp hiss filled the air as the fear gas spewed forth, engulfing their faces. Both men recoiled instantly, their screams tearing through the night as they clawed at their eyes, their terror palpable.

For a fleeting moment, Y/n thought she had a chance. Her heart surged with hope as she darted toward freedom, only to halt abruptly when more figures emerged from the shadows.

These men were different. Each wore a crude, almost comical penguin mask, but there was nothing funny about the way they moved with precision, their intentions clear.

“Shit,” Y/n whispered, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her heart.

Desperately, she sprayed the gas at the new arrivals, but it had little effect. Their masks, though laughable, must have been equipped with filters, rendering her weapon useless.

“Fuck!”

Before she could think of another escape, rough hands grabbed her arms, yanking the canister from her grasp.

She struggled against their grip, her mind racing for a plan, but the odds were against her. The last thing she saw before she was dragged into the shadows was the faint glint of the moonlight on the cracked pavement.

She was so fucked.

Y/n thrashed desperately in their iron grip, but the men were well-prepared. One of them swiftly gagged her, silencing her muffled cries, while another pulled a bag over her head. She kicked and squirmed, her heart racing, but they bound her hands and feet with practiced efficiency, rendering her helpless.

These guys were no amateurs.

Tears streamed down her face, dampening the inside of the suffocating bag as fear and frustration welled up within her. Her captors carried her like she weighed nothing, their movements calculated and cold.

She barely registered the thud of her body being thrown into the back of a vehicle, the cold metal floor jarring against her as the van’s doors slammed shut. The engine roared to life, and she felt the lurch as it sped out of the car park, jostling her roughly with each turn.

Her mind raced with a torrent of emotions, panic, anger, helplessness.

She was so utterly, completely fucked.

All she could think about was Jonathan.

Jonathan, where are you?

She had no sense of time. The entire ride was a blur of muffled sobs, desperate thrashing, and exhaustion. At some point, Y/n’s hysterical episode stop, leaving her utterly drained. By the time the van screeched to a halt, she was limp, lying motionless in the back like a discarded doll.

The van doors groaned open, and cold air rushed in, sending a chill over her skin. She felt rough hands grabbing her, pulling her out like luggage. Her feet barely skimmed the ground as she was dragged through what sounded like a large, echoing space. She tried to steady her breathing, but panic buzzed just beneath the surface.

A hard wooden chair met her body, and she winced as they tied her to it, ropes biting into her wrists and ankles. The restraints were unforgiving, chafing against her skin.

That’s when she heard it, the sharp click of a door opening and the staccato rhythm of hurried footsteps.

“Ahh, has our guest arrived?” a voice asked, oily and nasally, dripping with sophistication.

It wasn’t a voice she recognized.

The footsteps stopped abruptly. “Did you bag her like some common animal?” the voice continued, now laced with surprise and fury.

“Well…uh, Two-Face said…” one of the goons stammered, clearly struggling to justify himself.

“Remove it!” the voice barked, sharp and commanding, like a blade cutting through tension.

The bag was yanked off her head, and Y/n blinked rapidly as the room’s light hit her face. Her vision adjusted slowly, revealing her surroundings. The room was dim but lavishly adorned with dark wood, gold accents, and antique furnishings. And then she saw him.

Short and stout, the man before her exuded an air of theatrical menace. He wore a fine velvety suit, a monocle glinting over one eye, and a top hat perched precariously on his balding head. His nose was sharp and beak-like, his features grotesque yet oddly regal.

The Penguin.

“Oh, my dear, my sincerest apologies!” he said, waddling closer with surprising grace for his stature. His voice, though polite, carried a slight sneer, the words drawn out like he was savoring them. “I didn’t think my men would treat you so…uncivily.”

Y/n stared, her heart hammering as the reality of her situation fully sank in.

As he approached, his gaze flickered to the ropes binding her to the chair and the angry red marks left on her wrists. His monocle gleamed as he turned sharply toward the goon nearest her.

“You don’t have to tie her wrists until they’re purple!” he snapped, his voice rising with disgust. “I run a criminal empire, not a circus!”

The goon muttered a weak apology, fumbling to adjust the restraints, but Penguin swatted him away. “Oh, enough! I’ll do it myself.”

He bent down, his stubby fingers surprisingly nimble as he loosened the ropes around her wrists just enough to relieve the pressure. “There we are, my dear,” he cooed, his tone softening. “Do forgive my men. They’re not the brightest of creatures, but they do serve their purpose.”

Y/n stayed silent, her throat too tight to speak, her mind racing with questions and fear.

Penguin straightened up, his small eyes gleaming with curiosity and something darker. “Now, my dear, let’s have a little chat. I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here, and I assure you, the reasons are…fascinating.”

Before the Penguin could continue, the door slammed open, hitting the wall with a force that made Y/n flinch. The air in the room grew heavy, the once-faint tension now suffocating. The man who entered was a stark contrast to the theatrical Penguin.

His half-disfigured face caught the dim light, grotesque and menacing, while his dual-colored suit added an almost surreal air of menace. There was no mistaking him, this was Two-Face, the infamous criminal she’d only heard about in whispers.

The Penguin straightened, his hands finding his hips in a display of frustration. “Did you order the men to act so harshly toward the poor girl?” he demanded, his tone accusing but oddly casual.

Two-Face’s gravelly voice cut through the room like a blade. “I told them to do what needed to be done,” he said, each word weighted with cold authority.

Y/n felt a shiver race up her spine. The room seemed to shrink under the intensity of his presence, her pulse quickening as his mismatched gaze scanned the space, sharp and calculating.

Looking around, his anger flared further, his scowl deepening. “Where’s the rest of my men?” he barked, his voice echoing against the walls.

One of the goons in a cheap penguin mask stepped forward, his voice shaky as he spoke. “The girl…she gassed them.”

“What!?” Two-Face snarled, his glare snapping to Y/n like a predator locking onto prey.

Y/n shrank in her seat, her heart pounding like a drum. She could feel the weight of his fury pressing down on her, but before he could say more, the Penguin interjected with a dismissive wave.

“Oh, don’t go blaming the girl,” Penguin said, his tone teetering on the edge of amusement and condescension.

“Maybe if your men were better prepared, they would’ve thought to wear proper masks when going after Scarecrow’s girl.” His monocle glinted as he turned to glare at Two-Face. “Frankly, the fault lies squarely on your shoulders, my dear Harvey.”

Two-Face’s fist clenched at his side, his jaw tightening. “Careful, Cobblepot,” he growled, his tone dripping with warning.

Penguin smirked, unbothered by the larger man’s threatening presence. “Oh, relax, Dent. No need to bicker in front of our guest.”

He gestured toward Y/n with a flourish. “We wouldn’t want her to think we’re uncivilized, would we?”

Y/n sat silently, her wide eyes darting between the two men. Despite her fear, a small, dark thought crept into her mind: Some team they are.

Their bickering continued, the dynamic between them oddly dysfunctional for two partners in crime. But while they were distracted, Y/n’s mind raced, desperately trying to formulate a plan. If these two kept their focus on each other for long enough, maybe, just maybe, she could find a way out of this mess.

Two-Face’s patience had clearly run its course. With a growl of frustration, he snatched a paperweight from a nearby desk and hurled it across the room, the heavy object smashing against the wall.

“Keep that beak of yours shut, Penguin!” he snapped, his voice echoing with raw anger. “You don’t tell her a damn thing. We wait. That’s it.” Without another word, he stormed out of the room, his uneven footsteps fading into the distance.

The Penguin, unshaken by the display, merely sighed and shook his head in exasperation. He turned back to Y/n with an apologetic smile. “Ah, my dear, forgive the dramatics. Harvey’s never been one for people skills, as you can plainly see.”

Y/n stared at him, unsure how to respond. The bizarre mix of theatrics and danger left her frozen, her mind racing to process the surreal situation she was trapped in.

The Penguin pulled up his sleeve and glanced at his gold watch, the gesture overly grandiose. “Oh, heavens, look at the time! You must be hungry. I can’t have my guest starving, now can I?” He clapped his hands twice, the sound sharp and commanding, before waddling off to bark orders at the goons nearby.

In mere minutes, the men scrambled to bring in a small table and a chair. The Penguin settled himself across from Y/n with surprising grace for his stocky frame.

“Now, my dear,” he began, adjusting his monocle and flashing her a thin smile, “I do hope you understand, this is nothing personal. Well…” He tilted his head with mock consideration. “Actually, it is, but you’re simply collateral in a much larger game. No hard feelings, I trust?”

Y/n could only glare at him. Her hands were still bound, her mouth still gagged, leaving her no way to express the flood of emotions, fear, anger, and frustration, that roiled within her.

The Penguin’s smile faltered as he noticed her predicament. “Ah, how terribly rude of me!” He gestured dramatically at his men. “Untie her hands, you idiots. And remove that gag!”

The goons hurried to obey, loosening the ropes around her wrists and pulling the gag away. Y/n gasped as the pressure finally lifted, her jaw aching from being forced shut for so long. She wiped at her face, grimacing at the uncomfortable dampness left behind by the gag.

She flexed her sore wrists, trying to rub some feeling back into them, but the ropes around her ankles remained firmly in place. Her newfound freedom didn’t amount to much, but it was enough to give her a sliver of hope.

The Penguin, meanwhile, leaned back in his chair, observing her with an almost paternal air. “There now, isn’t that better? You must forgive the earlier treatment. Some of my men are, shall we say, lacking in refinement. But let’s not dwell on unpleasantness.”

He motioned to a plate of food that one of his men had placed on the table. “Eat, my dear. You’ll need your strength. It’s going to be quite an eventful evening.”

Y/n’s stomach churned as she stared at the plate. She didn’t trust any of it, and she certainly didn’t trust him. But for now, she had to play along, biding her time and praying that Jonathan would come for her before it was too late.

Y/n reluctantly picked at the food, her trembling hands giving away the panic still coursing through her. The Penguin watched her with an almost fatherly patience, resting his chin on his intertwined fingers, his monocle gleaming in the dim light.

"Splended," he said softly, his tone unnervingly warm. "I knew you’d see reason. Cooperation makes this all so much easier, don’t you agree?"

She didn’t respond, her eyes darting to the door every so often. The sound of footsteps outside made her flinch, but no one entered. Jonathan had to know she was missing. Either if Edward called him or he returned to the empty car park.

The Penguin, ever observant, noticed her gaze. “Waiting for your knight in tattered armor, are you?” he said with a chuckle, leaning back in his chair. “I hate to break it to you, but Scarecrow doesn’t exactly have the…resources to pull off a daring rescue.”

Y/n shot him a glare, her fists clenching on the table.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, dear. I’m simply stating the facts. Harvey and I, well, we’re leagues ahead of that mad doctor. This is chess, not checkers. You’re just a very important piece we needed to…” He smirked, choosing his words with care. “Motivate him.”

Y/n’s stomach dropped. She already knew she was bait, but hearing it still pissed her off.

“You’re wasting your time,” she said, her voice hoarse but firm. “Jonathan won’t be dumb enough to come for me.”

The Penguin’s grin widened. “Oh, my dear, don’t sell yourself short. A man like Crane? Brilliant but unhinged? He’d burn Gotham to the ground for someone he cares about. And trust me, we’re counting on it.”

The door creaked open, and Y/n stiffened as Two-Face reentered the room, flipping a coin in his off hand. His mismatched eyes landed on her, and a cruel smile twisted his scarred features.

“Still playing the gentleman, are we, Cobblepot?” he sneered. “You’re too soft on her.”

The Penguin waved him off. “There’s no harm in a little civility, Harvey. She’s our guest, after all.”

“Guest?” Two-Face barked out a bitter laugh. “She’s leverage. Nothing more.”

Y/n glared at him, her fear momentarily eclipsed by defiance. “You think Jonathan’s going to walk into whatever trap you’ve set? You don’t know him.”

Two-Face glared towards the Penguin, “I told you to keep your mouth shut!” but there was little he could do now.

Two-Face leaned in closer, his good side almost soft, his scarred side a terrifying reminder of his instability. “Oh, he’ll come,” he growled. “Men like Crane can’t resist their obsessions. And you, sweetheart, are the perfect little weak spot.”

Y/n’s resolve wavered, but she refused to let them see her break. Her mind raced for options, anything to stall, to delay, to give Jonathan more time.

Two-Face straightened and turned to the Penguin. “Keep her comfortable, but not too comfortable. We’ll need her alive and scared when the time comes.”

With that, he stormed out again, leaving the Penguin to tut disapprovingly. “Such dramatics,” he muttered, adjusting his monocle. “But don’t worry, dear. I’ll make sure things don’t get too unpleasant for you. At least for now.”

Y/n’s jaw tightened as she met his gaze. She wasn’t about to sit and wait for Jonathan to save her. If she was going to survive this, she’d have to find a way to delay whatever they had planned.

The Penguin sat at the table across from Y/n, absently swirling the liquid in a glass of wine as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Y/n’s wrists still ached, but the silence was worse than the ropes had been. The Penguin had hardly said a word in the last few minutes, only glancing at her occasionally with that eerie smirk.

Y/n’s mind was racing, desperate for some kind of plan. She couldn’t figure out what was more terrifying, sitting helplessly or the thought of what might happen next.

The tension was broken when the door suddenly flew open. A goon in a cheap penguin mask barreled in, his breath ragged, his eyes wide with panic beneath the plastic disguise.

“Boss! We’ve got a problem!” the goon yelled, practically tripping over his own feet.

The Penguin straightened in his chair, a predatory glint in his eye. “Ah, it seems the guest of honor has arrived sooner than expected,” he said, pushing his glass aside and adjusting his monocle.

“No, boss,” the goon stammered, shaking his head violently. “It’s not him. It’s..it’s something else!”

The Penguin’s smirk faltered, and he leaned forward. “Something else?” he echoed, his tone dripping with skepticism. “What else could possibly be here?”

Before the goon could respond, a blood-curdling scream pierced the air, echoing through the halls.

The Penguin shot up from his chair, his usual composed demeanor cracking. “What in blazes—”

A deafening bang followed the scream, the sound reverberating through the room as though something massive had collided with the walls outside.

The goon’s panic reached a fever pitch, and he backed toward the door. “Boss, we’ve got to get out of here! It’s tearing through-”

His words were cut off by another crash, this one closer. The walls seemed to vibrate with the force of it, and a low, guttural growl that didn’t sound remotely human seeped into the room.

Y/n froze, her heart pounding in her chest. Whatever was out there, it wasn’t Jonathan, and it wasn’t anything she’d ever heard before.

The Penguin cursed under his breath, shoving past the goon to reach the door. He peeked through the crack, only to pull back immediately, his face pale.

“Well,” he muttered, his voice uncharacteristically shaky, “it appears we’ve attracted some rather unsavory company.”

“What is it?” Y/n demanded, her voice breaking despite herself.

The Penguin looked back at her, the faintest trace of fear in his eyes. “Let’s just say, my dear,” he said, reaching for his umbrella, “this party has a new guest…and it’s not one I care to entertain.”

Before anyone could move, the door burst open, splintering off its hinges. Another scream erupted from somewhere in the distance as something massive loomed in the doorway, casting a long, dark shadow into the room.

Y/n’s stomach jumped. It was Killer Croc. His hulking, reptilian form towered over everyone, his scaled skin glistening under the dim light. Yellow, predatory eyes locked onto her immediately, and the low growl rumbling from his throat sent shivers down her spine.

“Aw, hell,” one of the goons whispered, stepping back in terror.

Croc’s lips curled into a snarl, revealing rows of sharp teeth. Without a word, he started moving toward her, each heavy step shaking the floor beneath him.

“Don’t just stand there, you idiots!” The Penguin screeched, waving his cane frantically. “Stop him!”

The goons scrambled to comply, drawing their weapons. One of them swung a metal pipe, aiming for Croc’s chest. It connected with a sickening clang but didn’t even make him flinch.

Croc’s gaze didn’t waver from Y/n as his massive clawed hand lashed out, grabbing the goon by the chest. With horrifying ease, he flung the man across the room, his body slamming into the wall with a sickening crunch.

Another goon rushed him with a knife, aiming for his side. Croc swatted him away like a fly, the man screaming as he was hurled across the table and into the opposite wall.

Y/n’s heart was pounding so loudly she could barely hear the chaos around her. Her legs were still tied, and escape was impossible. She could only watch in frozen terror as Croc cut through the men like they were nothing.

“Croc! Old pal, let’s talk about this!” Penguin called out, stepping forward with a forced smile. “I’m sure we can come to some sort of understanding. There’s no need for all this…carnage.”

Croc finally stopped and turned his head toward Penguin. “I’m not here for you, Cobblepot,” he growled, his voice deep and gravelly, dripping with menace.

Penguin took a cautious step back, still gripping his cane tightly. “Well, that’s a relief,” he muttered, then cleared his throat. “But you’re wrecking my establishment, Croc. Surely there’s a more civilized way to handle–”

Croc cut him off with a snarl, taking another step toward Y/n. “I said I’m not here for you,” he repeated, his voice booming. “I’m here for her.”

Penguin’s forced bravado crumbled, his eyes darting between Croc and Y/n. “Now, listen,” he said, backing toward the door. “This isn’t my business. You do what you need to, big guy. I’ll…I’ll just get out of your way.”

And with that, the Penguin turned and bolted, his cane clutched under his arm as he disappeared through the door.

Y/n’s breath caught as Croc finally reached her, his towering frame filling her vision. He crouched down, his enormous bulk making everything else in the room seem small and insignificant. She didn’t flinch this time as his clawed hand reached out, her trust in him outweighing her fear.

With a single swipe, Croc shredded the ropes binding her legs, freeing her effortlessly.

“You’re coming with me,” he rumbled, his deep voice steady and reassuring as he stood to his full, imposing height.

Relief flooded through Y/n, and for the first time since she’d been dragged into this nightmare, she felt a glimmer of hope. This wasn’t a new threat, it was exactly what she’d asked for. Croc had come, just like she’d hoped he would.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice trembling but full of gratitude.

Croc didn’t respond, but his firm nod was enough. He glanced toward the door as the sound of heavy boots and shouting echoed down the hallway. Reinforcements were on their way. His lips curled into a snarl, claws flexing in anticipation.

“We’ve gotta move,” he growled, grabbing her arm with surprising care, his grip steady but gentle.

Y/n got to her feet, her legs shaky but holding firm. She trusted him, Croc was here for her, and despite the chaos still raging around them, she felt safer with him than she had all night.

“Let’s go,” he rumbled again, and this time, she didn’t hesitate.

Whatever lay ahead, at least she wasn’t facing it alone anymore.

The room trembled with every step Killer Croc took, his hulking form moving with surprising agility as he led Y/n toward the exit. The chaos around them was deafening, screams, gunfire, and the sickening crunch of bodies meeting walls as Croc swatted away any goons foolish enough to stand in his way.

Y/n clung to his arm, her legs still unsteady but moving as fast as she could to keep up. Every time she stumbled, Croc slowed just enough to let her regain her footing without missing a beat.

Another wave of goons poured into the hallway ahead, weapons drawn and yelling threats. Croc didn’t even break stride. With a feral snarl, he charged forward, his claws ripping through their defenses like paper. One swung a bat, only for Croc to catch it mid-swing and snap it in half before tossing the man aside like a ragdoll.

Y/n winced at the violence, but she couldn’t deny the strange sense of relief washing over her. These men had taken her, threatened her, and Croc was making sure they wouldn’t get another chance.

“Stay close,” Croc rumbled, glancing back at her as the last of the goons hit the ground, groaning.

They turned a corner, only to be met with a pair of doors that slammed open. More reinforcements. Y/n’s heart sank as she recognized the man leading them, Two-Face, his disfigured face twisted in fury.

“Croc!” Two-Face barked, raising a pistol. “You’re making a mistake. Walk away now, and we’ll forget this.”

Croc didn’t respond with words. Instead, he let out a low growl, a warning that sent a shiver down Y/n’s spine. Two-Face fired, the bullet grazing Croc’s shoulder.

It only seemed to make him angrier.

With a roar, Croc lunged, slamming into Two-Face’s men like a freight train. The pistol clattered to the ground as Croc grabbed Two-Face by the front of his suit, lifting him effortlessly off the floor.

Croc snarled, his growl a guttural threat. He hurled Two-Face into a group of his men, scattering them like bowling pins.

“Let’s go,” Croc said, turning to Y/n.

Together, they burst through the nearest exit, emerging into the cold night air. Y/n gasped, her lungs greedily taking in the fresh air as they made their way across the deserted lot.

Behind them, the chaos roared like a storm, shouts, gunfire, and the crashing of furniture as Croc barreled forward, Y/n close at his heels. They burst out of the building into the cold night, the sharp air stinging her lungs.

Croc didn’t stop, his massive frame plowing through the darkened lot, scattering debris in their path. Y/n stumbled but kept moving, her heart pounding as they crossed the open space, shadows stretching long under flickering lights.

The shouts behind them grew fainter as they disappeared into the night, her pulse finally slowing when they reached the safety of an abandoned alley. She’ll be back in Jonathan’s arms in no time.

A/N: yay!! more Waylon!! lol, we love Crocy, and we gon' have more of him, slay!

I hope you enjoyed this part, and thank you for reading 💚

(God, i had yo post this from my phone cause my laptops being a bitch on tumblr)

#fanfic #smut #jonathan crane #jonathan crane fanfic #jonathan crane x reader #batman #the dark knight #the dark knight trilogy #dc scarecrow #cillian murphy scarecrow #batman scarecrow #the scarecrow #scarecrow #jonathan crane x you #jonathan crane smut

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robertdowneyjjr · 7 months ago

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HAPPY BDAYYYY !!! coincidentally it is also my mom's bday today lol, here's a lil buckytony for u !!!

which connects to my prompt: tony is used to feeling cold, he had to be (the cave was so cold in the death of the night) and he knows that bucky is, too, even if the man always seem to run hot due to the serum. well, it's the winter season, what better excuse does he have except that he needs a human blanket? basically tony holding hands, hugging, or cuddling bucky to fend off the cold !!

happy birthday again !!!

hello!!! i’m SO sorry this took practically half a year but i just want you to know that your art makes me so happy and seeing this in my inbox was one of the best gifts i could have asked for. bucky and tony are so fucking cute and i’m obsessed with bucky’s blush and tony’s eyelashes 🥰 i hope your mom also had a lovely time celebrating her birthday!!

anyway, without delaying this any further than i already have—

———

Bucky had never been able to feel anything with the heavy silver arm that was forced onto him, which made it useful as a shield as well as a blunt force weapon. It was perfect for the Winter Soldier, the unfeeling assassin whose sole existence was to comply orders and complete missions. Having it blown off may have been a shock at first, but it had quickly morphed into relief when Bucky had realized that losing the arm was the first real step towards finally, truly breaking free from the shackles of Hydra.

Since having his triggers removed and embarking on his slow journey towards recovery, Bucky has decided that he has no interest in fighting anymore, keen to stay home and monitor the feeds while the rest of the team is out being heroes. He’s happy to be retired, happy to uncover new things about himself as he learns how to bake croissants and build terrariums. It’s a kind of peace he never thought he’d be able to have when he was trapped for seventy years as a prisoner of war, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

So when he had been asked what he would like in a new prosthetic, Bucky had said, just a regular arm; no super strength, no nifty weapons hidden in the plates. Just a functional part of his body for him to get through his daily life.

Tony had gone above and beyond, presenting Bucky with a prosthetic that had far exceeded his expectations. Not only is the arm intuitive, with nanobots that shift like real muscle and fat as Bucky moves, but it is also regulated to match the rest of Bucky’s body in strength and temperature. If it had been painted a color to match Bucky’s skin, it would almost be indiscernible to a real arm.

Despite the prosthetic being made with the most advanced technology the world has to offer—despite all the cyborg jokes his friends like to tease him with—Bucky has never felt more human.

With the new arm, Tony hadn’t just given Bucky back a sense of normalcy. He’d also given Bucky a brighter future than he had ever dared to imagine.

He still remembers the day in the lab after they had run through their last series of tests with the new arm.

He had just put down the stress ball they used for the pressure test, still marveling at how he could feel the texture of the rubber, when Tony had spoken up.

“Okay. One last thing I’d like us to try. Hold your hand out?”

Bucky had done as he was asked, not quite sure what to expect, when Tony had reached out with his right hand and wound their fingers together. He hadn’t been able to hold back a gasp, staring at their joined hands as he felt the cold of Tony’s hand seeping through the warmth that he hadn’t realized was coming from his own arm. Then Tony had squeezed once, affectionately, stepping closer until they were only inches apart, and Bucky’s heart had stuttered in his chest as he glanced up and saw the way Tony had been smiling at him.

“How does this feel?” Tony had asked, red faintly dusting his cheeks in a way Bucky had been sure no one else had ever seen before.

Feeling whole and brave, and like the ice in his veins is finally starting to melt for the first time in decades, Bucky had gently squeezed back.

“Good. It feels nice. You feel nice.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I like it.”

“Well, good. You’re warm, so I think I’ll be holding on to you for a while. You know, just to stave off the cold,” Tony had declared.

“Sure thing, doll.”

Tony is tactile. That had been the first thing that Bucky learned about Tony when the team had been pardoned, made their amends with each other, and gone back to New York.

His touches are gentle and reassuring, drawing smiles from whoever he has focused his attention on at the moment. Rhodes leans into the hand that Tony brushes against his back as he walks by, for a moment relying on his friend’s strength instead of his leg braces. Natalia is a constant presence by Tony’s side during movie nights, bumping her head against his hand like a cat just so he would play with her hair. Peter beams like he’s aced a test every time Tony squeezes his shoulder affectionately after helping with his physics homework. Steve rolls his eyes fondly whenever Tony pokes his abs teasingly after a workout, but always teases right back by lifting his shirt up to goad Tony into doing it again.

Being touched by Tony is like a drug, and Bucky has been addicted since the first time Tony held his hand. Which is just as well, because when Tony said he would be holding on for a while, he wasn’t kidding.

After that first time in the lab, Tony always, always holds Bucky close when they’re together.

He takes Bucky by the hand and drags him to dinner with the team, never loosening his grip even when Sam raises a pointed eyebrow at their joined hands. “For warmth,” Tony says, and when he takes his place at the table, he promptly kicks Steve out of his usual spot because he refuses to release their entwined fingers. Bucky just watches amusedly as Steve takes his old seat next to Rhodes and sits down next to Tony, only letting go so he can scoot closer and swing his arm across the back of Tony’s chair as they eat.

He drapes Bucky’s left arm over his shoulder when they’re out, snuggling close to his side as they take the long way walking home after dinner. “For warmth,” Tony says, even though he’s wrapped up in several layers of expensive wool and cashmere. Bucky just pulls him in tighter and steers him towards their favorite gelato bar for dessert, because even though Tony runs cold and always claims he doesn’t like sweets, Bucky knows he’d never say no to ice cream.

He sleeps on the right side of the bed so he can use Bucky’s arm as another pillow, despite knowing the hard planes of metal can’t possibly be comfortable for him. “For warmth,” Tony says as he presses a kiss to Bucky’s reconstructed shoulder and dozes off under their weighted blanket made of the fluffiest down feathers. Bucky just smiles indulgently and curls in closer, perfectly happy to tolerate overheating in his sleep if it means going to bed every night with his favorite person in the world.

Having Tony in his arms warms him from the inside out, like an endless summer after a lifetime spent lost in the cold.

#hahahaha the ending is cheesy as heck but idc!!! i love them your honor #is this my first real winteriron fic #buckytony #winteriron #starkbucks #bucky barnes #tony stark #kay writes things #ketzel #ask

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danikamariewrites · 8 months ago

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sooo for that feyfey request.

everyone is living back in that cottage. fey is fucking that guy. but theres this woman, who is like a neighbour. she always sees fey and has a crush on her, but isaac (i think thats what his name is?) is keeping fey busy

one day, reader gathers the courage to flirt with fey

then slowly, the become friends and some time later, when fey is eating dinner with reader, reader crawls up onto the desk sensually and is being all hot and sexy

fey realises for the first time she likes this woman. its soo taboo but fey wants this

so she lets reader show her all the good stuff 😏

and then in the end its a lil fluff but they both know this wont progress further most probably 😔

(absolute filth plis im so thirsty for mommy feyre 😩😩😩(i also dont mind if its porn without plot i just need som filth 🥲))

When She Loved Me

Feyre x reader

A/n: This was the best Feyre ask I think I’ve ever received and I had to write it. I also added an epilogue-esqu ending and it’s kinda sad so I’m sorry for that but I couldn’t resist.

Warnings: oral, fingering, tribbing, angst at the end (also not fully proof read)

You rushed around the house making sure everything was perfect for when Feyre arrives. Dinner was in the oven, the living room was fully of cozy blankets, and you had turned the lights down to achieve the perfect ambiance.

The two of you met in town months ago. At first you had just waved and passed each other while you were running errands and she was trading pelts from animals she hunted. One wintery afternoon you got up the courage to finally introduce yourself.

The blue of her eyes had taken your breath away. When her rough exterior melted away and she gave you a genuine smile you couldn’t help but get lost in dreams of a future with her. Where that smile was never dulled by her hunting or family.

Tonight was the first time Feyre was coming over to hang out. You had only ever hung around in town together but you wanted one on one time away from prying, judgmental eyes. The nature of your relationship had been a little more than friendly. Sure you flirted, not thinking anything of it. Feyre had told you about her and Isaac. How he was just someone to relieve stress and blow off steam with.

The relief you felt when Feyre had said that was like a weight lifting off your chest. Since she had said that you had turned your flirtatious advances up hoping she would reciprocate. When Feyre did you were rendered speechless. The giggle that sounded from her was angelic.

A light knock on the front door had you squealing with excitement. Rushing through the house you skid to a stop, careful not to fling yourself into the door. Opening the door you’ve never seen Feyre look so happy. “Hi,” you breathed. “Hi.” Her voice light and happy. Stepping to the side you wave her in.

She looks around curiously. Her eyes wide as she shrugged her jacket off. “Your home is lovely.” You take her jacket to hang up. Gosh, how did this thing keep her warm out in the woods? The fabric was barely held together by the leather straps Elain had sewed in for her.

“Thank you. My mother has quite the eye for interior design. You should see her and my father’s room.” You joke. Feyre gives you a sad smile. As if she was remembering her old house. Guilt had your face heating. Feyre grabbed your hand giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Dinner smells wonderful.” She says, that happiness back in her voice.

You perked up at the mention of the meal in the oven. “You’re going to love it. Come,” you pull her along to the kitchen. As you ate the conversation went to weird childhood stories and Feyre’s hunting adventures. After dinner you switched to the living room, curling up in the blankets on the couch and enjoying the brownies you baked.

As the night went on your stares lingered on each other. Eyes wandering what could be seen of the others form. With each tick of the clock the two of you inched closer and closer until your thighs were touching. At the first touch you jumped a little. Only relaxing when Feyre holds your hand again.

When the clock struck midnight Feyre was lying on your chest. You absentmindedly twirled her sandy locks between your fingers. You fall into a comfortable silence just enjoying each other’s comfort. Not thinking before moving, you lean forward pressing a kiss to the top of Feyre’s head.

Shock took over as she popped her head up, eyes wide. “I-I’m sorry. I don’t know-’’ Feyre surged forward, connecting her lips to yours, effectively stopping your rambling. Your fingers go back to those sandy locks, keeping Feyre’s lips attached to yours.

The kiss was all want, need and a fight for dominance that you were determined to win. You wrap an arm around her waist, pulling Feyre up, flipping her to lay on the couch. Feyre’s breath hitches, her fingers digging into your scalp. You detach your lips from her, nudging your nose against her perfect button one.

Holding yourself back was becoming impossible. You need Feyre like you need to breathe. Every part of her is perfect and you were desperate to explore her.

You were both breathing heavily. Feyre lifts her head to peck your lips before dropping back against the couch cushion. “Do you want to keep going?” You asked, hopeful her answer would be a resounding fuck yes.

Feyre nodded vigorously. Her blue eyes glazing over with lust, “I want you, y/n.” Your lips break out into a wide smile. Climbing off of the couch you grab her delicate hand, pulling her to follow you to your bedroom. Slamming your door you turn to find Feyre laid out on your bed, only in her underthings, smirking at you seductively. In a swift motion you slip your dress off, leaving it in a puddle on the floor as you bound toward Feyre.

She lets out a giggle, the sound so sweet it almost stops you completely. It has your cheeks flushing as you straddle her hips. Feyre rests her hands on your hips, gently running them up and down your sides, reveling in the smoothness of your skin. Something flashed in her eyes, making her look anywhere but you.

“Hey,” you say softly, bringing your hand to rest on her cheek. “What’s wrong, Fey?” She squeezes your hips gently before looking into your eyes. “I just…I’ve never been with a girl before and I like you, I just don’t want to, ya know,” she rambles. You tilt your head in curiosity. “Fey it’s ok. We’ll take it slow, you just relax. I got you.” You smirk at her, leaning down to place soft, open mouthed kisses down her neck.

Moving down her body you undo the band around her breasts, stopping at the top of her underwear. You look at her through your lashes, finding her face flush, eyes half closed and lips parted. You rub her clothed cunt, making her wet spot grow with each circular motion. Feyre lets out a soft moan as you kiss up her thighs. “Please y/n, I need more, need your mouth.” She begs, throwing her head back against the pillows.

Sitting up on your knees you remove the band from your own breasts, reaching to pull Feyre’s panties agonizingly slow down her legs. Wasting no time you dive into Feyre’s dripping core, lapping at her arousal. Feyre moans out your name, gripping the sheets, her hips squirming against your face.

Capturing her clit in your mouth you let out a hum. Your eyes roll back at the taste of her plus those sweet, sweet sounds falling from her lips. “More,” she begs, “please more. Your fingers p-please.” Feyre struggles to get out. Bringing your finger to her hole you slowly work her open. “Tell me, was Issac this good with his mouth?” You ask with a teasing smirk against her pussy. She shakes her head, “N-no. Fuck no, you’re so much better y/n.”

You go back to sucking her clit, slipping another finger into her pussy. You know you hit that sweet spot (one that Issac clearly never hit) by the way she clenched around your fingers as you curled them. Feyre’s screams became louder and louder with each motion. “Come on Fey, let go.” You urge her. Arching her back Feyre falls apart on your fingers, one of her thighs trembling. Removing your fingers you lap up her release, the sweet taste of her intoxicating.

Sitting up on your knees you run your hands in a soothing motion up and down her thighs. Feyre went limp against the sheets, her chest heaving as she collected herself. Spreading her legs Feyre lets out a small laugh, “Good. I wasn’t done yet.” You laugh at her breathlessness. Throwing one leg over her hips you rest your pussy against hers, lightly rocking back and forth.

Feyre throws her head back again, leaving her neck exposed to you. You picked up the pace of your hips, leaning down to suck and nip at her the juncture of her neck and shoulder. Feyre brings her hands up to your breasts. Running her thumbs over your peaked nipples you moan against her skin at the contact.

Neither of you lasted long. Feyre’s hands felt too good, too skilled. Sharing a pillow she played with your hair as your eyes fluttered at the feeling and softness. You could get used to this. The softness of Feyre, taking care of her, having her in your arms every night. But that was a dangerous way of thinking. Maybe if everything worked out with her sisters marrying, then maybe she could be yours.

———

After that night with Feyre there were only a few more until you stopped seeing her. You had been holding back your feelings, hoping to bring it up while holding her to your chest. It had been a while since you’d been past her family’s cottage, or into town for that matter. Feyre would usually knock on your door asking you to accompany her but hadn’t in weeks.

Donning your cloak and winter boots you head out. Passing through town you heard whispers of the Archeron family name. “His boats were found.” “No, I think a beast did that. No winter winds have ever been that strong,” “I wonder when the middle one will throw a party.” “The aunt is sick I believe.”

All of these pieces yet nothing whole. The gossip made your heart pound. Picking up the pace you start running to the Archeron cottage.

Finally stopping in front of it you feel your heart stop. Your eyes wide taking in the darkness inside and the broken front door. Stepping closer you saw claw marks in the rotting wood. You stopped breathing. What the hell happened here?

“Are you looking for the Archeron’s?” You jump at the voice behind you. You turn to face the stranger, hand over your now rapidly beating heart. Clearing your throat you answer, “Yes, do you know where they are?” “Yeah, new fancy manor-lookin’ place on the other side of town.” You nod in thanks rushing off, knowing exactly where to go.

Politely knocking on the massive front door you step back and wait, twisting your gloved fingers nervously. Elain answered with a bright smile. Her eyes lit up with recognition at seeing your face. “Y/n! What a lovely surprise.” She said cheerily. “Hi, Elain. Is Feyre around?” You ask peeking over her shoulder. Elain’s face fell a little. “Oh, no, I’m so sorry. She’s visiting our aunt. She’s very ill right now so Feyre is helping around her house for a bit. I can’t believe she didn’t tell you.” She says with an air of curiosity, tilting her head a little to the left much like Feyre did when you rambled.

Tears stung your eyes at the familiar movement. You quickly blink them away, not wanting Elain to feel pity for you. “Oh, well I’m sorry about your aunt, I hope she gets better soon. Would you mind umm…when Feyre gets back will you tell her I want to see her?” “Of course!” You nod in thanks and turn to leave. Left with an empty feeling in your heart you let your tears flow freely once you’re back on the street. Why wouldn’t she tell you?

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar reader fic #acotar reader imagine #acotar imagine #feyre archeron #feyre acotar #acotar feyre #feyre archeron acotar #feyre cursebreaker #feyre darling #feyre smut #feyre angst #feyre x reader #feyre x you #feyre archeron x reader #feyre archeron x you

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smutsterprocrastiwriter · 9 months ago

Text

-- introduction and masterlist --

Hey! The name's Mitch, and you've reached my sussy adult blog. This is for my written smut works as well as reblogs of other smut works that I love reading. I currently have a pretty small output in this blog but I have more smut in the works that I will post here.

If you're not comfortable seeing 18+ content in this blog, please leave. Otherwise, enjoy your stay! Here's the masterlist below the cut, with both my works and reblogged ones (with respective credits to the authors)!

oneshots.

note: this makes me realize I should've written more smut here lmaooo

-- karl jacobs -- cuffed on the ropes

-- foolish -- untitled piece — inspired by a post from slvtofthemonth

-- jschlatt -- freshly baked cookies — this isn't that nsfw but oh well; inspired by a post from halo-u untitled piece (inexperienced schlatt) — inspired by a post from halo-u

reblogged works.

-- francis mosses -- milking the milkman | missouki something that never existed | spicyspiders choke on it | midnightsky-1 untitled (was bored on the plane and wrote it) | mikomikumi that's not my milkman | lazi4ss let me in | notmyneighbor — reblogged chapter 3 of this fic; visit author's blog to read the rest of the chapters how wonderful life is while you're in this world | conelluwrites oh, mr mosses (series) | trulyumai молоко | shockedemojiatsv save the cow, milk the milkman | eternityofend stress relief (not really) | toutallyahoe milk and water - pt. i and pt. ii | ciaoteamo

-- joel miller -- starin' problem | strawhbrrries teacher's pet | javiscigarette

-- simon "ghost" riley -- untitled (ghost imagine) | circe69 thigh riding | ghosties--writing

-- könig -- projekt amor | aeth-supremacy hate sex with könig | antigonusyuki

-- mike schmidt -- movement | strawhbrrries headcanons fnaf smut version | yanderestarangel

-- awesamdude -- if you like my face | doozers-afterhours

-- jschlatt -- gun kink schlatt hc | princessnivison

-- ted nivison -- ask by pray4saint sent to nvmadic — verbatim: 'i saw an instagram reel about this and IM REELING THINKING ABOUT IT WITH BEST FRIEND TED.'

-- charlie slimecicle -- late nights | gaarakun

-- jason todd -- my king | problem-bat

-- percy de rolo -- gunplay | cillivnz

#cornersmut #mcyt smut #jschlatt smut #karl jacobs smut #call of duty smut #francis mosses x reader #ted nivison smut #mike schmidt smut #ghost x reader smut #ghost x reader #könig smut #könig x reader smut #percy de rolo x reader #jason todd smut #joel miller smut

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jolalibrary · 1 year ago

Text

iv. anchor me

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter four of i like the way you

chapter warnings: friends with benefits. fwb! rules. hand stuff (f receiving), illusions to the past, bi!frankie.

an: thank you to @thetriumphantpanda for reading this after bake off and telling me that i can do the thing.

wordcount: 3.4k

The moment Benny’s (insistent) invite landed in your messages, you had expected the one from Frankie.

Phone in hand, tapping your foot, counting, barely making it to 30 seconds before the banner slid down your screen. Because, of course, the can’t-say-no invitation was on the day the two of you had a scheduled thing.

Unsurprisingly, his simmering annoyance hadn’t vanished when he came to pick you up—another thing insisted—and you came out to meet him.

I’ll pick you up. I can drive there and meet you, save you coming across town. I‘m picking you up. Means I get to make sure you get home okay.

The sound of the car door slamming into place as you lock up, turning to walk towards his vehicle to find him eyeing you up in a way that makes your cheeks burn and you want to hide your face.

He keeps having that effect on you.

Make heat lick up your spine, your brain forget its sentence or thought, and your eyes find themselves unable to stop dropping to his lips .

It’s why it takes all your strength to say, “Eyes up here, Morales.”

He does, although he does take a second. Licking his lips, before doing exactly that. “Do I tell you enough that you look good?”

Laughing, you roll your eyes. More for him. An act, a pretence. Because you’re trying to seem unfazed—attempting to ignore it, the flutters of wings in your stomach.

Having to focus on it more and more when he stops in front of you, the bill of his hat shielding his eyes from the sun, allowing you to see how they drink you in, swallow you. Practically smothering you in simmering heat that makes you want to tear your clothes from your skin.

“You’ve mentioned it a lot lately.”

He doesn’t move, a thing which makes the wings flutter worse. More intense. Practically beating them as you stare at him, fighting the urge to wrap your fingers around the back of his neck and pull his lips to yours.

To have him. Kiss him.

Remembering as you shift in your shoes, that you’re not with him. This is all an arrangement, a plan—a schedule, a date each week (or two) that Benjamin Miller fucked up.

Nudging him, you wink. “C’mon, I want first dibs of the food Will is cooking before you lot leave me with the scraps.”

You were outside in the backyard an hour, before a water gun soaks you.

Benny’s—of course—a stupid gift you’d purchased him, now used on the neighbours’ kids, with you caught in the crossfire.

By the time you’ve realised, you’re being flooded with apologies. Each coming from Benny’s tongue tenfold, rushing over as though he’d sprayed you in bullets and not water.

Your discussion with Will all but ended with a gasp as you stared down at your now transparent shirt. Watching his eyes lift up, trying not to glance or look.

“Shit, I’m so sorry. I was—and then—let me show you where the towels are—“

You’re not sure who you laugh at more: Will or Benny. Holding a hand up, accepting one of the many apologies that fall, waving it all off, as your eyes scan the other guests, not finding the one pair of eyes you really want.

“It’s fine—can I, borrow something?” you ask, dropping your voice, “There’s kids around.”

Before Benny has even finished nodding, you make a beeline for the house. The one you know. You’ve been here enough times, dipping in through the side door, feeling your top cling to your skin more uncomfortably than it had outside.

That’s when you stare outside. Noticing that the gathering was closer to a party, it all loud and busy—even from inside. Suddenly grateful for the cover to spend a minute cooling off in the house. An excuse merged with gratefulness when you could hide and slide your shades off—wanting a drink, water, ice.

Suddenly needing a second.

Because all you’d done is eye-fuck your friend. The one you’ve seen naked—the one who looks more than good, and fucks even better.

The one, you suddenly can’t spot.

The glass in your palm lets condensation droplets slide down your wrist. The rim against your bottom lip, staring out at the people laughing, smaller kids being chased by Benny and his water gun. Eyes scanning, nervousness bubbling, mind beginning to worry you’re about to see him with someone else.

Like you have done so many times before .

You’re so lost in it, you don’t hear him, never mind feel him, until his arm snakes around your waist. The man you’d been missing—the one who’d been burning holes into your spine, but never coming over.

Now, though, he’s all warm mouth again to your ear, a whispered shh, as he peels your glass from your hands.

“You’re all wet, querida. We best get you dry.”

And then you’re walking, being led. Moving with ease as Frankie—who you hadn’t even seen come inside—was wrapping his fingers inside yours. Leading you, down the familiar hallway you’d helped paint several years ago, to the bedroom you still called Frankie’s, even if he hadn’t lived here in years.

You remember when you‘d knock on the very door to call for him, or hang out on the other side of the frame.

Frankie and Benny had shared this space before Frankie had found his own. The offer of your spare room had not been good enough—even if he painted it in, not wanting to be an inconvenience. How you’d sit on the bed that’s now for guests, perched, waiting for him before the two of you grabbed food or visited the movies. Simple things—friend things.

It isn’t like that today. His mouth slants over yours as soon as you’re both alone, pressing your back to the wall, devouring, licking into your mouth as you gasp.

Because the two of you could be caught. A shudder spreading out at the idea. The thought of the door being thrown open, making you groan into his mouth.

But, you’re not sure you’d care if you did.

You don’t fucking care if they all found you like this.

Lost, whimpering, desperate—all for him.

Not at his hand places itself around the base of your neck—lightly touching, pressing the smallest amount of pressure down, as he hushes your soft moans. His finger resting against your chin, the others slowly bury themselves in your underwear, giving you more reasons to be loud than be quiet—not something close to friend things.

“You been thinkin’ about me?”

The yes leaves your lips, but it is swallowed by a moan. It travelling from somewhere deep, flowing up, rippling out as you begin to writhe against his touch. Your eyes fixed on his—drowning in brown, sinking in as he curls his fingers inside of you. Beckoning, pleading with you to hand him what it is he wants.

Fuck, you want to give it to him. Had done from the moment you’d arrived, pulled up in the space outside Benny’s home—the former fixer-upper, turned dream house.

Frankie always looked good, even if his wardrobe was minimal. The back of him easy to pick out from a crowd, so broad you’re sure you could draw it with your eyes closed. You’ve stared at it so much—and that was before this all began. This, whatever this mutually beneficial thing is between the two of you, neither of you will properly name.

It’s why you kiss him, needing to taste his groan, lather your tongue in the way he says your name. Pronounces it. It more noticeable when your hand cups him—greeted by the hard outline of him against your palm, all noticeable, barely contained by his cargo pants.

“—tan bonita,” he croaks, throwing your hand away before placing it back to cup your cheek, forcing your head to his, the base of his palm catching your bundle of nerves as he slows his ministrations. “Be good for me, querida. And just focus on being quiet.”

A chaste kiss pressed, a signature on the dotted line—one you agree to as you chase his lips. Just tasting the beer-tinged air of his breath as he continues to bury his fingers inside of you. The sounds of it so vulgar, loud, barely muffled by the strangled whimpers you try to keep back.

“So good for me, tan perfecta.”

Your eyes close, lashes clenching. His whispered words make it harder to stay quiet, to be the thing he’s just told that you are.

And the worst is, you know he knows it. Can feel his smirk against your jaw, the way the tip of his tongue swirls over your pulse as his hip pins you in place, his fingers continuing their wanted assault, keeping your feet rooted to the ground, head barely able to think about anything but this.

“Please,” you ask.

Eyes open, capturing his. Hooking in. Watching him drink it in, your request—your ask.

“Alright baby, I’ve got you,” he whispers, more breath than words, right against your cheek, finger drawing circles against your clit. “Always got you, haven’t I?”

It’s electric, and also fire. It surges and licks up your spine as you nod. As your throat goes dry, sound goes fuzzy, before he’s good—to you, for you. Alternating between filling you with the same fingers that built your furniture.

“Doing so well for me,” he says, nose against your cheek, fingers pumping—

In and out.

“Be good though, let me feel you squeeze my fingers—wanna feel you come, querida. Please. Please.”

Your eyes clench, feeling both nothing and everything. Because someone could walk in. Your teeth bite into your lip as you try to keep back the chants of his name. His fingers are so deep, feeling so good.

“Let go, querida.”

It falls from his lips like honey. Sweet. Almost sticky in how it clings to the air as your eyes open, finding him.

The first thing you think is: earlier was nothing on the way he’s staring at you now.

Doing more than devouring, he’s drowning in you—likely unaware you’re doing the same with him.

Each nerve illuminated, your ears slowly buzzing louder and louder as you crash your mouth to his and lick into his mouth as you still, tense and writhe all at once.

Then you are stars, feel yourself unknotting, all at once. In the bedroom that used to be his.

Frankie shouldn’t like seeing you in an old t-shirt of his, but he does.

Unable to tear his eyes away from you as he leads you to two seats, your laugh flowing—something he said under his breath, now forgotten, still swirling through you, forcing your eyes to close and your fingers to dig into his forearm.

He likes you like this—has always liked your laugh.

Blissfully aware that he should, but shit, he can’t take his eyes off you. Even if he knows he needs to—plenty of eyes around, ones who have always teased, always taunted.

You’d be so good together. You pair are so cute.

The comments go on, and on. Have done for years.

Except now, you’re dressed in him.

To most, it’s a simple, old tee splattered with paint. To him, it’s when the group of them painted Ben’s house. His eyes having drank you in, wishing he could wash the paint from your legs, unsure how you’re covered in as much as the wall.

Your clumsiness having painted itself against you, your own clothes ruined, before you’d purposefully (and intentionally) splattered yourself against him when you’d come in for a ‘hug’.

Now, you’re sitting next to him, curled under one leg, shades hiding where your eyes are—but he hopes they’re on him—wishing you’d be on him.

“You dry, querida?”

“Oh, jodete.”

Smirking, he takes a sip of his drink. Licking the front of his teeth, leaning forward.

“Rather fu—”

“Do not finish that sentence.”

Your tongue traces the bottom of your lip, slowly shaking your head. A part of him wanting to pull you close, have you in his lap. Fuck everything and just give in and—

“So,” Will announces. Suddenly there. Blocking the sun, pointing at an empty chair before he sits beside you.

And Frankie drowns his throat in beer.

He listens, while staring off, as Will asks how your friend is—when she’s back in town, because Ben won’t. You knotting and unknotting the end of the tee around your finger, chatting and chatting.

Something tightening inside of him when he catches sight of you, from the corner of his eye, throwing your head back as Will makes you laugh. Him trying not to grimace each time his friend does so.

Because Will is his friend.

A good one, a great one. Yet, when it comes to you, he always feels inferior. Less than. Somehow more broken more than—

“Fish?”

Will’s voice drags him from his thoughts, blinking. Thumb tracing the neck of his bottle as he nods.

“I said have you heard from Pope?”

He tenses. Frankie feels himself still. Back all straight.

The question cuts through his bubbling thoughts. Suddenly aware of the sound of his own heart in his ears. That knotted ball of things, the one full of rope, strings, steel wire, as it all tightens inside his chest—and in his stomach.

Worst of all, he then feels your eyes land on him. Searching, cutting through the sheets he throws up as walls, desperate to press something warm to him, keep him rooted.

He takes a breath, feeling you willing him to. Appeasing you, even if you’ve not asked verbally, finding himself easily able to.

It’s always easy with you.

Just like it was the night he told you. Confessed it. Whispered it out on the floor, his back to the wall in the same bedroom he just had pressed you against.

I’d suspected it, honestly.

Your fingers brushing, carding through his curls until you pulled his head into your chest. A whole other sea of emotions bubbling, both of his long loves out of reach—even if one had their fingers buried in his curls, attempting to soothe him. The rest of his confession dying on his tongue, letting it rot, fester.

Because that one was and still is harder to confess.

It desperate to escape. Almost coming out the night you’d suggested he found you repulsive. Not knowing how wrong you were—

“Um…” you murmur, eyes digging further into him, practically clawing. Not to hurt, but to pull him back. “I don’t think I have—not since before?”

Frankie swallows. His heart hammering heavier, lifting his eyes and landing on you—and it all goes calm. Your face, like it always has been, is like a blanket that smothers the leftover hurt and anguish, an anchor that roots him in place.

“N-no. Not heard a thing,” he says, as plain as possible. Direct. Trying to hide the shake.

Because he can still feel your eyes on him. Focused, unwilling to leave his face as Will mutters and mumbles about something until he’s shouted away, beckoned by an overzealous neighbour, Frankie plants a smile on for, not moving to greet or speak to.

You say nothing.

But you do lift your shades. Smothering him in warmth and kindness, and a bit of sorrow too. Your teeth nursing the skin on your bottom lip, picking and picking.

Fuck he wishes he could tell you.

He wishes he could tell you that Pope knew—knows. Had already guessed it. Teased him on it before he dragged it out of him in the cold, rainy depths of Colombia.

You just have a thing for friends, Fish. That it!

It had ripped from his throat then. Shooting, spitting in mixed English and Spanish as he told Pope his feelings for you—how long they’d been there.

How they were messy. The same as his feelings had been for him. That they churned and turned for months with the conflicting ones he had for him.

That it has shaped him—the thing that neither of them talk about, but had let happen the handful of times it did.

And now he was repeating himself, but differently. This time, he suspected there was something more there. Something there in your eyes in the moments after he’s brought you to pleasure, it twinkling, it licking into his mouth when you kiss him, softer, desperate in a different way.

“Are you okay?”

“Come to mine. Tonight. After.”

You release your bottom lip. Staring. Thinking. “Are you going to take me home after?”

He tries not to let his face shift, but he fails. It falls and drops out over his features as you take a sip from the bottle in your hand.

“Frank…”

“You like my bed.”

You roll your eyes, brow slightly arched. You’re faking annoyance, he can tell. He can tell because you’re ticking, pondering. Weighing up the options of what difference one night would make to your principles.

“It’s not because of that.”

“No?” you say, arched brow and laced in sarcasm.

Fuck, he wants to take your hands. Pull them to his face. Because he doesn’t feel like that for him anymore. He hasn’t. Not for a long time.

Not since before he showed up with his plan, and his lies, and his mission that ended with Redfly’s death.

He wanted to let it roll from his tongue that he meant it that first night. That he has hated all of your exes for the reason you must think, deep down—the one you’re unwilling to question or acknowledge for the same reasons he won’t.

Because he’s scared. Because he knows he’s only worthy of being a dirty secret—not something real. Not something stable and concrete, things you truly deserve.

And, he wants to respect your wishes, your rules. But, he also wants to wake up beside you in his bed. Wanting nothing more than to have his cake and eat it too, because how could he not? How could he not want you there for one morning, when he wants you there every single day?

That thought was the one he had shouted, it burning the air between him and the man he now doesn’t hear from.

You gonna tell her? Depends on if we fuckin’ get outta here, doesn’t it?

He didn’t. Even if he did make it out, make it back. You in his arms, sobbing, worries running from your mouth to his ear as he held you—silently sobbing into your shoulder for reasons he has never explained.

Which is precisely why he doesn’t reach for your hands. It’s why he lets the silence thicken before he answers.

Because he knows he loves you.

“No,” he says firmly.

Hoping it’ll be enough. Hoping the finality of the word will inform you that, if anything, it’s in spite of the memory of his former friend, former brother-in-arms, former…

“I live closer to here,” he shrugs. Not wanting to admit that it’s for any other reason. “Means we’d be quicker to—“

“Morales!” you cut him off.

All stern, cute—as though he hadn’t had his fingers buried inside of you half an hour ago in his old room.

“How have you been sleeping?”

It’s a simple question, easy. Your lips around the straw, draining your cup before placing it on the grass, next to his empty bottle.

His fingers reaching up, itching the front of his fringe under his hat—your eyes following his movements, holding on to them, adding them to the mental notebook you’ve likely made.

Frankie shouldn’t be surprised that you remembered. The trip that lasted more days than it should have and left its own marks on you, too. Scarred you in ways that you can’t explain or ever get rid of.

“Fine. I guess, just…”

“I know,” you say with a faint smile. Forced. Placed there to soothe him, but it doesn’t do much.

You don’t play with the radio.

You don’t even really talk. Just drumming your fingers on the door, staring outside, letting streets pass the two of you, until he pulls up outside his place.

All the way, he thinks about apologising.

For everything, and yet for nothing all at once. His eyes sliding over to you as he drove down roads, turned his chin a little more to gather more of you as he turned a corner.

You don’t look at him until he turns the engine off. Head rolling on the back of the seat, the softest, most beautiful smile on your lips—one he wants to taste, feel moulded to his mouth. Capture and steal it, in case he never gets the chance to again.

“If you say you’ll stay, you haven’t broken the rules,” he whispers.

It is all quiet, except for the little noises made by the car as it cools and relaxes from its journey here.

Frankie hears you swallow, and then sigh.

“Won’t I be?”

Shaking his head, he turns to face you on the plastic seat. Palm cupping your cheek, thumb stroking soft lines, hoping it’ll ease you. Relax you.

“If you prefer me to take you home—“

Your eyes drop.

“—then I will. But…”

Your eyes flash back up to him, and for a moment, he forgets how to breathe. Even under twinkling lights, he can see each fleck of colour in them.

“But?” you whisper.

And he drags his thumb across your skin. “I just really want you to stay, for tonight.”

Sliding your lips to the side, your fingers move over his, pressing his palm to your cheek, giving him a smile—a gentle one, reassuring, sweet. “I want the right side. When you let me sleep.”

Smirking, he nudges closer, going to kiss you, but finding himself pressing a kiss to your forehead—one brimming with a smile.

Only realising he’s done so when he retracts.

Little lines appearing in your brow, gone, vanished in the next second, because then you’re moving closer, your lips on his—and for a brief, but pleasant moment, he forgets all of this isn’t real.

Falls into it, lets himself live there as he runs his hand up your thigh, before he’s dragging it over his. Uncaring that there’s a bed some so many feet away, he just runs his hands over your cheeks, along your jaw, thumbs on your neck—as he groans against your mouth.

Swallowing your moan, he fights a smirk at the way you rock your hips against him. Hand moving to your hip, pinning you—chasing your lips before kissing you again, and again.

Not ever having enough. Always wanting more.

As he has done for years. As he’s thought about for years.

Because there may have been others, but since he let himself think it, it’s always been you. A notion he kisses against your lips, writing them with his tongue against yours, content, happy.

“Can’t wait to spread you out on my bed, querida.”

He feels your lips spread into a smirk against his. “Can’t wait to have your cock down my throat again, Morales.”

He groans. Loud, almost undignified. Unsure how he got to be so lucky. Your fingers digging into the base of his neck.

CHAPTER FIVE ->

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