#captive women tag

[theodysseyofhomer]

one thing about homer and greek tragedy is that most of it is about the ruling class of mythological characters, which means that all of them own slaves. it's assumed. it's also explicit.

there are people born into slavery and people sold into slavery. there are high status concubines, and low status enslaved women also being abused and assaulted. there are derogatory comments about the nature of slaves. there are enslaved people who are said to be more noble than others because they were literally, at one point, nobles. there are enslaved characters with tragic backstories and enslaved people with no stories at all. there's anxiety about fortunes overturning and making free people into slaves, and anxiety about slaves overturning their fortunes on their masters. slavery is a plot point and it's also wallpaper.

maybe if you don't want to engage with that, or with slave-owning characters in general, ancient literature is not ideal for you.

[crimescrimson]

Red's Favourite Female Characters Of All Time: Faith from 'Telltales: The Wolf Among Us'

[youmakethelight]

I might still be grieving for the original caryl spinoff tbh. The pace at which I discovered what happened over the last 5 years was intense.

Within maybe a month, I went from having given up on twd flagship years ago, deciding to catch up from season 9 anyway, getting invested bc of how cool the whisperers story was, noticing caryl vibes were happening, getting invested and hyped for what was coming, picking up the spinoff hints in the 10x01 new mexico scene, being v v v excited, loving the focus on both Carol and Daryl and feeling like I could finally lean into them really having always been my fav characters, accidentally seeing a trailer for daryl dixon (??), reading that there was meant to be a spinoff called daryl & carol with angela kang, thinking that means carol must die (?!) in the flagship, watching till the end and she never died and caryl never resolved their fight either, and then reading the showrunner changed to this rando white man.

I guess I had been hoping season 2 would fix that and become the show it was always meant to be, but well, no. So, now I'm back in my mourning phase for what could have been. And I get that most of the fandom already went through this and it seems like I'm just dwelling in the past, but it's sort of not the past for me I think. Like I only just learned all of this within the last few months.

[zhivchik]

4bia (2008)

[pedrospatch]

run

Raider! Joel Miller x Female Reader

*moodboard is for aesthetic purposes only. no mention of reader’s race or skin tone.

summary: When you’re given the chance to run from your captor, you don’t take it.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. RAIDER ERA. DARK!JOEL. DUBCON. MENTIONS PREVIOUS NONCON. UNSPECIFIED AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s and Joel is 50). reader is described washing her hair (the exact length is not specified) and she wears a dress. she is also shorter than Joel. violence, kidnapping, reader has major stockholm syndrome, Joel is fairly soft for her but HE IS STILL NOT A GOOD MAN, brief mention of Tess and Joel being involved with each other, Tess seems like the villain but she might actually be the only one of these three who is not totally fucked up in the head. SMUT. daddy kink. size difference (no description of reader’s body type, Joel is just a big guy with a big dick, enjoy it). oral sex (female receiving), super risky unprotected p in v sex (mention of reader ovulating, Joel pulls out, don’t be be like these two, practice safe sex), creampie (yeah he doesn’t give a fuck the second time around). many, many pet names (baby, baby girl, honey, angel, sweetheart, little girl). um i think that’s it. oh, and they fuck in the dirt.

PLEASE HEED ALL WARNINGS.

word count: 8.6k

a/n: one thing about me is i WILL soften up EVERY version of Joel Miller to my little heart’s content. HUGE HUGE thank you to @endlessthxxghts and @joelsdagger for lending me their eyes and beta-ing this fic for me last night. <33 i love and appreciate you guys SO MUCH. i loved seeing you both in the doc at the same exact time lmao. this can be read as a standalone, but it is considered part of the captive universe.

Everyone in the group has a job. Except for you.

Or at least, that’s what you hear them say.

That bitch doesn’t do shit.

She never has to lift a fucking finger.

She should work for her meal—just like the rest of us.

Bitterness laces their tones when they talk about you.

Insults grow a little bolder when he’s not around.

Useless.

Freeloader.

Leech.

You might not be out there with a rifle in hand hunting game or invading camps and spilling blood for supplies—but you do in fact have a job, and that job is to make Joel Miller happy. It is your responsibility, your duty, to please him, and to keep him satisfied. Because keeping him satisfied keeps him in a good mood, and one thing you’ve come to learn about your captor is, where there is a good mood, often there is mercy.

Hell, you’re doing them a favor by keeping their violent, fearsome leader in a good mood. Because you’ve seen what he does to them when he’s not. He can be just as brutal towards his own people as he is to strangers.

It doesn’t make a difference, though. They still see you as nothing more than his coddled little whore.

“Fuck, that’s it.”

He groans, his thick, callused fingers digging harshly into the softness of your flesh as he holds you firmly in place underneath him. “Oh fuck, baby girl,” Joel curses through gritted teeth, his hands gripping your hips as he uses his own weight against you, pressing you down into the old mattress until you feel every uncomfortable lump, each creaking spring.

While he isn’t fucking you as roughly as he has on other occasions, he’s hardly being gentle. It’s hard, fast.

Loud.

Joel couldn’t care less about the rest of the group, the men and women on the other side of the wall, forced to listen to the sounds coming from the single bedroom of the cabin he decided they would hunker down in for the remainder of the summer season. Strings of curses and brutish grunts that came rumbling from deep within his chest, pleading gasps and whimpers that fell from your swollen, bitten lips. If anything, knowing they were listening only spurred him on—it didn’t hurt to remind them, especially the men with wandering eyes, that you were his special girl.

His good girl.

You certainly did your job, and you did it so, so well.

“Christ, sweetheart. M’so fuckin’ close—” Joel picks up speed, his hips snapping even harder, faster, the front of his thighs slapping against the backs of yours. Each thrust causes the bed’s rusted, iron headboard to slam violently against the wood panel wall.

You clutch fistfuls of the single, stale, yellowing sheet beneath you, each stroke he delivers knocking the wind out of your lungs, making it harder to breathe. He is so heavy on top of you, this big, broad, bulk of a man who makes you feel swallowed, smothered, and small. Joel takes up so much room inside of you, and it’s a wonder how you could possibly have any space left to spare.

It’s a fullness you can’t seem to get enough of.

It’s a craving, a need.

Worst of all, it’s slowly becoming a want.

“Daddy,” you choke out, fisting the sheet tighter, your skin stretching taut over your knuckles. Can the others also hear the squelch of your drenched cunt around his cock as it begs him for more?

“Fuck. You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good for me, baby,” Joel croons his praise. His hands abandon your hips and he hunches over you, his thrusts momentarily ceasing. He crushes his chest against your sweaty, quivering back and leans forward even further, bracing his large hands on either side of you. Then, his lips move to the shell of your ear and he speaks, his breath blazing hot on your skin. “Y’take me so well, honey. Y’take Daddy’s cock so fuckin’ well. This pretty little pussy was fuckin’ made for me. She was made jus’ for me—ain’t that right, angel?”

He’s right.

Oh, how you fucking hated that he was right.

It was made for him. Your cunt. Your body. You.

Every part of you was made for him, and only for him.

All you can do is nod dumbly in agreement.

“Say it,” Joel whispers his firm command. “Wanna hear you say it. Be a good girl and use your words. Say it, say this pussy is made for me.”

“Yes, Daddy,” you moan obediently, prompting him to grin against your ear. “My pussy is made for you, just—just for you. No one—no one else. Only you.” Could this really be the same voice that would break, grow hoarse from screaming for him to stop? The same voice that would beg and plead for him to set you free?

Jutting his hips forward, Joel buries himself to the hilt, eliciting a noise from you, something caught between a pained whimper and a contented sigh. His balls, heavy and full for you, rest on your clit, which is still sensitive to the touch after he’d spent a majority of the morning with his head buried in between your legs. Desiring yet another release, you try wriggling around beneath him in a silent plea for more. More, more, more.

Please, Daddy. More.

Joel’s grin widens. He places one of his hands on your soft lower belly, fingers dragging down the slope of it until he finds the slick swell of your seam between your legs where his girth splits you open. “Ready, baby?”

Nodding, you open your mouth to answer him, but the sound of your own groan cuts you off when his fingers firmly circle around your throbbing, swollen bud. “Oh,” you breathe, instantly sinking right into his touch. Your eyes screw shut tightly in pleasure, and you throw your head back onto his shoulder. The scruff of his beard is rough on your cheek, and it burns, the same way it had burned the tender flesh of your inner thighs.

His hips find their rhythm as you rub against his hand—you’re almost there. He knows this, you can tell by the chuckle that thunders in his chest and against your back. But you’re too busy chasing your pleasure to be embarrassed.

He’s made you a needy, greedy girl.

“Daddy,” you mewl, trying your hardest to move under him, to work your cunt up and down on his cock. “I’m gonna come—” You gasp, back arching as Joel strokes in and out, his fingers rubbing your clit with urgency.

Joel plants a sloppy, wet kiss on your cheek. “Give it to me, baby,” he grunts. “C’mon. Lemme feel her squeeze me.”

Feeling how close he is too, you try to hold on for just a little bit longer, at least long enough to finish with him, but Joel’s relentless, and you’re forced off of the ledge you’re both standing on first.

Crying out, your walls spasm around him, asking to be filled until he’s made a complete mess out of you, until white leaks, and it slowly dribbles down the insides of your trembling thighs.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” Joel rasps. He lifts himself off you and he pulls out, taking his throbbing cock in his hand. His chest heaves as he fists himself, the wet sound of your slick in his palm filling the room. “Down,” he grits, and you obey him, lowering down yourself on the mattress until you’re lying almost completely flat before him. He gives himself one final stroke just as you look over your shoulder at him, the gentle flutter of your eyelashes the last push he needs. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck—” Joel spills his load, shooting thick ropes of warm cum along the soft curve of your spine.

You rest your cheek on your folded arms, biting back a small sigh.

He’s left behind an ache—you feel painfully empty.

But it was Tess, who had been given the task of helping you track your menstrual cycle, that had given him the warning earlier that morning. “She’s ovulating. Don’t be a fucking idiot, Joel. Last thing we need is for her to—”

“Relax,” he’d gruffed in response. “I fuckin’ know.”

Spent, Joel hunches over you once more and he lightly kisses the top of your head before burying his nose into your hair. “Good girl,” he murmurs. Affection that once was unwelcome and unwanted, that once made you feel sick to your fucking stomach, now makes you feel something else entirely. You’re not quite sure what it is, only that it’s warm. Comforting. “Y’did so well for me, sweetheart. Always do.”

Your lips curl into a faint, tired smile he doesn’t see.

A while later, you find yourself perched on the bed with the sheet wrapped around you, quietly watching as he gets dressed. “Daddy?” you say tentatively as he drops into a nearby chair to pull on his boots.

“What is it, baby girl?”

“Do you—do you think we can go to the creek today?”

Joel finishes lacing his boots and looks up at you.

“I’d really like to wash up,” you admit, softly. That, and you would like to see the light of day. He’d boarded up the windows with slabs of wood—sometimes, if you’re lucky, you get some decent light seeping through the teeny gaps.

“Not today, honey. I’ve got some things to take care of. Supplies are low, we gotta do a run. Don’t have the time to take you.” He stands and picks up his rifle, slinging the strap of it over his shoulder. Noticing the crestfallen expression on your face, Joel’s eyes soften. He walks over and gingerly cups the side of your face in his palm. His thumb strokes your cheek. “Promise I’ll take you to the creek tomorrow, sweetheart. First thing. Alright?”

Nodding, your eyes fall to your hands in your lap.

“Okay.”

Joel kisses your forehead, then leaves the room.

He makes sure to lock the door from the outside, and you can’t help but wonder if he knows locking you in is no longer necessary.

“I can take her.”

Joel’s dark eyes remain focused on the state map laid out on the table in front of him. “What the fuck are you talkin’ about, Tess?” He sees her in his periphery, but is too busy figuring out the group’s best route to look her way.

“I heard her asking you to take her to the creek so she can bathe,” she tells him. “I can take her.”

Finally, his head snaps up and he turns to her. “What?”

Tess leans her hip against the table, crossing her arms over her chest. “You and Tommy can take the group, go and take care of what you have to take care of. I’ll stay behind and take her down to the creek,” she suggests casually, as if she’s not asking him to trust her with his most prized possession—the only damn thing on what was left of this fucking earth Joel Miller actually gives a shit about. “Once she’s washed up, I’ll bring her back to the cabin and put her back into the room. Easy.”

Joel stares at her, bewildered. “What makes you think I’d fuckin’ allow somethin’ like that?”

“Oh, come on.” She huffs and rolls her eyes. “Anytime I bitch about having to do something for that girl, you’re on my fucking case about it, and now that I’m offering to do something for her, you don’t wanna let me?”

He shakes his head and lowers his voice. “You’re talkin’ about takin’ her outside, Tess. Without me.”

“The creek’s just a mile away,” Tess reminds him. “I’m pretty sure I can handle getting her there and back with no trouble, Joel.” When he says nothing, she cocks her head to the side and scoffs. “What? You don’t trust me enough to take her under my wing for a couple hours?”

Joel’s lips pull into a tight line. 

Of course he does. Tess was his right hand woman, his second in command.

He trusted her more than his own fucking brother. She had never given him any reason not to, had never given him a reason to doubt her loyalty to him. No, his lack of trust has nothing to do with Tess—but everything to do with you. He doesn’t trust you. He will never trust you.

“What if she tries to—?” He can’t even say it.

“Tries to what?” She pauses. “Run?”

His throat goes dry and he gives her a subtle nod.

Joel Miller was a bad man who did bad things, but you were his good. You’ve brought back some meaning into this wretched life of his, gave him something that felt a lot like a sense of purpose. You were something for him to take care of, to keep safe and protect.

Tess raises an eyebrow at him. “You think I’d even give her the chance? Besides, the girl’s not that stupid, Joel. She knows better than to try anything. She knows she wouldn’t get very fucking far.”

“Tess—”

“I’m just trying to do something nice for her. Besides, I think it might do her some good to be in the company of someone else for once—the company of a woman.”

Joel peers at her, taking a minute to think it over in his mind before asking, “You’ll have her back in the room before I get back to the cabin?”

“Long before then,” she swears. “All in one piece.”

He hesitates. He’s still not sure.

It’s then that he remembers that disappointed look on your sweet, pretty little face. “Alright,” he relents with a deep sigh. “I trust you, Tess.”

It always feels a bit strange to be outside.

But being outside without Joel?

It feels even stranger.

When he’d walked back into the room and told you Tess was willing to take you to the creek, the news had taken you by complete surprise. When he said he was willing to let her take you, that you almost couldn’t believe. It hadn’t even sunk in until the three of you stood outside the cabin and he was kissing your forehead sweetly in a temporary goodbye before turning to Tess.

“Never take your eyes off her,” he’d instructed her.

“She’ll behave.” She had smiled at you as she pulled her pistol from the waistband of her jeans, the gleam of the silver barrel catching your eye. “Isn’t that right?”

Swallowing dryly, you had answered with a strained, “Of course.”

She’s the last fucking person you wanted to cross. She was almost as terrifying as Joel, if not more.

“Tess? W-Where are we going?” you ask as you trudge along behind her, hoping you don’t sound as winded as you feel. Although you had no way to keep track of the time, it felt like you’d been trekking for at least an hour. Your feet are starting to hurt in your shoes—old, worn, yellow canvas sneakers that certainly weren’t made for hiking. “I don’t remember the creek being this far from the cabin.”

Tess snorts. “Don’t tell me you’re tired already.”

“It’s just—we’ve been walking for a really long time.”

She glances over her shoulder at you. “Here I thought you would be a little fucking grateful to be out getting some fresh air,” she chuckles, shaking her head before turning her attention back to the path ahead.

“I am,” you squeak, stumbling over a fallen branch.

Silence falls over the both of you.

“We’re not going to the creek,” Tess finally speaks after a minute. “I’m taking you somewhere else. Somewhere even better. Just trust me, kid. Now hurry up.”

It takes another hour before you reach your destination, and you hear it before you can even see it, a humming sound that turns into buzzing the closer you get. Then, you feel it, a vibration in the rocks beneath your feet. “Is that a—?” Stepping around her, your mouth falls open in absolute awe at the sight before you.

The waterfall is nestled right in between the trees and surges over the rocky mountain, throwing up bubbles of spray as it plunges into the lake at the bottom, and from there, it foams into a thick, white lather at the base. On the bank, where you stand, you spot different types of vegetation you couldn’t identify even if you tried—all you know is that it’s green, and it’s beautiful.

“This is incredible,” you gasp.

“Way better than some little creek, huh?” Tess tucks her pistol into the waistband of her jeans and shrugs off her pack. She digs around in the front pocket and pulls out something wrapped in a piece of crumpled brown tissue paper. She hands it to you. “Here.”

“What’s this?”

“Well, if you’d fucking open it, you would know,” Tess rolls her eyes. “It’s my last piece of soap. It’s all yours.”

Her kind generosity comes as a surprise—usually, Tess wanted nothing to do with you. But you don’t question it, and you certainly don’t turn the rare luxury down.

“Thanks,” you say, shooting her a grateful look.

Tess nods towards the body of water. “Alright, then. Go on and get to it.”

You take the piece of soap out the tissue. The scent of lavender is faint, but still very much there. Joel will like the smell of it on your skin tonight, you think.

As you start to pull the strap of your cotton blue dress down your shoulder, you feel her gaze fixed intently on you. Heat rushes to your cheeks. “Uh, aren’t you going to turn around?”

“For fuck’s sake,” she scoffs. “I’ve got what you’ve got. Now hurry up, we don’t have all fucking day.”

Nodding, you peel off your dress and underwear, your face on fire as the older woman’s eyes slowly drag over your naked body. Carefully, you step off the bank and wade into the water. It’s so clear that you can count the pebbles underneath your feet.

Leaning against a nearby tree, Tess calls out, “You have ten minutes! And stay out of the waterfall! Last thing I need is for you to fucking drown.”

As she lights a cigarette, you can’t help but stare at her. Her features, though worn down after the hell she had been through trying to survive the post outbreak world, are beautiful. Big, dark green eyes, a perfect nose, and full, pouty lips. There’s never been a doubt in your mind that she and Joel have been involved with one another, and lately, the mere thought of anything between them made you uncomfortable.

It’s an odd sensation deep in your gut—jealousy?

But what were you jealous of? Her having had him first?

It shouldn’t matter to you, but it does. Insecurities you have never in your life felt before seep into your bones.

“Anyone ever tell you it’s fucking rude to stare?” Tess quips, raising an eyebrow at you. She shoves her lighter into the back pocket of her jeans.

Nervously, you sink lower into the water, nibbling the inside of your cheek. “Tess? Can I ask you something?”

“What could you possibly fucking want to ask me?”

You hesitate.

“How—how long have you known each other?”

“Who?” Tess plucks the cigarette from between her lips and flicks the ashes. “Me and Joel?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

She shrugs. “Don’t know. Six, seven years?”

“How did you two meet?”

“Long story that’s none of your fucking business.”

You ask your next question before you lose your nerve. “Have you two ever—?” Unsure of how to phrase it, you stop and clamp your mouth shut in instant regret.

“Have we ever what?” Tess studies your face, and she quickly realizes what you’re trying to ask her. “You’re seriously asking me if me and Joel have ever fucked?”

Biting your bottom lip, you glance down into the water at your feet. You honestly don’t expect her to answer, so when she does, you look back up at her in surprise.

“Yeah.” She takes a long drag from her cigarette, then adds, “Few times.”

Something unpleasant claws at your insides. “You two were together? Like a couple?”

“Something like that,” Tess mutters, flicking her ashes once more.

“What happened?”

She looks at you, pausing before answering, “You.”

Oh.

Before you can utter another word, Tess snaps, “Quit asking so many goddamn fucking questions and finish up washing. You’ve got eight minutes left.”

Not wanting to push your luck further than you already have, you do as she tells you in complete silence.

You lather up the soap in your hands, washing your hair first, and then your face and body, using your hands to scrub yourself as best as you can. Between the calming scent of the soap, the soothing sound of the waterfall, and the warm afternoon sun, you find yourself relaxing. You try to clear your mind, live in this peaceful moment which you very well may never get again, but your mind begins to wander.

And it wanders straight to Joel.

Closing your eyes, you can’t help but picture him here, standing behind you in the lake. You can almost feel his hands on you, long, thick fingers lathered with lavender soap, sliding down your body. His lips at your neck, he cups your breasts in his hands, rolling his thumbs over your hardened nipples until your head lulls, falling back onto his shoulder. Joel drags his hands further down, over your stomach, going lower and lower towards the place where you need them the most. “Yeah, baby?” he murmurs into your neck, dipping one of them between your legs until you are, quite literally, in the palm of his hand. “This where y’need me?”

Breathless, you respond, “It’s where I want you.”

Suddenly, your eyes snap open.

There is a wetness between your thighs, one that has nothing to do with the fact that you’re standing waist-deep in the middle of a lake. You shake those thoughts away and finish washing yourself.

“Time’s up,” Tess calls. She meets you on the bank with a dry rag. “Here.”

The rag doesn’t exactly cover much surface area, but you dry yourself off as best you can before tugging on your underwear and slipping on your dress. Just as you crouch down to slip your shoes on, she tosses her pack and it lands in front of you with a soft thud.

Confused, you glance up at her.

“There’s about a week’s worth of jerky in there. Longer, if you know how to ration,” Tess explains, calmly. “And a canteen for water. I also packed you a flashlight and a pocket knife. It’s not much, but—”

Frowning, you rise to your feet. “What are you talking about, Tess? What’s going on? Why are you giving me your pack?”

“Because I’m giving you a chance, kid.”

A feeling of dread pools in the pit of your stomach.

“A chance to what?”

“Run.”

Your heart stutters a beat. “Run?”

“He’ll come looking for you. You need to get as far away from here as possible. Run away, as far as you can, and don’t fucking look back.”

All you can do is stare at her in shocked silence.

“I can help you get a head start,” Tess offers, quietly. “I can show you which direction to go in and put you on a path leading to the closest state highway—”

“But what if I don’t want to run?”

Tess places her hands on her hips, and she exhales an incredulous laugh. “Jesus,” she breathes, shaking her head in pity. “He’s really got you fucking brainwashed, doesn’t he?”

You glare at her. “I am not brainwashed, Tess.”

“You’ve gotta be if you’re telling me you wanna go back to him.”

“Tess—”

She cuts you off. “He gave the order to raid your camp and kill your people,” she reminds you. “He fucking slit your father’s throat right in front of you, then took you as his prisoner. He made you his fucking sex slave.”

“He takes care of me! He feeds me, makes sure I have a bed to sleep in no matter where we are. He keeps me safe. He—he cares about me.” You will your voice not to tremble as you stand your ground. “No. I’m not running away, Tess. I want to go back.”

Tess sighs. “You’re really not gonna make this easy, are you?”

“Take me back,” you all but demand, your hands curled into the least menacing little fists she had ever seen in her life at your sides. “Take me back to the cabin—take me back to him, Tess. I mean it.”

Amused, she huffs through her nose. “Or else what?”

“You can’t make me run away, Tess.” As you take a step towards her, she reaches behind her and swiftly whips out her pistol from the waistband of her jeans. You halt, freezing in fear when she aims the barrel of the gun at your chest.

“Actually, I can,” she says, her finger hovering over the trigger. “So here’s how this is gonna go. I’m gonna walk away now. And if you even think about following me, or trying to find your way back to the group, you will die.” She tosses you a tiny, wry smile. “Believe it or not, I’m doing you a real big favor, kid. Problem is, he’s got you so fucked in the head that you can’t see it.”

“Tess, please,” you plead. “Don’t do this to me!”

She begins to back away. “Remember when you’d say that to him? How you’d beg him not to do those things to you every night? Beg him to let you go?”

“Please, just take me back to him!”

You start to follow her.

“You take one more fucking step and I’ll shoot you,” she threatens, her eyes darkening. “Don’t think I won’t.”

Tess keeps her pistol pointed at you until she slips into the trees and disappears, abandoning you in the middle of the forest.

He’s furious. Livid.

Joel paces back and forth on the porch.

“Where the fuck are they?”

The old, rotting wood that wraps all the way around the cabin creaks, and certain softer spots bend and buckle, threatening to give way beneath his heavy boots. Joel’s younger brother leans against the railing, which is just as fragile, an unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

“Christ, Joel. Can you fuckin’ relax?” Tommy grumbles, fishing around in his back pocket for his lighter. “You’re gonna bring the whole damn cabin down if ya don’t cut that shit out.” He sparks a flame and lights the filtered end of the cigarette. He takes a long drag, and exhales the smoke through his nose. “You’re gettin’ worked up over nothin’, brother.”

“S’almost sundown, and they’re still not fuckin’ back.” Joel shakes his head. “Fuckin’ knew I shouldn’t have let Tess take her. Somethin’ happened, Tommy. I just know it.” He lifts his shirt and reaches for his pistol, pulling it from the waistband of his jeans. “M’gonna head to the creek myself to find ‘em. Ain’t gonna sit around on my goddamn hands and wait for it to get fuckin’ dark.”

“She’s with Tess. M’sure the girl’s fine—” Tommy stops, his eyes widening slightly. “Well, hell.”

“What?”

Tommy jerks his chin over Joel’s shoulder before taking another slow, casual drag of his cigarette. He savors the last few seconds of peace before shit inevitably hits the fan and his brother unleashes his wrath on anything, or anyone, in his path.

Joel whips around and his stomach sinks, his blood ice in his veins when he sees Tess approaching the cabin. Alone.

Both his mind and body go numb. It’s a jarring shock to his nervous system, and it takes him a minute or two to fully process the fact that you’re not with her.

“Joel,” Tess says his name carefully as he descends the porch steps and walks towards her. “I need you to take a breath, alright?”

“Where—where is she?” His voice breaks, his weakness momentarily slipping through the cracks.

Not that Tess didn’t already know you were Joel Miller’s weakness, his soft white underbelly, the only vulnerable part of his hardened self that could be penetrated—you would have been his downfall. As much as she’d like to say she did what she did solely for your own good, she also did it for his, and for the sake of the group as a whole.

It needed to be done.

He stands in front of her, a ticking time bomb about to go off.

Prepared to face whatever consequences of the choice she had made, Tess tucks her gun away and sighs. “You need to take a breath—”

Joel snatches her arm, his fingers digging into the flesh above her elbow. His emotions hit him all at once.

Fear, worry, anger. It’s the third that takes precedence, and before Tess can utter another word, Joel yanks her forward. She crashes against his chest so hard that it knocks the wind out of her. “Where the fuck is she?” He leans down, his nostrils flaring as he brings their faces the closest they have been in almost a year.

“Joel, take a fucking breath—”

“Where. Is. She.” His grip on her arm tightens with each word he bites out through his teeth. He’s vaguely aware the others have piled out of the cabin, gathering on the porch to watch the altercation.

“She ran,” Tess explains, calmly. She doesn’t falter, not even as his fingers sink deeper into her skin, promising her painful bruises which will take days to fade away. If he decided to let her live. “She ran away, Joel. I turned my back for one fucking second and she was gone. She even took my fucking pack. I tried going after her, but it was no use. She was too fast.”

Behind him, Tommy snorts. “She outran you?”

Her eyes momentarily flicker to him. “Her knees are a lot younger than mine,” she replies, flatly.

“Which direction did she go in?” Joel demands. When Tess doesn’t immediately respond, he shouts, “Which fucking direction!”

Tess manages to snatch her arm out of his grasp. She glowers at him, hissing, “What the hell does it matter which direction she went? You won’t fucking find her.”

His eyes meet hers, and he sees it. Feels it.

She’s lying to him.

“Tess.” Joel’s voice drops dangerously low. He studies her face, his brows creasing with suspicion. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do shit, Joel. She fucking ran away.”

Without warning, Joel takes her by her throat. His other hand brings his pistol to her head, shoving the barrel of it against her temple. His nose touches hers. “Now, tell me why I have the feelin’ you’re not tellin’ me the whole truth?”

Tess lifts her chin. She searches his eyes, a sharp ache shooting through her. After everything, all the hell they had been through together—he would end her life, put a bullet in her because of you? Did she mean that little to him?

Or maybe she’d never meant anything to him at all?

She’s not sure which stings more.

“Because you’ve fucking deluded yourself into thinking that she willingly wants anything to do with you,” Tess finally answers. “That’s why.”

He ignores the burn of her scorching words.

“Where the fuck is she, Tess?”

“If she’s smart, she’s far away from here by now,” she hisses. “I did everyone a fucking favor, Joel. That girl is just another fucking mouth to feed. And what if you get her pregnant? That’ll be another one. Not to mention, a crying baby could draw unwanted attention and get us all killed. Ever thought about that? She’s not an asset to the group, she’s a fucking liability. Besides, I think I can speak for everyone when I say we’re all fucking tired of hearing you ra—”

Joel digs the barrel harder into her temple, his finger hovering over the trigger. “Listen to me. You’ve got ten seconds to tell me where she is, y’understand me?”

“Or what? You’ll blow my brains out?” Foolishly, Tess chooses to call his bluff despite not knowing for certain whether or not he’ll actually pull the trigger. “Go ahead, then. Kill me, Joel.”

His finger twitches over the trigger, but he doesn’t pull it. He can’t fucking pull it. Not on her. Not on Tess.

Still in his hands, she sags slightly in relief.

Swallowing harshly, Joel Miller lowers his gun and does something she’s never seen him do before. He begs.

“Tess, tell me where she is,” he whispers. His pleading is subtle, and only she can hear it. “Please—just fuckin’ tell me where my girl is.”

Tess stands her ground and says nothing.

Releasing her, Joel shoves her aside and with nothing but his gun in his hand, he sets off to find you.

“Ow, fuck!”

You gasp, quickly lifting your bare foot off the ground.

You’d stepped on something sharp—a stick, or maybe a rock?

In a desperate attempt to try and keep up with Tess’ tracks, you had stupidly left behind your shoes back at the waterfall. But the mere seconds you had spared by not stopping to put your shoes on hadn’t given you the advantage you thought it would. She had moved much too fast, and within minutes, you’d become helplessly, hopelessly lost. Every tree and every bush, they all look exactly the same, and for all you know, you’ve probably been going around in fucking circles for the past couple of hours in your search for her footprints in the dirt.

Sagging against the trunk of a nearby tree, you take a minute to try and catch your breath, to give your poor little feet a break from hiking over fallen branches and jagged stones.

Your head falls back, eyes gazing through the canopy of trees. Dusk has settled in, and nightfall is on its heels. It was foolish of you to leave behind your shoes, but even more so to leave behind the pack she had given you—in the pack were all the things meant to help you survive. Knife, flashlight, food.

Sure, you can survive a night out here in the wilderness without any of those things—but then what? Come dawn, what do you do? Where do you go? Do you just stumble around in the woods and hope for the best? Pray you’ll make it onto a highway with signs that will point you to a quarantine zone?

Hell, maybe you’re overestimating yourself. Maybe you wouldn’t survive long enough to worry about your next move. Howls in the distance remind you there’s wildlife out here, dangerous predators that come out after dark in search of their next meal. Or what about infected? It wasn’t unheard of for them to veer off the highway and lose themselves in the trees.

You recall your first few weeks in Joel Miller’s hands.

Escaping them was all you could ever think about, even though the chances of you surviving alone were slim to none, just like they are now. Never having been on your own, death would have been inevitable—but back then, in your darkest moments in captivity, you wished for it. You’d welcomed the idea of starving, freezing, or being torn apart limb from limb by an entire hoard of clickers. At least then, you’d die with your freedom.

Almost a year later, that wish has been granted.

You’re free.

You may very well die, but you would die free.

Closing your eyes, you think about Joel. His arms, that once held you down—held you still—as he did all those things to you without your consent, are arms your heart yearns to have wrapped around you, holding you close.

“Jesus,” you grit, a tear rolling down your cheek.

Maybe Tess had been right. Maybe he really does have you fucked in the head.

Joel was a monster. He had taken everything from you, including your innocence. He’d defiled you in ways you hadn’t known were possible. He was a terrible, terrible man.

A terrible, terrible man who kept you fed.

A terrible, terrible man who kept you warm.

A terrible, terrible man who kept you safe.

Another tear slides down the side of your face. What is fucking wrong with you?

You don’t know. But what you do know is, the thought of never seeing Joel again is somehow more terrifying to you than the thought of dying even the most brutal of deaths.

A loud rustling sound brings your train of thought to an immediate, sudden halt, and your eyes wrench open.

It’s darker now, but you manage to catch a movement in the shrubs, only mere feet in front of you. Panic flares in your chest, it rattles you to your very core, and even though every nerve in your body is urging you to move, you freeze, your back flush against the tree trunk. Your fingernails dig painfully into the bark as you watch the shrubs part down the middle, and a tall, hulking figure emerges with a heavy grunt.

At first, you think it’s just a figment of your imagination showing you what you wanted to see—a hallucination. Blinking furiously, you lightly shake your head, and then take another look at him. Your breath hitches when you realize it’s Joel.

He stares at you in the same manner, as if he’s trying to figure out if you’re real, or if his mind is playing a cruel, cruel trick on him. Feet cemented to the forest floor, he watches you take a small, tentative step towards him.

Once adamant that you’d never look him in the eye, you find your gaze locking directly with his as you carefully take another step closer. Then another, and another.

“Joel?” It’s the first time you’ve ever uttered his name.

He seems as taken aback hearing it as you are saying it.

“Joel.” It rolls off your tongue smoother, and with more ease the second time around.

It sparks a flame somewhere deep, deep inside of him, a fire that burns differently than those ignited by carnal desires.

No, this is something else entirely, and you feel it too.

“Baby?” he whispers hoarsely. “S’that really you?”

“Joel!” you cry, hurling yourself into his arms.

Joel’s gun falls from his hand and he curls them around you. Burying his nose into your hair, he inhales deeply. The scent of you, the feel of you—you’re fucking real.

Shuddering with sobs of relief, your arms wrap around his waist, and you cling to him as if you’re clinging onto dear, precious life itself.

“Hush now, s’alright,” Joel soothes, cradling the back of your head in one hand, while the rubs soft, calming circles into your back. “I’ve got you, honey. M’here.”

“I swear I didn’t want to run away,” you explain through your tears. “I begged her to take me back to you, Joel, I really did! But she left me out here—she said she would shoot me if I tried following her back. Please, you have to believe me, you just have to believe me!”

He squeezes you harder against his chest. “I do, baby. I do believe you,” he assures you. Pulling away, he takes a step backward and takes your face between his palms, peering at you in concern. “Y’hurt, sweetheart?”

“No,” you hiccup, curling your hands around his wrists. Your lower lip trembles. “I—I thought I’d never see you again. I was scared I wouldn’t,” you admit, softly.

Joel’s thumb wipes away a fresh tear. “M’here now,” he murmurs. “You’re with me, baby. You’re safe, alright?” As a late evening breeze passes through, he lets you go and shrugs out of his brown jacket. He goes to drape it around your shoulders, but you snatch it right out of his hands, then toss it aside.

Something in you snaps. You take fistfuls of his flannel, pulling him down towards you to do yet something else that takes you both by surprise—you initiate a kiss. You lean forward and press your lips to his, a little swipe of your tongue across his bottom lip as you clutch tighter at his shirt, holding him in place. Groaning, Joel opens his mouth more, his tongue brushing yours.

Liquid heat pools in your belly, and before you realize it, you’ve grown frantic, kissing him with fervor. Releasing his shirt, you slide your hands down his chest, over his stomach, lower and lower until you find his belt buckle. Desperate, you clumsily fumble with it, and that’s when Joel tears away from you, his breath hitching.

You’re begging before he can even say a word. “Please. I need you—I want you. Right now.”

You cup him through his jeans, and he exhales sharply.

“Fuck.” Without giving it a second thought, his hands reach for the straps of your dress, pushing them off of your shoulders. He roughly tugs at the material, letting it slip down your body until it falls around your feet. In a tangle of limbs and tongues, you both sink to the forest floor. Your hands brush his buckle, and he catches your wrists. “Not yet, baby girl. M’still in charge, alright?”

Sheepishly, you nod.

“Say it.” His command is firm, but somehow still gentle.

“You’re—you’re in charge.”

“Good girl.” Joel guides you onto your back. He’s over you in a second, swelling your lips with a hard, hungry kiss that leaves you dizzy and breathless. He moves his mouth, teeth scraping over your cheek and jaw, down to your neck where he nips at the tender, delicate flesh over your pulse point. Then, he bites his way over your collarbone and to your shoulder. “Bet she’s already wet for me,” he mumbles into your skin. “Ain’t she, baby?”

Pushing himself back onto his knees, he slides a finger over your clothed cunt, eliciting a small gasp from you. Hooking his fingers under the elastic waistband of your cotton underwear, he yanks the fabric down your legs. It catches on your foot, your wetness smearing against the inside of your ankle.

You’re drenched.

“C’mere,” Joel grunts, sliding his hands under your ass and pulling your hips over his thighs. He leans over you once more, your bare, throbbing cunt rubbing against the crotch of his jeans. He tuts lightly into your neck as you buck against him. “Such a fuckin’ needy little girl.”

Desperate, you try rolling your hips into his. “Joel.”

“Kinda like it when y’say my name.” He starts making his way down the length of your body. “Think I’ll like it even better when you’re screamin’ it. Won’t I, baby?”

Your stomach tightens as he nibbles his way down your neck again, teeth scraping over your clavicle and down your chest to your heaving tits. Taking one in his hand, the other goes into his mouth—his tongue is scorching hot over your nipple. He licks the pebbled flesh, sucks it and bites it while he rolls the other peak in between his thumb and index finger. “Oh fuck,” you gasp.

Releasing your breast with a wet pop, Joel sinks further down your body. He plants hot, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your tummy, leaving behind a trail of fire in their wake. He stops over your mound and hovers for a fraction of a second before pressing his nose into the silky soft curls there. Inhaling deeply, Joel picks up the subtle, herbal scent of the lavender soap you had washed yourself with. “Fuck, y’smell so fuckin’ good.”

He pushes your thighs open, pinning one to the ground with his hand while the other goes over his shoulder. Your foot slides down his back, toes curling despite the fact that he hasn’t even reached the spot where you’re aching to have him most. Heart thundering, your blood rushes, roaring in your ears.

Joel turns his head, his lips brushing your inner thigh in another kiss. “S’this where y’want me, honey?” he asks you. Goosebumps erupt over every inch of your skin as he draws closer, his breath like steam on your core. He glances up at you, his cock twitching against his zipper at the sight of you laying naked before him on the floor of the forest. Willing. Wanting. “Hm? Right here?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please, Joel.”

Thankfully, you only have to ask him once, and then his face is buried between your legs, and he is giving you what you want.

“Fuck!” you cry out. Back arching, your head tilts back until the crown of it meets the ground, leaves and twigs finding their way into your clean hair.

Joel’s tongue flattens over your cunt in a broad stroke, then dips between your folds, collecting your slick with a harsh groan, one that sends a bone-rattling vibration throughout your entire body, from head to curled toes. His mouth opens wider—a starving, greedy man trying to eat you whole. Sliding his tongue over your clit, Joel seals his lips around it, sucking the sensitive bundle of nerves until it swells in his mouth.

High-pitched little cries and whines spill from your lips. Your hands shoot down, fingers tangling themselves in his dark, graying curls, eliciting a grunt from him when you tug at his roots. “Joel, fuck,” you choke, your nails scraping against his scalp. He slurps and swallows your wetness, the sounds drowning out those of the night—the chirping of crickets, the croaking of frogs, the soft hooting of owls are washed away until all you can hear is him devouring your pussy.

Your body starts to tremble, and you know you’re close. Joel does, too. He feels your thighs twitch, threatening to close around his head, but he wrenches them further apart with a muffled but firm, “No.” He drapes his arm over your pelvis, his large hand splayed on your belly.

Relentless, he sucks your clit, gliding his tongue over it, again and again until the muscles in your lower tummy tighten and you burst at the seams, unraveling into his mouth. Warm slick gushes out of you, a sweet mess he licks clean. You choke back sobs of pleasure, your body tensing, vision blurring with every stroke of his tongue, each scrape of his teeth over your clit.

Joel lifts himself onto his knees with a grunt and gazes down at you—his good girl, sweet and pliant and ready to be fucked full of his cock. His hands slide his belt out of its brass buckle, eyes still trained on you as he pops the button of his jeans and yanks down his zipper.

Your mind is fuzzy, still syrupy and dripping—it doesn’t fully register what he’s doing, not until he climbs back over you and you his hard cock brushes your thigh, hot velvet that sears the inside of your leg. Precum smears your flesh.

“Y’feel that? Feel what you fuckin’ do to me?”

“Joel.” Hands shaking, you reach for the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel more of his skin on yours. You whine when he catches both of your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head. “Your clothes—”

“Stay on.” Ducking his head, he nips at your pulse point and mumbles, “Tell me what y’want, pretty girl.”

Joel shifts over you, his cock now resting on your lower belly, thick and heavy and leaking.

You squirm under him, hips coming off the ground, that hollow thing inside of you begging to be filled.

“Use your words, sweetheart. Tell me what y’want.”

“You, Joel—I want you. Please, please, please—”

He hushes you.

“I’ve you, baby. I’ve got you,” Joel promises. He wraps his other hand around himself, dragging the head of his cock along the seam of your puffy folds, up and down—he elicits a ragged little gasp from you when he grazes your clit and his fingers tighten around your wrists. He coats himself in your slippery slick until he’s glistening with it, and then he gives a slow roll of his hips, working himself into you.

Your mouth falls open. No words come out, no pleas for more—only jerky breaths, pathetic little pants for air as you take it.

Joel’s cock throbs, pulses like a heartbeat as your cunt welcomes him home. He presses his forehead to yours. “She’s always so fuckin’ sweet to me.” His voice is low, rough gravel. His eyes meet yours in the dark blue glow of the forest, and he savors the last moments of seeing your pretty face before the last traces of dusk are gone. Brushing his lips to the corner of your mouth, he feeds you his cock inch by inch, murmuring, “That’s it, honey. Good fuckin’ girl.”

You melt around him at his praise.

Releasing your wrists, he moves his hand, placing it on the crown of your head. “Ain’t ever lettin’ you out of my sight again,” he swears. “Alright? Never gonna be apart from me again, baby girl. Never. Y’understand me?” He curls his other hand firmly around your jaw, his fingers sticky with you and him. “Do you understand me?”

“Never,” you repeat, softly.

Joel kisses you, deep and slow, almost sweet. Tender. He breaks away, his lips hovering right over yours as he pushes his hips forward, bottoming out inside you.

Moaning, your hands grasp at his shoulders. Your legs widen further to accommodate the breadth of his hips.

“There y’go.” Joel presses deep within, until your belly feels hot and full. “That’s it, baby. Good girl,” he coos, drawing his hips back, then rolling them right back into you. He takes one of your ankles and tosses it over his shoulder, giving himself a better angle to fuck into you.

A loud cry tears from the back of your throat. “Joel!”

He grins in the darkness. He knew he’d like hearing you scream his name.

Joel’s hand settles on your leg that’s over his shoulder, your thigh already shaking. “Y’gonna be a real good girl n’ give me another one?”

You try to answer him, you really do, but your mind falls further and further away.

His fingertips sink into your thigh. He strokes in and out of you, never retreating more than inches at a time so he keeps you full. Stuffed. “Christ. Takin’ it so fuckin’ well,” he croons, moving your leg off of his shoulder so they are both wrapped around his waist. Hunching over you, he bears down hard, using most of his weight. He almost chuckles at the little oof that puffs out of you.

Rocks and twigs dig painfully into your back, but all you can do is feel him. How close he is.

You’re right there with him.

“Joel—fuck, I’m gonna co—”

You’re cut off by your own sharp gasp.

“That’s it. C’mon, honey.” Joel slips his hand between your thighs, his fingers firmly rubbing your clit. “C’mon, baby. Be a good girl and come on my cock—”

It rips through you like an electric current, a shockwave that has you clawing at the dirt. You come crying Joel’s name, crumbling into a whimpering, quivering mess.

Within seconds, he’s swept away by the same tide.

“Baby,” he groans, dropping his head into the hollow of your neck. He goes still and lets your tight cunt clench at him, gripping his cock as it throbs, pulses, empties into you. After a minute, he brushes a kiss to your neck before mumbling, “My sweet girl.”

Joel makes no move to pull out of you. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, your soiled fingers toy with the soft curls at the nape of his neck, shattered breaths slowing and piecing back together.

You gaze up through the trees at the night sky, feeling the safest you’ve ever been with the earth at your back and your whole world on top of you, his cock buried in your cunt.

Tess is right. Joel Miller really does have you fucked in the head.

You’re certain of it when you make the realization with a smile.

divider credit to @/saradika 🖤

for fic notifications please follow @joelsgreysupdates!

[bibiana112]

I uh. Highly recommend the letter yes 100% every woman is very mentally ill and problematic, great stuff. I do recommend playing the game yourself as opposed to watching a playthrough, just because there’s a lot of different choices and alternate paths and part of the fun is making your own story. It’s also something that I feel like needs to be played more than once so you can do completely different scenarios. Like I’m sure it’s fine to watch a playthrough, it’s just likely that it won’t properly cover what the whole game has to offer. But eh this could just be the way that I play games

If you do play/watch it though just know that I will be shaking in my boots so apologies in advance 😩

I was gonna tell you I don't have twenty dollars to play that but I went to check and it actually didn't get taxed to hell and back so it's about the same amount I payed for ztd so it's like DEFINITELY affordable– but idk I might still watch at least the intro before there's any choices or just hop videos or something because you don't understand how fucking incapable I am of sitting down to play things I don't already have a 3+ year emotional investment in I have been playing pkmd for almost two years now and I don't even think I hit the middle and that bitch's on my goddamn phone but I refuse to touch anything unless I have the time to concentrate solely on it and I simply do not have the availability atm 😭

[adragonprinceswhore]

Make You Feel My Love

Aemond Targaryen x Ex-Girlfriend

Summary: A few months after you break things off with your boyfriend, Aemond, you start receiving strange messages and phone calls from an unknown number. Things escalate when you’re sent a video secretly filmed half a year ago, of you and Aemond having sex.

Warnings: 18+, dark themes (mind the tags!), obsession, stalking, exhibitionism, blackmail, threats of violence, emotional manipulation, DUBCON (drunk sex), degradation, dirty talk, fingering, deepthroat, breathplay, spanking, P in V, hairpulling

A/N: Based on a request by anon, I hope you like this! Another spooky fic for the spooky season, Happy All Saint's Eve! 🖤

Word Count: 5100

Your breath turns into small clouds in the cold air as you step out of the office building, the chill of late autumn biting through your wool coat. 

It’s already dark outside. The tall lamp-posts lining the empty streets cast a pale light over Cobbler’s Square, the business hub of King’s Landing. As you fumble with your gloves to put them on, your phone vibrates, breaking the silence of the still night. You glance down and see a message from an unknown number:

"Working overtime again?"

Your eyes linger on the screen. The message makes you shiver, it’s uncomfortably familiar yet oddly unsettling. You scan the sidewalk, wondering if someone from work might be pulling a prank at your expense, but there's no one around, just the faint murmur of traffic in the distance. 

After a second of consideration, you decide it must’ve been someone texting the wrong number, so you slip the phone back into your pocket, and head toward the underground.

The one good thing about staying late at the office is that there’s always a free seat on the train. You take a seat, put in your earbuds and close your eyes, relieved that another stressful day is behind you. 

Still, the strange text you’d received leaves a knot of unease tightening within you. 

Your mind drifts to recent news reports about a man harassing women across the city. He’d been lurking around office buildings, the stories said, learning his victims’ routines, showing up at the same places, always at the wrong times. 

The coincidence is eerie, almost too frightening to think about. So you pull out your phone, trying to distract your wandering mind. 

You scroll through recent news, and just as you feel yourself relax a bit, another reminder of your recent distress pops up on your screen,

Aemond Targaryen.

It’s hard to keep up with recent affairs and not bump into him. 

A member of the Targaryen family, one of the most powerful media dynasties in the country, he was untouchable, the kind of person people said was destined to rule the world. At first, he’d seemed like the everything a woman could wish for: captivating, attentive, always ready with grand gestures.

But as time passed, his attention turned darker. 

His texts became constant, then invasive. 

He’d ask where you were at all hours, demanding you kept your location tracker on at all times. He would question your friends, arguing they were ‘beneath you’. He even hinted at you quitting your job as a political reporter, a position you had studied and fought for for 8 years, to come work for him. “I’ll make you my personal assistant”, he’d said, “Keep you close in case I need anything.”

His controlling tendencies, paired with his arrogant worldview was what ultimately led you to break things off with him . And when you finally did, he’d accepted it with chilling calm; no fight, no anger, just a quiet nod.

You force the thought from your mind, stepping off the tube and onto the platform. 

Once you’re home, you kick off your shoes, lock the door, and sink into the quiet solace of your apartment. You’re pouring a long-awaited glass of wine when your phone vibrates again. 

The screen lights up, the same unknown number.

"I hope you got home safe."

The pit in your stomach returns.

It started off with little things. 

Strange texts that seemed harmless enough. Then came the letters, always printed and neatly folded, never including a return address. 

At first, you brushed them off. It was easy to wave away the unease, convincing yourself that it was a prank, a mix-up, maybe just a wrong number. They were never addressed specifically to you anyway. 

A little discomfort, nothing more. But as the days turned into weeks, the messages began to change. 

They weren’t just random or generic anymore; they became specific, too personal, with a familiar vocabulary that made your skin crawl. Whoever was sending them seemed to know you intimately; your routines and habits. 

Things you had never shared with anyone. 

The messages were like an invisible set of eyes, always watching from places you couldn’t see.

You still remember the first time you felt true fear. It was a Friday night when your phone rang, and you answered to hear nothing but dead silence. 

No voice, no background noise, just the suffocating, empty void on the other end of the line. Stunned into silence, you waited, but the call never broke the silence. 

Eventually, you hung up, convincing yourself that it was nothing, probably a misdial. But then the calls started coming more frequently. And with each passing second you had to listen to the silence on the other end, your unease grew. 

The letters were even worse. 

They began appearing not only in your mailbox, but slipped under your door as well, tucked into the gaps like sinister little secrets. 

You remember holding one, your fingers trembling as you read the words, each line making your apartment feel smaller, as if the walls themselves were closing in on you. The messages never outright threatened, but their tone was unsettling, implying that the sender knew where you lived, what you did, even how you spent your quietest, most private moments. 

Before they were impersonal, now they included your name as well. 

You really shouldn’t walk alone at night. 

The city is full of dangers, and someone as precious as you deserves better. I watch you sometimes, you know. 

I watch the way you clutch your bag a little tighter when the shadows loom over you, how you shiver when the wind cuts through your coat. It makes me want to keep you safe.

You work so hard, staying late at the office. It must be exhausting, always pushing yourself. But don’t worry. I’m never far away. Watching. Waiting. Ready to step in if you ever need me.

Sleep well tonight. 

I’ll be thinking of you.

The animalistic fear the letters brought out in you caused tears of despair to shine in your eyes. Never before had you felt so unsettled; robbed of your sanctuary and stripped bare under the unrelenting gaze of an unknown threat. 

When you thought things couldn’t get worse, you notice it in the corner of your eye whenever you get off the tube. Someone has started following you home. 

As with the other terrors, it began subtly. 

A shadow moving just out of your line of sight, footsteps that kept the same rhythm as yours, only to fall silent when you turn to look. 

Initially, you brushed it off as paranoia. The strange texts, calls and letters had made your nerves stand on high alert at all times. So you walk faster, clenching your keys in your hand, telling yourself you were imagining it.

But by now, it’s become undeniable. 

On more than one occasion, you’ve glanced back and caught the outline of a figure lingering just far enough away to melt into the darkness. 

Once, you thought you saw someone duck into an alley when you turned around too quickly, and the image haunted you for days. 

Each night, the walk from the tube station to your building feels longer, the streetlights casting distorted shadows that play tricks on your mind. In retaliation, you cross the street randomly, change your route, but the feeling never fades.

The worst part is that the presence doesn’t make itself known. 

It doesn’t shout or approach. 

It simply waits. 

Watches.

Now, whenever you walk home, every gust of wind and rustling of leaves makes your heart beat fast and hard. You know someone is out there, tracking your every move. 

Always lurking just out of reach. 

The world around you has become a riddle of dark mysteries and hidden threats, and the sense of safety you once had feels like a distant memory.

You feel it every evening, that unnerving prickling sensation of being watched. 

At the office, you catch glimpses of people who seem too familiar, faces that never linger but somehow stay with you. 

On the train, you feel eyes on you, shadowy figures that seem to mirror your every move. Once or twice, you’ve even taken detours down different streets, slipping into shops just to lose whoever’s following you. But somehow, they’re always there, just at the edge of your vision, close enough to make your skin crawl but too far to confront.

Tonight, as you step onto the station platform, your heart hammers in your chest. It’s crowded, people weaving through the tiled halls, but even among the sea of strangers, you feel that presence nearby, watching. 

You keep your head down, slipping into the crowd with hurried steps, your fingers gripping the strap of your bag like a lifeline. Your throat feels tight, and each breath becomes an effort as you board the train and move toward an empty seat.

Sitting by the window, you try to focus on the reflection in the glass. Your face looks pale and unfamiliar; a distorted version of yourself, yet it’s the background you watch carefully, searching for that familiar silhouette or lingering stare. The lights flicker across the train’s interior as it pulls away from the platform, the steady hum of the tracks doing little to calm the creeping dread in your chest.

You finally reach your destination and exit quickly, walking down the street to your house in hurried steps. 

Your eyes scan the dimly lit surroundings, every shadow and alleyway filling with the possibility of someone lurking. Halfway to your building, you spot it—a figure across the road, barely illuminated by the faint glow of the surrounding lamp-posts, watching you. 

They don’t approach.

They don’t call out. 

Just watch.

A chill crawls up your spine, but you force yourself to keep walking.

Each step feels like a lifetime as you quicken your pace, the distance to your front door stretching endlessly before you. The familiar sound of footsteps follows behind, soft but persistent, a reminder that you’re not alone. 

You fumble for your keys, fingers shaking far too much for you to be graceful, and the moment the door swings open, you slip inside, pushing it shut and twisting the lock with a desperate click.

Safe. 

At least, you think so.

You move to the window, pulling the curtains tightly closed and double-checking every lock, heart still racing. The eerie silence of your apartment only serves to amplify the tension, and you try to steady your breathing, pressing your back against the wall, reassuring yourself that you’re alone. But then your eyes fall to your phone on the counter, the screen lights up, casting a cold, unsettling glow across the room.

Another message from the unknown number.

“You looked scared tonight. No need to be. I’m just looking out for you.”

Your breath catches in your throat, and the room suddenly feels colder. 

They were there, watching, close enough to see the fear in your eyes. You swipe through the messages, reading the last few words again and again, each one making it feel like the blood in your veins slowly turns to ice. 

Every instinct tells you to delete everything, to block the number, but it won’t change the fact that they were there. They saw you. They know where you live, and they know you’re alone.

You check the locks once more, willing yourself to believe it’s just a cruel prank. But deep down, you know this is no mistake, no accident.

Tomorrow, you tell yourself, you’ll file a report. You’ll talk to the police, maybe find a friend to stay with for a few nights. But as you lay down, staring into the dark, the words echo in your mind,

"No need to be scared. I’m just looking out for you."

You close your eyes, but the sleep you need feels too far away to be attainable, and all you can feel is that presence. 

Just beyond the walls. 

Watching.

Waiting.

It’s late at night when your phone buzzes again, the screen lighting up the dark room. 

You’ve become almost numb to the sound of notifications, each one feeling like another weight to the stones of anxiety heavy on your chest. 

You almost dismiss it, too exhausted to care for more ominous messages, but then that rush of fear washes over you once more. 

It’s not a text message. 

It’s a video, sent from the same unknown number that’s haunted you for weeks.

You hesitate, one finger hovering over the screen as dread, dark and thick like petrol, pools in your stomach. 

Slowly, you tap to open it, holding your breath in fear of moving even slightly. The video is shaky, filmed through a crevice from a distance, as though captured by someone hiding just out of sight. 

Still, you recognise the setting instantaneously. 

The Targaryen summer house. 

The video depicts two silhouettes; one laying on the bed of one of the many guest rooms of the vast mansion, the other with their head between the first person’s thighs. 

The filmer zooms in on the long, silver hair of the person kneeling next to the bed, and your heart beats so fiercely it feels like it’ll leap out of your chest as the camera moves upwards, until it lands on your face, twisted in pleasure. 

You remember the day clearly. 

It was Aemond’s brother Aegon’s yearly summer party, an elaborate excuse for the Targaryen’s oldest boy to get shit-faced with the elite of Westeros. 

Aemond, never a fan of crowds or parties, had lured you into one of the guest bedrooms for some ‘quality time’ together, which quickly escalated into sex on the crisp, expensive cotton sheets. 

You raise the volume, and can clearly hear the shameless moans leaving your mouth as your ex boyfriend makes you come on his tongue. 

Your stomach turns. 

The camera lingers far too long on your face, zooming in and out, capturing not only the sounds of your bliss, but each twitch and change in your face. 

An overpowering sense of nausea washes over you as you realize that even then, someone was there. 

Someone was watching, recording your most vulnerable moments from the shadows.

The video cuts off abruptly, and a new message appears beneath it,

“Even then, I was closer than you thought.”

Your blood runs cold, and your hands start to shake. 

The message confirms your deepest fear. 

This isn’t a recent obsession. 

Whoever this person is, they’ve been watching you for far longer than you imagined, lurking in the background of your life, inserting themselves into your most private memories. 

You try to breathe, to think clearly, but the walls of your apartment once again close in on you, trapping you inside your body, fighting to run yet with nowhere to go. 

The sense of violation is suffocating, and questions flood your mind. 

How long have they been there? 

How much have they seen?

Desperate and out of options, you swipe your thumb over the screen of your phone, and call the only other person who might have some answers. 

Aemond’s fingers tap restlessly against the rim of his coffee cup. The twitch in the corner of his mouth tells you he's annoyed, and the speed of which his eye darts around the coffee shop, refusing to look directly at you, lets you know it’s your fault. 

You’re not sure if he can see the tears shining in your eyes, he’s barely looked at you since you came. He always saw crying as a sign of a weak mind, and so you do your best not to blink, scared a tear will fall and reveal just how pathetic you feel. 

It’s not like you’re doing a good job hiding it anyway. The dark circles under your eyes and the paranoid pleading in your gaze betray all your recent troubles. 

“I-, I’d like to thank you for coming here after how things… ended”

Your voice is steady, yet there is a thickness in your throat that makes you sound a bit strange, like you’re trying too hard to remain neutral. A performance you’re not quite pulling off, despite your best efforts. 

“Mm”

He’s still not looking at you, stern face reflecting both disinterest and agitation. The relentless tapping of his finger continues, practically screaming at you to hurry up and confess why you asked your ex to meet up. 

“I’ll get straight to it. Yesterday, I received a video of… us. At that party where we-”, you search his face for recognition, chase his eye so it meets yours. Your voice lowers, practically a whisper, 

“-you know” 

“No, I don’t” 

“Aegon’s summer party… We snuck off to the guest room and-, you know”  

Aemond finally lets his gaze meet yours, inspecting your features with a narrowed, suspicious eye. 

Does he not believe you? 

Before he can call you crazy, or dismiss your clear distress with a condescending laugh, you pull out your phone and show him the video. It’s a bit dark and gritty, but it’s clear that it’s the two of you, Aemond’s head between your legs, your own thrown back on the bed in bliss. 

“Do-, do you know who could’ve done this?” 

Aemond takes your phone and watches the video closely, pausing and zooming in on your half-naked body. He’s seen you bare and crazed with desire countless times when you were dating, yet your cheeks heat up and you feel unexplainably vulnerable as he carefully examines the video. 

After a few moments of contemplation, he hums again and hands your phone back, 

“I’ve no clue. I’ll ask Criston for the guest list, probably just one of Aegon’s insufferable friends having a laugh” 

He stands to leave, and you momentarily panic at the thought of being alone again. Just as he turns towards the door, your hand desperately grabs the fabric of his coat, and those tears that had been threatening to spill from your eyes do just that, 

“Aemond, please, I have more” 

You sound so small. So defeated. 

He looks at you with the same harsh, unimpressed look even as you silently cry. 

So cold. 

Maybe it’s what you deserve? 

“I need you, Aemond. Please just stay for a few more minutes and let me explain” 

He’s frozen for a while, contemplating whether he should indulge you or leave, surely eager to dismiss you just as you had done to him, only a month ago. 

With a sigh, his features soften somewhat, and he steps back, once again taking the seat opposite you. 

“Go on then” 

“I-, I’ve been getting all these-”, your voice breaks into a sob as you speak about your recent nightmare. 

You hadn’t dared speak to anyone about your recent terror, too afraid to acknowledge that what had occurred wasn’t simply some insane fever dream. 

“-all these messages and letters from the same number that sent the video. I don’t know why but this person seems obsessed with me” 

You hide your face behind one of your hands, mortified by the humiliation of openly crying at a cafe, next to your ex nonetheless. 

Aemond observes you for a moment before reaching out to place his hand over yours, warming the skin of your cheek. He catches one of the tears falling from your lashes with his thumb, 

“Send me screenshots of it all and I’ll have Criston’s team look through them. You know we own majority of King’s Guard Security, we’ll find whoever’s harassing you” 

A sigh of relief escapes your lips, and for the first time in weeks, you feel like you can breathe without a heavy stone of anxiety crushing your lungs. 

You grab Aemond’s hand, warm and strong in your trembling grip, and squeeze it slightly, 

“Thank you, Aemond” 

Aemond convinces you to take a taxi home, lock the door, and distract your unease with something calming, like taking a bath. 

You do just that, and the warm water enveloping you feels wonderfully comforting. 

You sink deeper in the tub, disappearing into the calm warmth. Just as you breathe out a deep breath that had been stuck in your throat for far too long, a sharp knock to your front door disturbs your peace.  

It’s as if a bucket of ice cold water has been dumped over you, and suddenly you shiver in the warm bath, feeling a chill overtaking you from within. 

Another knock. 

You’re frozen in place.

Immobile.

Stuck in fear. 

You don’t know how long you sit in the tub, waiting for the courage to stand, dry off, and peek out of the bathroom. 

There are no more knocks, and when your fingers are wrinkly and stiff, you finally get out. 

Peering out of the bathroom and at your front door, everything looks the same. Your eyes dart around the room until they fall on the small, white piece of paper on the floor. 

You pick it up with trembling fingers, and open it. 

Before, the letters you’d received had been neatly placed in envelopes and never hand-written. 

This note is different. 

Let me in. 

Tears of desperation well up in your eyes once more and you toss the piece of paper away as if it had burned you. 

Utterly hopeless, you reach for your phone, dialing the number to the one person that had been occupying your mind all day. 

Aemond sends for a car to come pick you up, going as far as instructing the driver to personally come get you from your flat since you feared the stalker was still somewhere nearby, watching you. 

It was Criston Cole himself that showed up at your door, a high-ranking security specialist at King’s Guard Security, often invited to do risk analyses for the government. 

Being reduced to a chauffeur was definitely far below his station, but when Aemond Targaryen hands you a task personally, you comply. 

You wearily eye the pistol strapped to his waist as he walks you to his car. Your glad that precautions are taken to ensure your safety, but also devastated by the fact that it's even necessary. 

Will this be your new normal? 

The drive to Aemond’s place doesn’t take long, and when you arrive, he offers you a slightly awkward hug in reassurance before pouring you a double whiskey,

“To calm your nerves” 

You accept the drink and take a seat on the leather sofa placed in the middle of the large room. In front of you, tall windows show an exquisite view of King’s Landing, including all famous landmarks like Maegor’s Holdfast. To your right, tall bookcases of dark wood line the wall, cutting into the modern sleekness of Aemond’s home, making it more him. 

You take a large sip of the whiskey, not minding the sharp taste that overtakes your mouth. The numbness of alcohol feels inviting after being on edge for so long. 

Aemond takes a seat next to you, his knee bumping into yours as he sits closer than necessary on the wide sofa, 

“You can stay here as long as you want” 

“Thank you, Aemond. That’s very kind of you” 

A small smile forms on his lips at your compliment, and he looks down at his hands. It’s almost a bashful look, and suddenly you guilty for the way you had so cold-heartedly dumped him. 

Sure, he had been controlling, but if the last couple of weeks had proven anything, it was the fact that danger really lurks around every corner. 

Maybe he had only been so controlling because he knew how dangerous King’s Landing truly is for young women? He had direct access to all cases filed with King’s Guard Security, he’s surely seen a lot. 

When you’ve finished your glass, Aemond wordlessly tops it up. 

You finish that too, chatting a bit about work and what you’d been up to recently, prompted by Aemond asking and eagerly listening. 

Your cheeks feel hot from the whiskey, and when you’ve finished your second drink, you place it on the glass-covered coffee table and lean into Aemond only a little more, surprisingly relaxed. 

Your eyes feel heavy as you look up at him, 

“Thank you. For everything today” 

When he smiles, those dimples that you once adored appear in his cheeks. He’s so beautiful in the soft light. So inviting. 

“Don’t mention it. The only thing I care about is that you’re safe” 

You’re not sure if it’s a sudden wave for adoration, the long-awaited relief, or the whiskey, but when you stretch your neck to kiss him, Aemond cups your cheek and runs his tongue over your lower lip. 

Your fingers feel tingly as they play with the buttons of Aemond’s crisp shirt. Your face is still comfortably warm, and when his kisses travel down to your neck, you sigh in content and throw your head back. 

You watch the skyline of King’s Landing through the tall windows of Aemond’s home; white lights decorating the skyscrapers competing in height. There’s a strange, red dot decorating one of them, occasionally blinking. 

Your eyes narrow to inspect it further, but quickly close as Aemond’s fingers slip into your underwear, 

“I’ve missed this”, he murmurs into your neck, and sucks at the skin. 

“Me too”, you sigh. 

His fingers know exactly how to work you, and after a few more tender kisses to your neck and deliberate flicks to your clit, you meet his fingers with your hips, desperate for more. 

Just as you’re about to fall apart, Aemond withdraws his hand. 

He slowly licks your essence from his sticky fingers, amused by your pathetic frown, 

“Please, Aemond. Don’t be mean” 

Seeing him savour the taste of your cunt only makes it ache more. 

“I’m not. You know what I want” 

Maybe if you had less alcohol in your body, you’d realise how bad this is.

Fucking your ex is never a good idea. 

But the heat of the whiskey warming your senses makes you reckless, and you smile as you kneel on the floor in front of him. 

With eager fingers, you pull down his zipper and take his cock in hand, already hard and pulsating in arousal. Wasting no time, you lean forward to lick the tip before ungraciously taking him into your mouth, sucking as if your life depended on it. 

Aemond tuts above you, a disapproving noise you know from when you were dating. You look up just as he moves his hands to cradle your face, mischief dancing in his eyes,

“You can do better than that” he says and pushes deeper, until his cock is in your throat and you can’t breathe. 

He releases a prolonged sigh and stays buried in your throat, stealing air from you. 

The harsh pounding between your thighs intensifies as the oxygen to your brain cuts off. You look up at Aemond, who regards you with a sinister grin, and shoves his foot between your kneeling legs, pushing at your clit.

It’s the last push you need, a playful kick to your swollen nub, and you come with his cock still deep in your throat. 

With no air to inhale and an excruciatingly consuming orgasm coursing through your body, you feel too light-headed to keep your eyes open, ready to succumb and disappear into the abyss of bliss that is the orgasm Aemond forces out of you. 

Before you lose consciousness, Aemond pulls out, a glistening sting of spit falling from your lips and spilling down your chin. 

Your ears are pounding from the rush of finally being able to breathe again, yet you hear it, like an echo in the distance. 

He’s laughing. 

“Fuck, that’s a good little slut”, he praises you, “Getting off on choking on my cock” 

He catches the drool on your chin with one hand, and forces you to stand with the other. Your legs still shake, and you stagger forward, almost falling into him. 

He laughs again, amused or condescending, you can't tell, and manoeuvres you to kneel on the sofa facing away from the city landscape. 

He brings the hand covered in your drool between your cheeks, and trails it down to your clit. You gasp at the sting of overstimulation, but Aemond’s hand doesn’t budge,

“You weren’t supposed to come from that, dirty girl”, he taunts you with a playful yet harsh smack to your ass. You whine and try to pull away, it’s all too much. 

“I wanted to tease you for a bit longer”, he whispers into your ear, and you can feel the leaking tip of his cock press between your cheeks, 

“I won’t be mean though. My precious girl deserves better” 

He slides in easily, the mess of your slickness, spit, and Aemond’s precum easing his path. 

You lean forward to brace yourself against the backrest of the sofa as he starts to fuck you, pace quick and hard, just as you remember him liking it. 

"Aemond", you moan and he goes harder, the smacks of his hips hitting the meat of your ass loud and vulgar in the quiet night, 

“Say it again”, he orders and pulls at your hair so your head falls back, “Just like that, baby, you look so fucking hot when I fuck you”

When you don’t comply fast enough, he pulls at your hair harder. You cry out his name, and he rewards your submission with a kiss to your cheek, 

“Good girl” 

After that day, things change. 

Aemond sends cars to pick you up from work so you won’t have to get on the tube. He distracts you from the eerie shiver that’s settled into your bones by bringing you out to dinner, to the cinema, to a new wine bar. 

He allows you to lean against him whenever you talk about the nightmare that the last few weeks have been. He even puts an arm around you, and occasionally presses his lips to the crown of your head. And he always listens carefully. 

The controlling tendencies that had previously chased you away now provide comfort. 

He knows where you are at all times, so no one can steal you away. 

He always answers your calls, so you never have to feel alone. 

He always meets your needs, whether it’s letting you talk shit about your boss for hours, or excitedly chat about a book you just read. 

He's always near. 

Always ready. 

Always watching.

A/N: Thanks for reading! If you liked this and want more, check out my fic The Commune!

[iamnotoriginalphil]

For the Article (Agatha Harkness x f!Reader)

Synopsis: You're sent to cover the opening show of the Coven's next tour. Agatha Harkness, the lead singer, is magnetic. Luckily for you, she seems to think the same as you.

Words: 4.2k

Warnings: Swearing, oral (R giving), strap (R receiving), masturbating, mirror sex

Tags: @sasheemo @buttercandy16 @chlondykebar @midnight-lestrange @babybeeelle @dontsblameme

The crowd was buzzing around you. The music was loud, the thump reverberating through your ribcage, making your heart beat faster. The band onstage was captivating, there was no other word for it. The women were everything they promised to be, the kind that could easily be believed to be witches. They’d certainly cast a spell over the crowd.

Front woman Agatha Harkness was a clear fan favourite. Flouncing around the stage, flirting with any pretty thing in the front row, captivating blue eyes drawing you in, it was easy to see why her fan base had once been described as a cult. You found yourself watching her more often than the others. It might not be the most professional, but she drew the eye, and that was worth putting in the article.

You’d been sent by your boss to review the show, the first on their American tour. The others in the office had bemoaned their luck, busy on other stories when you got to go rock out. It didn’t help that you were the only member of the team who wasn’t a fan of the Coven going in.

Now? Well… you supposed you could see the appeal.

It shouldn’t have worked, the eclectic collection of people on the stage. Alice, the pianist, the child of a 70s star. Jen, the bassist, spending more time on social media than in rehearsal. Rio, the drummer, a wild card if ever there was one. Billy, the guitarist, a replacement for his own mother from the early days, younger than you thought was reasonable to have so much talent. Lilia, who seemed to fill in any small instrument that was needed in the song. And of course, Agatha, the showman.

It shouldn’t have worked, but standing there in the crowd, you’d be the first to admit that it did.

The air was charged, electricity moving through the crowd. You drank it in, soaked in the energy thrumming between the people. It was the kind of show that got the heart racing and the fingertips tingling. Something special was happening. Of that you were sure.

Later, once the last note had been played and the lights had flooded the auditorium, showing the crowd in all their glory at the end of the show, you watched them stream towards the exit. The excited chatter was familiar, almost comforting in its ordinariness.

You, taking a different turn, following the band’s manager backstage, felt a moment of anticipation. It was almost anxiety. You hadn’t gotten nervous about interviewing anyone since your early reporting days. Now, it was just routine.

Something about this band had you feeling butterflies at the thought of meeting them.

The greenroom backstage was not what you were expecting. Rio was sprawled over the small two seater couch, twirling her drumsticks above her head. Billy was hunched over a notebook, sitting on the ground criss cross apple sauce. Jen was perched in a chair, taking a selfie as she chatted to Lilia. Alice was slumped against one wall, arm resting on the top of a bent knee, listening in. Agatha, the one your eyes alighted on first, was in front of a mirror, leaning forward as her fingertip brushed over her lower lip.

“Hi,” you said, hoping to break through the tension in your stomach, “great show.”

Everyone liked compliments. Starting out on the right foot might let you in on some of the secrets behind the curtain. Everyone knew the band, everyone had heard the stories. You wanted to know the truth.

“Thanks,” Billy said, glancing up for only a moment before he went back to his notebook.

“You going to give us a good review?” Rio asked.

“I’m thinking about it,” you replied, “but I’d love to get some behind the scenes flavour.”

“You want the tea,” Billy drawled.

“Be nice,” Agatha said, before her eyes met yours in the mirror, “we’re here to make friends.”

“You don’t make friends,” Jen said.

That piqued your interest.

“What does she make?” you asked.

“Don’t listen to her. I’m very friendly,” Agatha purred.

You met her gaze again, trying not to let it show on your face how intrigued that comment made you. You were there on a job. You had to remain professional. There was no chance you’d be letting yourself be taken in by her, not when keeping your wits about you was necessary. And you thought it would be very necessary around her. She seemed like the kind of person who charmed her way into getting what she wanted.

The way her eyes swept over you made you think that in that moment she wanted you.

“What do you want from us?” Alice asked, sounding more tired than the rest of them. Just looking at her she seemed exhausted. Her hair stuck to her skin from the sweat still glistening on her forehead.

“Not much. I’m just going to hang out for half an hour, see what you’re like.” Honesty seemed like the best route with her, “then I’ll leave you be and I’ll go write up my article.”

“No interviews?” she asked.

“Nope,” you said.

“And this is all off the record?” she asked.

“I’m just here to see what you’re like as a group,” you said, “nothing else. I didn’t even bring any of my recording equipment.”

“Except your phone,” Rio drawled.

“I’ll hand it over for the half hour I’m here,” you said, pulling it out of your pocket.

A warm hand closed around yours, lingering before it pulled the phone from your grip. Glancing up, you found Agatha had managed to sneak up on you, close enough that you could see each individual eyelash. Your breath stuttered, not used to having someone so magnetic focusing all their power on you.

“I’ll keep this safe for you,” she murmured.

“I’m sure you will.”

A twinkle in her eye let you know you were walking a dangerous line. You were getting too close to flirting. And not in order to get her to open up and reveal more than she might want to. No, this was purely because you wanted to.

You could understand why so many people were clamouring to meet her.

You stepped around her, the space necessary for you to keep your head in her presence. Leaving the phone in her hand, you perched on edge of one of the tables, staring out at the group. Agatha’s hips swayed as she sauntered over, lowering into the seat by your hip with a flick of her hair.

“What did you think of the show?” Lilia asked.

“You’re all very talented. I’ve never been to one of your shows before,” you said, turning your attention to their small grouping.

“So we popped your cherry tonight?” Agatha asked, her chin coming to rest in the palm of her hand, gazing up at you from under eyelashes.

“That’s one way to phrase it,” you said, offering her a tight smile.

“Play nice,” Rio warned.

“I’m always nice,” she said, her hand landing on your thigh, “aren’t I being nice?”

You watcher her tongue run along her lower lip, painted red, white teeth flashing at you. Your own lips parted.

“Very nice,” you whispered.

Her hand squeezed your thigh and a flush of heat went through you. She was still gazing up at you with smouldering eyes, hand burning through the denim of your jeans. You had to drag your eyes away from her, physically stopping yourself from looking at her.

“You enjoyed yourself then?” Lilia asked, ignoring whatever it was Agatha was doing to you.

“I’ve had a very enjoyable evening,” you replied, trying to slip back into professionalism.

“No need for it to end so soon,” Agatha said, snatching your attention back.

She was the definition of temptation. Leaning into your body, her hand still on your thigh, climbing higher, her shirt open down to her navel giving you quite the eyeful from your position. You wanted to lick a long line between those breasts. You bet she tasted like heaven.

“There’s nothing stopping us from continuing it after this little meeting,” she said, voice lowering into a seductive purr.

“That would hardly be professional,” you said.

“You’ll be off the clock,” she said, leaning closer, “nothing but two people getting to know each other better.”

“You’re used to getting what you want, aren’t you?” you asked as you lowered your head towards her.

The loud cackle startled you. Jerking away, you found Rio laughing, head tipped back, almost wild in her delight. The glower that passed over Agatha’s face was fascinating before she smoothed it over, offering you a pleasant smile. Billy’s eye roll felt natural, like something he’d done plenty of times before.

You doubted you were the first one Agatha had tried to seduce after a show.

“Why haven’t you ever been to one of our shows before?” Jen asked, glancing up from her phone.

You weren’t sure how to answer it without admitting you weren’t exactly a fan of theirs. Not that you hated their music, just that you’d never been particularly invested in it.

“Probably because journalists aren’t paid that much,” Billy said.

“They’re paid enough,” Alice said.

“Leave her be. She’s under no obligation to spend her money on us,” Agatha said, hand slipping up your thigh another inch.

“Maybe I’ll have to come see another. I had no idea you put on such a fun show,” you said.

“No need to stroke our egos. Just tell us what you really think,” Rio said.

You considered her a moment that stretched out as you held eye contact with her. You weren’t sure you liked being so seen, especially by a stranger.

“Your music is fine,” you said, “it’s just not my favourite.”

“And what is your favourite?” Agatha asked, voice turning sultry, as if asking something far more interesting than your taste in music.

“A closely guarded secret from those I’m writing articles about,” you replied.

Her head tipped back as she laughed, full and throaty, the kind that made you wonder if this was the truth or another performance to make you like her. You had to admit, it was working on you.

“Well, now I definitely have to get you off the clock, hon,” she said.

Standing, her other hand landed on the other thigh, pushing you up to sit properly on the table. She stepped between your knees, fingers dragging up your legs, turning your brain fuzzy. Your chin tilted up, an automatic response to your position. Her gaze darkened, focusing on your mouth for longer than was appropriate.

“This is definitely not professional,” you said, voice whisper quiet.

“Fuck professional,” she said, “you already know what you’re going to write. This is just between you and me.”

“And the rest of us you’re forcing to watch this pathetic attempt at seduction,” Billy drawled.

Your cheeks heated, becoming aware of the audience to your embarrassment. Eyes were turned towards the two of you, watching. You shook your head, pushing Agatha back. Sliding onto your feet you looked around.

“Well, you’re right about one thing,” you said, “I already know what I’m going to write. Thank you all for your time.”

Offering a tight smile, you turned on your heels and fled out of the room. Cursing your own stupidity, you beat a retreat towards the exit, wanting to get home and not linger on the way that woman had made you feel with so little effort. There had to be something wrong with you to lose your head so quickly. You were trained better than that.

It wasn’t until someone fell into step beside you that you became aware of the sound of heels on the concrete floor following you. You glanced over, unsurprised when the smirking face of Agatha was looking back. You sighed, slowing your pace until you’d stopped just feet from the exit.

“You left in rather a hurry there, hon,” she said.

“I don’t want to keep you from whatever after party you had planned,” you replied.

“It’ll be no celebration without you there,” she said.

She took a step towards you and you took an answering one back. Her lips pulled up into a small smile, doing it again. When your back hit the wall, you realised you’d made a mistake. You’d let her corner you, alone, when the only thing you wanted was space to screw your head back on right.

“You left your phone,” she whispered, hand landing beside your head against the wall.

“Oh. Right. Thanks,” you said.

A hand slid into the back pocket of your jeans. Your breath hitched and a look of pride passed over her face. Her body slotted along yours, the hand on your ass pulling you closer, hips aligning in a way that made your thoughts scatter. Her nose ran along your jawline before her lips pressed to the vulnerable place behind your jaw. The noise you made as embarrassing, want and shame mingling together.

“Come celebrate with me,” she murmured into your skin.

There wasn’t any question about denying her request.

Her hotel room was almost clinical, all white sheets and bright lights. Clothes spilled out of multiple suitcases, flung over the couch and the bed. Agatha pushed them aside, uncaring when they fell to the floor as she reached for you.

You fell onto the bed in the cage of her arms, her lips finding yours in a searing kiss. The entire trip back to the hotel had been a masterclass in foreplay. Her hands had wandered as she whispered dirty things in your ear. Her lips would barely brush your skin and you’d shiver in the back of the car, leaning into her as she made you whimper for her touch.

Her tongue swept into your mouth, making you groan, legs curling around her hips. Her hands weren’t careful as they dragged down your body, pushing up underneath your shirt, nails scraping over your skin. You arched up into her touch, offering yourself to her.

Dragging the shirt from your body, she sat back for a moment, eyes tracing over your exposed chest. Fingers tangling in her hair, you pulled her back down, kissing her long and deep. Her hands were swift to divest you of the bra you were wearing, leaving you bare to her touch.

Her lips trailed down your body, your gasp only making her smile into your skin. Her tongue traced around one nipple, fingertips mirroring her movements on the other. You arched into her mouth, fingers tightening in her hair, pressing her to you, refusing to let her go. You were gasping her name. Blue eyes found yours, burning with lust, watching the way you responded to her.

You dragged her back up, kissing her, needing her in a very fundamental way. She laughed into your mouth, hands stroking over your skin. Rolling her, you straddled her waist, staring down at her. So much skin on display and yet not nearly enough. Ducking down, you did as you’d been thinking about since seeing her, running your tongue from navel to neck. Her groan was filthy, wriggling beneath you.

You were careful as you peeled the clothes from her body, lavishing attention on every new inch of skin you revealed. She squirmed, her voice raspy as she told you to get on with it. Grinning up from between her thighs, you waited for the sharp tug on your hair.

Her hips canted up into your mouth as you devoured her. Even in pleasure, she was musical, the noises she was making a symphony to your ears. Your hands held her legs open, refusing to let them close around your head, wanting her wider to get deeper, to hear the deep moans you could draw from her. Her hand was forcing you harder against her, rocking against your face.

You let her use you however she wanted. Her pleasure only made the throbbing between your own legs worse. Staring up her body, you watched as her lips parted, her hand working at her own breast.

She wasn’t quiet as she came, the noise loud, ringing in your ears as you lapped at her. You could spend hours there, doing this over and over again. This was a better show than the one she’d put on earlier that night, far more compelling to you. She hissed as you kept going, wanting to see it again.

With a grip stronger than you were expecting, she pulled you away, throwing you back down onto the mattress. She crawled up your body, lips trailing kisses up your bare skin, making you whimper. It was inconceivable how she made you feel with such simple actions.

She tugged your jeans off, a flurry of movement that had you pressing a hand to your eyes, squeezing shut when you felt her fingers on your wet heat. A featherlight touch circling over your clit had you whimpering, wanting more, ready to beg for it.

“Stay right there,” she whispered, lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

You watched as she stood from the bed, gloriously naked, uncaring and confident in her own body. Your own fingers slipped down your body, brushing over your clit, watching as she rummaged through her luggage. She glanced over her shoulder, watching for a moment, eyes darkening as she focused on your hand.

“You’re too fucking gorgeous, you know that right?,” she said before going back to whatever she was doing.

When your finger slipped in, your eyes fluttered closed, a soft sigh on your lips. Some relief was better than nothing. You were beyond ready for an orgasm of your own.

Fingers curled around your ankles, startling you. Your hand fell away from your hot cunt, staring at the sight of Agatha at the foot of the bed. More importantly, you were staring at the heavy purple strap bobbing between her legs.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard you’re ruined for anyone else,” she told you, her hold tightening on your ankle.

“Better get on with it then,” you said, feigning a cockiness you couldn’t feel in your breathless state.

Her chuckle was warm, throaty, making you reach for her. She fell over you, kissing you deeply until all thoughts fled. You didn’t even notice as her hands manhandled you until her lips disconnected from yours. Positioned on your hands and knees, her lips trailed down your spine, making you whine. Her hands were palming at your ass as she took her time, uncaring of how you were trying to wiggle closer.

“You’re dripping, hon,” she groaned before her teeth sunk into one cheek.

You pressed back into her, your own moan loud to your ears. Her tongue soothed over the mark before she rose. One hand on your hips steadied her as the other curled around your body, running through your folds. Whimpering, you looked over your shoulder.

“Are you ready for me?” she asked just as her finger pressed down on your clit.

“Yes,” you whimpered, “please.”

“Say it again,” she commanded.

“Please.”

The tip of her strap nudged at your entrance.

“Again.”

“Please.”

She pushed in, both hands grasping your hips, rough and demanding as she slid in to the hilt. Her name was nothing but a moan, your own hips pressing back into her. She was slow as she pulled out before thrusting forward again.

“Look at how well you take me,” she murmured, “you make such a pretty sight.”

One of her hands tangled in your hair, pulling your head up from where it had fallen forward. Staring back at you was your own image, a mirror placed in the perfect position to show you as she thrust into you. Your mouth fell open, watching your two bodies move together.

Her hands were back on your hips, throwing back her wild hair as she increased the pace of her thrusts. You couldn’t stop watching, not realising how much of a turn it would be to watch yourself get fucked by the rock star. Her grip was tight, almost painful, as she began to pound into you.

You were a babbling mess, begging for more, enamoured by the sight of the two of you. Her burning eyes found yours in the mirror, locking on, refusing to let you look away. Your internal walls were beginning to flutter, your desperation obvious. She grinned, slowing down her pace, making you whine like the brat you knew you could be.

“I should bring you on tour with me,” she said, tortuous slow thrusts keeping you on the edge but not enough to push you over, “you’re such a good stress relief toy.”

“Agatha,” you groaned.

“I could do this every night,” she said.

“Please.” You tried to press back into her faster than she wanted. The tight grip she had on your hips kept you in place.

“Would you like to come with us?” she asked.

You nodded your head, knowing it was ridiculous, knowing there was no chance you’d be joining her on the tour. But the thought of having more of this, to be given this every night for months on end, was one that you wanted desperately. You wanted to be owned by her, to be her bitch, to submit to her until you forgot your own name.

Her pace increased agains until she was slamming into you, the slap of skin loud in the room as you moaned like the whore she made you. Right before your orgasm hit, your elbows gave you, sending you face first into the mattress, giving her an angle that let her hit deeper within you. Her name was a strangled gasp and then you were clamping down on her strap, lost in the feeling of fire in your veins and pleasure rocketing through your body. Her slow stroks eased you through it before she finally pulled completely from you.

Rolling onto your back, you stared up at the ceiling, gasping for breath. You passed a hand over your face, overwhelmed by how good it had been. A quick fuck with a one night stand wasn’t meant to rock your world quite the way Agatha had. You listened as she did something by the edge of the mattress.

The bed dipped as she drew closer. She swooped down, kissing you long and deep and dirty, making you curl your arms around her waist. Repositioning you to curl against her side as she lent against the headboard, she was slow to draw away, hand stroking along your ribs.

“We’re leaving for the next stop on the tour tomorrow morning,” she said.

You knew this song. Sitting up, you pulled out of her hold.

“Right, yeah, of course,” you said, “well, thank you for the celebration.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked, arms wrapping around your waist, front pressed to your back.

“Home?” you said, unsure what was going on. This was not how your usual one night stands went.

“I suppose you will have to pack but it’s late. Do that tomorrow,” she said, lips pressing to your bare shoulders, turning you back into liquid heat.

“Pack?” you asked while your brain could still produce thoughts that weren’t just about the feel of her against you.

“You’ll need things while you’re on tour with us,” she replied, a whisper into your skin.

“On tour? I can’t drop everything and follow you around the country,” you said, turning in her arms to look at her properly.

Her long fingers pushed your hair out of your face but her lips were pursed in displeasure. Your fingertips ran along her collarbone, feeling the way the bone shifted under her skin as she shifted away from you.

“You said you wanted to come with me,” she said.

“I thought… I thought it was just a heat of the moment request,” you said, peering into her eyes.

“I don’t ask every beautiful woman I fuck to join me on the road,” she said.

“You seriously want me to go with you?”

Her hands on your waist pulled you closer until you were straddling her lap. Your fingers pushed into her hair, tangling in it, tilting her face up towards you.

“Come with me, hon,” she said, “join me on the road.”

You felt crazy for actually considering it.

“I’ll have to talk to my boss,” you said.

“Of course,” she said.

“I can’t lose my job,” you said, “and fair warning but I don’t exactly have any savings.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of you,” she said.

You considered her for a moment before you nodded your head. She brightened, your smile answering hers. You lent down, kissing her again, feeling insane for agreeing but not sure you could stop yourself even if you’d wanted to. There was something about Agatha Harkness that made you want to do things you knew you shouldn’t.

But you sensed it would be worth it.

[theodysseyofhomer]

kinda wild that the inciting incident of the iliad is about enslavement; specifically with chryses and chryseis about how it disrupts families and there's no recourse against absolute power unless the gods get involved. slavery is ubiquitous but not invisible. and yet the only reason it's so visible in this case is that agamemnon violates different social norms: he offends the gods and disrespects another warrior. in the world of the text, that's what he does wrong. that's it. if a priest of apollo weren't involved, chryseis would have died in argos like agamemnon says

[newsfromstolenland]

The Israeli cabinet has agreed to a temporary ceasefire deal that will enable the release of about 50 people who have been held captive in Gaza since the Hamas armed group stormed southern Israel on October 7.

The agreement came after talks on a Qatar-mediated deal that continued into the early hours of Wednesday morning, with Israeli media reporting heated exchanges between ministers of Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s government.

The prime minister’s office said the deal would require Hamas to release at least 50 women and children during a four-day truce.  For every additional 10 hostages released, the pause would be extended by a day, it said, without mentioning the release of Palestinian prisoners in exchange.

[...]

Hamas, which controls Gaza, also released a statement, confirming that 50 women and children held in the territory would be freed in exchange for Israel releasing 150 Palestinian women and children from Israeli jails.

It said that Israel would also stop all military actions in Gaza and that hundreds of trucks carrying humanitarian, medical and fuel aid would be allowed into the territory.

Full article

Tagging: @allthecanadianpolitics

To be clear, this is temporary, and Netanyahu has already said that Israel will resume its attack afterwards.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

FATUM NOS IUNGEBIT 1/4

(König x F!Reader)

Summary: You have seen him in your dreams. The seer has divined his coming. But nothing has prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh. (Historical AU where König fights for the Roman Empire in an auxiliary unit, finds a cute barbarian woman and decides to keep her as his own.) Word count: 5.3 k Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY. Spoils of war/enemies to lovers trope, graphic depictions of violence, historical gruesomeness, pining, odd banter, mixed feelings, romantic fluff, dubcon cuddling, eventual smut. Captor/captive dynamic. König is a brutal warrior... and a gentle giant. A/N: Lol what now? König dual wields 2 swords, goes Mike Tyson on his enemies, teaches his captive girl constellations in German, cuddles her and feeds her grapes, buuut mainly just tries to get into her pants (which historically did not exist at the time) A bit of a slow burn, but don't worry, they'll bang eventually ^^

AD 90, somewhere in the untamed frontiers of the Roman Empire…

The end of the world is here.

Not only have the crops failed for two years in a row, making chieftains beggars and beggars food for the fish, but now there are rumours that the god of war has arrived to destroy the land. The accursed Romans had turned their eagle gaze back to your land after years of sending their troops elsewhere, making it seem like they were not interested in your distant land after all. Untamed, they called it, harsh and barren and therefore inferior – your lush, abundant, beautiful land. No doubt they spat on it in their war councils because your roads were not paved, because your crops and villages were modest, and the women sometimes fought alongside men. Their storytellers immortalized false tales about you, calling you barbarians, but the only barbarians you could think of were the Romans themselves – crude, filthy and boorish creatures, drowning in wine and shit in their cities.

Rumours started to get fat and distressed when the troops approached your village. They said there was a giant at the head of the army, that the Romans followed a Titan's son who loved to eat men, torture women and impale children. They said he didn't accept proper food but preferred to eat his fallen enemies, washed his weapons with the blood of children, and split captured women apart with his cock, as long and sharp as his sword. They told that the Titan ordered his soldiers to poison the wells and destroy the growing crops with salt and vinegar. The rumours said that his tent was bigger than any chieftain's house and that he still struggled to stand at full height inside it. 

Even the land itself seemed to bow before him. Good weather followed his conquest wherever he went; ambushes failed, scouts got caught and tortured, exposing more villages to pillage and ruin. Your brother told you to flee the village, but how could you survive without your clansmen? You didn't know how to hunt; you barely knew how to fish. Your task in the village was to gather clams from the shore, dye wool and help the old Seer. How long could you survive on sorrels and clams alone?  

. . .

The old woman calls you to see her on the brink of war, and tells you to prepare for a ceremonial offering. Two horses, black as night if possible, brown at the very least, to appease the Great Mother of the Earth and quench her thirst for blood. If the Mother is satisfied with your offering, She will perhaps stop the approaching army or convince the Titan to leave your village alone.

She does a small rite before you, and you need to stay with her through her visions. You hate the smell of the leaves she burns, and try to cover your nose with your tunic to prevent breathing in the bitter fumes. The seer looks like she’s just lying herself down to sleep, but it’s always a burden when the spirits arrive and she starts to talk. You turn your back on her to coax them to rise: a mortal stare annoys the chthonic ones. You nearly fall asleep too as you wait, wanting nothing more than to go back to your own hut and have a good night’s sleep. Perhaps because you’re lousy tonight, and less vigilant as you should be, the spirits arrive sooner than either of you thought.

“He’s strong,” the seer croaks from the earthen bed, and you fight the urge to turn around and peek at the old woman, currently in the clutches of spirits. 

“Invincible… Hungry... The horses…won’t suffice…”

She drifts someplace else, and you try to memorize every word, every intonation, as cryptic or as simple as they are, for later interpretation.

“I see you,” she says in a slightly more cheerful tone, which is odd because the old woman is never happy or satisfied, no matter how bright the sun shines or how much food there is in the storages and pits.

“Me?” You dare to speak even though you’re not allowed to disturb the spirits. You could slap yourself for blurting out a single word, but luckily, the hungry ones don’t attack you for your insolence.

“You.. will be his downfall,” she speaks as if you are having a conversation here. “Be there. When he arrives.”

“...Be there? Why?” You dare to utter again, more concerned about what the Mother implies than the potential fury of some lowly earthen spirits. You haven’t got the faintest clue about what She might be suggesting. Why do you have to participate in the battle? How can you be there without getting killed? You’re not a warrior… The Mother has it all wrong. 

Suddenly, you curse the night, you curse the whole day, knowing your brother’s late proposal was perhaps a warning, a hint from the gods to leave, and leave quickly.

The old woman laughs dryly on the ground - the throaty, outright sick cackle makes you flinch. 

You don’t like this... You don’t like this at all.

“Mother. What must I do?” You demand to know, thinking about how all the gods, spirits, old women, and Titans should go to hell.

“Become a tree,” the old woman offers as if it’s the easiest thing to do. “A flower. Me...”

. . .

You become a marten first, then a bird. Then perhaps a tree.

You climb a spruce and wait there. You wait until the sunrise; you wait until noon. You wait until you see the glint of the Roman spearheads and hear the sound of their march.

You’ve dreamed of the Titan ever since you left the seer’s hut. You’ve dreamed of him slaying everyone in the village; you’ve dreamed of him driving a thick spear into the ground and grabbing you with an intent to raise you into the air and impale you on it. You’ve dreamed of him behind you, above you, inside you. You wake up one morning only to see that half of the people have left. You don’t know where they have gone, and you can’t follow them even if you did because the old woman waits for you in front of her hut and gives you a nod the instant you walk into another beautiful, sunny day.

That’s why you’ve turned into a branch in a tree, but for what purpose, you have no idea. You can’t understand why you must be here to witness the world’s end.

Your men scream and shout and roar as they crash into the thick forest of spears. The enemy is silent: it’s eerie, how the world burns and falls into ruin around you, people are screaming; everyone who has a soul and a heart is screaming for Mother as they die, but the men behind the Roman shields refuse to emit a sound. They don’t curse or shout or summon their gods; they simply stand their ground and pant mist into the air as wave after wave of men break on their shields and die before their feet. Somebody loses his spear because it gets stuck between your clansman’s ribs, but the Roman simply draws his sword in its stead: it’s the only sound among the pitched wails that cut through the forest – the cold, clear ring of a gladius being pulled from its sheath.

That is why you flinch at the sound of the first shout, a brutish command that sends all the shields to the side, only to present more shields: the Romans switch positions in their formation as if they’re not even human beings like the rest of you, just a single enormous creature made of iron and leather and bone, operating it's flat forest of weapons.

And then you see him: the giant of your dreams, the hungry titan everyone has told you about. He rises from the tide of helmets like a summoned god, concealed as one of the soldiers and only now revealing his true nature. He stands at least two heads taller than the rest, pushes his own soldiers to the side and breaks out of the formation these vicious Romans love so much. You knew he would be strong and big, but you didn't know he refused to show his face… You wonder what kind of a monster hides behind the black cloth with nothing but two eye holes ripped on it. As if this man needed the additional effort to stand out from other soldiers...

He's like a God of War, just like the survivors said: his armour is of Roman design, but the amount of metal that had to be scraped together to cover this man's shoulders and chest must've demanded a fortune in gold. He doesn't seem to care about the Roman ways, however: he throws his shield away as soon as he's out of the cumbersome formation as if he has carried it only as a decoration up until this point. He draws another sword in its stead – if any other man did such a stupid thing, traded his shield for a weapon, you would snort. But not now.

Standing between the Romans and your clansmen like a challenge, a threat, a deity, even the men possessed by the seer's blood spells hesitate to approach him. But when they do, the god unleashes carnage: the first warrior gets his stomach slashed open, and the two thick swords look like toothpicks when wielded by this man. A stomach wound is a gruesome, slow way to die - but just before the warrior's entrails spill to dangle between his feet, the brute grants him mercy by sweeping his head off with a single blow of his gladius. 

A roar finally rises from your enemy: they cheer Death on as the head of your neighbour meets the mud next. The soil is already soaked in blood, but the Mother is hungry still. The forest booms with Her bloodlust as the god moves around like a slow tempest of muscle, metal and darkness: he breaks every Roman rule by fighting as his own man instead of demeaning himself as one of them, a lowly part of this odd metal beast before you. He sends a limb flying in the air with a swing of a sword; he uses the same weapon as a bludgeon to bash in someone's skull. He crushes a man's chest simply by sinking down onto one knee, breaking bone, tendon and flesh to splinters as a whole ribcage gets crushed under his massive weight. 

Warriors flee before him, they fall under the combined wrath of the Mother and the Titan's sword. The dead seem to fall eternally, along with your heart, before meeting the ground with a hollow thud. 

Your chieftain is among the last men standing, meeting this unstoppable foe with admirable courage. Not having succumbed to the spells of bloodlust in years, he meets his death as a seasoned but old warrior. With his fighting years behind him, your chief doesn't have a chance against this man, but you have to grant the beast a feather's worth of honour, because he recognizes your chieftain as the veteran he is and salutes him with his sword. Then he proceeds with the bloodbath: flinging your leader's sword and axe easily to the side, he walks straight into his arms like he would into a hug, grabs him by the waist, and raises him into the air like he's nothing but a child. 

Your scream never leaves your lungs as you watch how the Titan raises the draping cloth from his face, just enough to sink his teeth into your beloved chieftain’s neck. The noise that erupts from your elder is not that of a man but a tortured animal. It’s not from this world, what you witness next: the giant tears a hunk of flesh from your chief like he’s a piece of roasted meat. Blood streams forth, his screams fade away all too slowly, and you hear your own weak wail in the air as the Titan lets go of the heap that used to be a strong male and a wise leader. 

Your chieftain is dead; his essence spills to the earth in spurts to appease the God of War, who spits blood and flesh to the ground, making you gag into the cold spring air. 

Then he raises his swords towards the sun, and the forest erupts into a roar with him: the thundering, ear-splitting cheer from his warriors makes the very earth quake beneath your tree. It seems to shake the branches of the forest, and before you know it, the giant’s howl of triumph breaks the one you’re curled around, and you fall, fall, fall into the mud beneath you. 

You're not a tree anymore. No: you’re very much a human woman there in the dirt as the sound of shouting ceases like a distant dream. 

And he turns. 

Death turns.

Mother always said you were a curious creature, which is perhaps why you search for his eyes, even though you should be running. She also said you were a smart one, which is why you know that running is futile. Your limbs wouldn’t carry you far anyway. It is a cruel joke from the gods to have what little strength you have left pour out of you into the ground and up to the feet of the enemy who is already strong, both in body and in will.

The Titan looks at you with genuine wonder, a curiosity that surpasses your own. To your odd thrill, you find that his eyes are blue: the same blue of the sea which you used to collect delicious clams from. 

The soldiers behind him shift with lust – their gear clinks as they devour you with unbridled hunger. The Titan is the only one who looks at you like you’re simply a cute little squirrel who happened to fall from a tree right there at his feet. Then his eyes drop to your breasts, and the familiar hunger that lives in men gives the ocean of his eyes a clouded look. When his stare finds yours again, he's a different man: the treacherous beast of your dreams.

You had hoped for a swift death… Violent but quick. But it’s clear that it’s not death he has in store for you as he takes a step towards you. It’s not a quick nor a slow death; it’s not death at all, because–

No.

No.

You’d rather have your arms torn off and fed to the Romans rather than have him thrust the sword between his legs, his third weapon, inside you. If you’re going to die screaming, it will not happen on your back; you will not amuse this beast with your womanhood and tears.

You scramble forward to pick up something, anything: a bronze dirk from a fallen warrior. The giant’s eyes fall on the sad excuse of a weapon, then on the sorry excuse of you. He thinks you’re planning to fight him with that thing, and the corners of his eyes crease a little from the prospect of having to subdue you. You’re proving to be quite the entertainment, and you curse those eyes, looking so kind and lively when just moments ago, the same eyes were inhuman and possessed. His are the eyes of a wayfarer, a wanderer, not a soldier: you catch a hint of sadness in them and curse again.

He’s not human, you remind yourself and show him what actual humans are made of. What women are made of. You give him another name, Giant, because you’ve always feared giants and hated the stories about them. Dumb and reckless creatures they are, stupid destroyers who always place their trust in their size. You never meant to fight him, and he only catches up on it as you turn the dagger towards yourself and guide it to point straight at your heart. 

You will be his downfall, just like the seer said.

“Nein–Warte,” the Giant speaks his first words, surprisingly soft to belong to a man like him. 

The sorrow in his stare consumes you in full now. It gushes forth like a tide, causing your breath and hands to shake when they need to be stern. You straighten your spine, jut your chin forward, and call for Mother: you don’t even know if you’re yelling for your bearer, or the Great Mother, or the earth that gives life to all. Perhaps you call them all to gather around and witness your sacrifice, higher in price than any of the Titan’s offerings combined. The blood you’re about to spill onto the soil will surely appease the land and raise it to arms to finally fight against this beast. 

He says something else just before you pull the blade back to strike it into your chest, and you curse for the third time in your mind: giants aren’t supposed to move that fast; they aren’t supposed to interfere in your last ritual. 

But the worst of it is that even when he finally subdues you, even as he wrestles the blade away from you, he ends up drawing a large gash on his forearm… As if he is trying his best to protect you from accidentally cutting yourself.

. . . 

You are brought to his tent, screaming. 

It’s not as big as a chieftain’s house; it’s barely the size of yours. But it is larger than the tents you saw when you got carried there: as a spitting, screeching, hissing package of what these brutes would no doubt consider a true barbarian woman with uncivilized manners and a fuckable cunt. They will talk about you around their campfires tonight: about you getting broken in by their true commander. It’s enough to satisfy them for now: to imagine their champion to fuck you bloody and sore. And who knows: perhaps they’ll receive the scraps if the Titan gets tired of you.

The precious dagger is somewhere in the mud, probably trampled there like it’s nothing but a piece of worthless metal. Your own trampling is only about to begin as the Giant marches into his abode and sends the men away, giving you uneasy looks in the process, perhaps checking if any of them had enough time to have a go at you. Luckily for him, you’re in the same condition as he left you: legs together, safe and pretty, because he bound them with a rope along with your hands. You are nothing but a delivery, thrown on the floor of dirt and a few animal skins. He just nods at you, happy to acknowledge that you are untouched by the others, as if it would somehow be worse for you to be raped by ten of those petite men than be raped by him: a cruel, bloodthirsty Giant with a giant cock. 

Your ankles and wrists get sore as you watch him doff his armour. He takes off the helmet, the belted straps, the segmented plates of his shoulder guards and the heavy Roman cuirass. The gods have truly favoured this man, not only gifting him tremendous height but insurmountable strength too. His muscles are large and lean and quiver with latent power as he moves; his back is so broad it almost competes with the wide mouth of the tent. He doesn’t seem to suffer from the cold either, but he keeps his mask on for whatever ghastly reason. Even if there is a monster under that mask, his body speaks of virility: he’s a man in his prime, a giant at his strongest, making you feel like an elf, a tiny little creature in the feet of this man who must be descended from titans indeed.

You continue to watch as he washes his hands in a small basin, cleans his mouth and neck, too. You reckon the water in that bowl is blood red and dark when he finally dries himself with a white cloth. He stands before you in nothing but his mask and the dark red tunic he had under the armour. He ties it from the waist with a simple leather belt, and it only now makes sense to you why Roman soldiers dye their clothes red: you’re pretty sure you can still see the darker spots on the hem of that tunic, the ones that used to be the lifeblood of your clansmen and kin.

He has the audacity to ask you - wordlessly - to clean his wound, the one you caused him. He sets you free from your bounds, and you are given fresh water and another cloth. He even opens a smallish wooden box of salve that has a familiar smell to it: pine tar and honey, used by your people to treat minor wounds and prevent bad spirits from getting into the wound. You wonder how he even knows about such a balm: is this warrior a Roman at all, or is he some odd creature hauled from the edges of the world to fight for them? You wonder if he has made the salve himself, extracted the tar from the pine and foraged the wax and honey himself, then cursed with his coarse language when he got stung by multiple bees…

You drive away the thoughts that threaten to make this brute human by snorting at his injury. The damage he gave to himself when he tried to guide the blade away from you at the price of his own blood. 

It still troubles you that he did it. Even a tiny wound like this can bring any man down if it starts to fester. The cold winds and rains of spring can easily get into the gash and make it rot. 

The idea of this giant being forced to his knees because of some filthy dagger wielded by a squirrel of a woman makes you smile inside. It would be a fitting fate for this man. But the vision also makes your heart sting. The thought of him dying of a simple flesh wound, alone and far away from his home, makes your heart grow kinder than it should. 

You decide there is nothing you can do but treat his arm, strong and scarred from previous battles. He sits down while you get to stay on the ground, and you try to ignore it that your face is now level with his groin. He sits with a wide spread in those powerful thighs, and you wonder if it's because the rumours about his cock are true. You keep your eyes everywhere else except the hem of that tunic and what's going on under there. He purrs at your touch, making it clear that it doesn't need much more than your soft fingertips to get him hard after a triumphant day on the field of battle. 

The wound is not deep, but you clean it carefully, trying to ignore the way his eyes seem to bore into you as you take care of him. Your hand is somewhat steady as you treat the damage with the nice-smelling salve, but you flinch as his hand suddenly meets your cheek. You look up at him, heart plummeting, thighs instinctively pressing together from the gentle way with which he cups your face.

“Schön,” he says, again with a tender voice and an adoring, almost worshipful stare. You don’t have a clue what he’s saying, but you know now for sure that it's not the tongue of the Romans he speaks. The scent of pines and bees lingers between you as he brushes a thumb over your lower lip. You are weak enough to give him a breath, a helpless, hot little exhale that meets his hand like a gift.

“Schön wie eine Fee,” he rumbles, sounding intoxicated or like he's under a spell of sleep.

“What the hell are you saying,” you whisper in your own tongue: just a meek little sputter, a tiny, horrified breath, but the giant’s eyes narrow with a smile.

“Sie redet,” he says happily, and your shoulders sink – you are on the verge of screaming from frustration alone. Whatever you do seems to only amuse this man, and you snap your mouth shut. Your cheeks heat up with recurring waves of odd fever. The ground beneath your shins is all but warm, and yet you feel warm all over: a dangerous sign, you know, and oddly tied to the peculiar bodings you have seen all week.

Because there have been many omens in the air lately. 

It’s just that none of them were portents of war. 

The cranes started to mate early this year, and you have found a lot of clams from the shore every day. Even your brother encountered a boar with nine piglets; everyone celebrated him as some holy man who had seen the Great Mother when he returned to the village that day. The wind started to blow from south soon after, and the moon has grown along with your womb: this morning, on the brink of war, you woke up wet and restless. 

All the omens speak of fertility, of growth, of a new cycle and of birth: of spring and life. There’s nothing about death and decay, nothing except what the people have told you about… him. The death himself. The war god.

“König,” he says as if he can hear your thoughts and wishes to correct them. You look up and see he’s pointing to himself, or rather, holding his hand over his heart. You fight the urge to scoff at the gesture. As if this beast had a heart…

“König,” he repeats the word and pats his chest, and you realize he’s trying to tell you his name. You wrinkle your nose in distaste, and he smiles. It’s easy to tell when he does, even with the cloth that covers his face: you can see the joy clearly from his eyes, the boyish grin that must be occurring under that mask.

“Du?” He points at you next, inquisitive. He has an odd way of pointing: with two fingers, slightly crooked, and you understand very well what he’s asking of you. You refuse to tell him your name, however, settling for pouting a lip at him next. The smile in his eyes only deepens.

“Fee,” he pokes you gently on the shoulder and leans back in his odd Roman chair, seemingly content with having now named you. 

And Mother was right: you are curious, so incredibly curious to know what this beast has chosen to call you and why. Are you a rat to him…? Some bird? Perhaps simply a girl?

He is so pleased with your conversation that he pours himself some wine and drinks the whole cup with one gulp. Great, you sigh inside your head, a beast and a drunkard. He pours another cup and tries to offer it to you, and when you don’t make a move to grab the clay mug, he brings it to your lips. You entertain him with a tiny sip: you’ve heard of wine and know that Romans are fond of it, but you have never tasted it yourself. 

The tart, bitter flavour almost makes you cough. You thought wine was supposed to be sweet: everyone always describes it as something like milk or honey or juice from an overripe apple. It very much is not, and you almost choke on it and then make a wry face at your captor. He - König - only laughs. It’s another thing that catches you off guard: first those boyish, sad eyes and now this hearty, grown man’s laugh. You have proved to be such an amusement to him that he doesn’t force you to drink any more wine and enjoys the rest of it himself. 

Then he rises and makes you shrink from him again, towers above you for a moment, and looks at you with that warm curiosity that makes your heart race.

“Müde?” 

He tilts his head, the bag of darkness shifts, the blue eyes behold you fondly, and for some reason, you whimper an answer to yet another question you can’t even understand. He takes your little squeak as a yes and falls to crouch before you, then raises a massive hand to the leather strings that keep your demure little dress up. 

To your horror, he pulls the knotted tangle open before you can stop him. Your dress falls from your shoulders and drops to pool around you, and you simply and verily stop breathing.

His eyes wash over you, he examines every little part of exposed skin like an entire treasure chest has suddenly opened before him. You pray to all the gods that he would find it in his heart to be gentle tonight. Your nipples perk up – from the cold or from his stare, you don’t know. 

The rough callous of his palm meets your breast and encloses it in warm support. He cups you, weighs you like he would a fruit, and then he squeezes you, rather hard, too: a deliberate attempt to make you squeal again. He replies to your pathetic mewl with an approving rumble, and you look up at him with all the helpless tenderness of the Mother, hoping that Her gentle pleas might persuade this man not to hurt you.

“Please don’t,” you whisper, and his eyes dart to your mouth, to your eyes, then back to your lips again. He immediately softens his touch. Then he lifts you from inside your poor dress, picks you up like you weigh nothing at all, and carries you to his broad bed, the sturdiest you have ever seen. 

This man feels like the strangest of fates, like a hopeless destiny, as he sets you on the skins and straw mattress, right next to your fluttering heart. Your insides ache as he undresses before you, entirely without shame. He’s hard under the tunic he rips off and tosses on the cold ground. Your eyes are glued to the legendary cock you’ve heard so much about, the cock that splits women apart: and it’s true that it's huge. It resembles the ones you’ve seen on horses, not on men, and your thighs are glued together as he comes next to you while that pale, monstrous cock sways long and heavy between his thighs. He moves you around a little, and you squeal from how weak you feel: weak as a mouse as he covers you with one of those rich furs he has in plenty on the bed. Then crawls under it too, right next to you.

Your heart almost wrenches itself out of your chest as a strong arm pulls you against him: the swell of your ass meets his thighs, solid and broad like treetrunks, and your lower back meets the hot, almost too hot horse cock. It starts to leak and throb against your skin the instant your flesh is pressed against his. You try not to whimper and moan as the Giant, König, curls around you like you two have always done this.

He takes a long, earnest inhale from your neck and hair, rumbles deeply and contently, and tightens his grip. Apparently, you smell and feel good… 

You wait and wait to be plundered and raped, but König only settles for holding you tightly, like you’re a children’s toy made of the softest straw and purest undyed wool. You relax slowly, and he purrs against your back, starts to fondle your breasts, ardently, until your body betrays you and you find yourself wet again; he squeezes and squishes your teats slowly, approvingly, then pinches your nipple once before finally falling into a heavy, deep sleep.

…

Please forgive your author for any historical inaccuracies and other silly things you find facepalmable <3 During this time König would've probably spoken some form of Old Saxon but since I'm not a TOLKIEN we have to settle for modern-day German here. I don't have a taglist for this fic so please check my pinned masterlist for future updates.

Translations

Nein, warte - No, wait

Schön - Beautiful 

Schön wie eine Fee - Beautiful as a fairy

Sie redet - She talks

Du? - You?

Müde? - Tired?

[fireya-x]

caught in the undertow

AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist

John Price x Reader

John made the right call that day. It could have cost you your life, but it saved a dozen others - innocent men, women and children. He made the right decision. …did he?

[7k words]

cw: injury, angst, feels, medical and military inaccuracies, guilt, trauma/ptsd, piv sex, …did i mention angst?

“Captain Price,” Kate Laswell stated in her usual cool, precise and professional manner. She was called forward to speak last, and the room seemed to hold its breath as she spoke. “Undoubtedly saved multiple lives. I was in communication with him the entire time, and the situation was dire. The moment the Sergeant moved to shield the mother and her child, the hostile shifted, presenting immediate danger and forced Captain Price to take the shot. His team's confirmations came almost immediately. Threat neutralized, Sergeant down, requesting immediate medevac. The sequence of events is clear. The timings, irrefutable. It was the only choice to prevent a larger loss of life.”

She paused, allowing her words to settle, her gaze sweeping across the jury, then to John. And finally, her eyes met yours, a flicker of empathy, a shared understanding of the burden of impossible choices, passing between you.

When you took your seat in the witness stand what felt like hours before, the air in the courtroom was thick, feeling more suffocating than the humid summer air outside. You felt the seams of your dress digging into your skin like a thousand tiny needles, the fabric clinging to your body like a second skin. The injury hidden beneath that fabric pulsed with a dull ache, a rhythm that echoed the beat of your heart, a constant reminder of why you were there in the first place.

Across from you, John shifted in his seat. Captain John Price. Your Captain. Your leader. The love of your life. Accused and tried for the choice he made that day. He held his composure with the effortless grace of a man who’d stared down far worse fates than a panel of judges, his gaze fixed on some point beyond the courtroom walls, as if searching for an escape. But you, who knew him better than anyone, saw the subtle signs of the storm raging beneath – the tension in his jaw and the way his fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the table.

It had been weeks since the operation, since the bullet meant for a terrorist found its path through your shoulder, but the memory was still vivid, a cruel film reel playing on a loop in his mind.

The mission had been textbook, up until the point it wasn’t. The intel, as so often happened in this line of work, had unraveled, leaving you and Gaz staring down the barrel of a hostage situation gone sideways. A dozen innocent lives held captive by a man desperate for freedom, his finger itching on the trigger of his AK. A man whose eyes held the cold glint of a cornered animal, ready to unleash a violence that could silence a room within seconds.

You aimed at him, your finger tightening on the trigger of your own weapon, but you couldn't fire.

A mother and her child were singled out from the rest of the group of hostages. He used them as leverage, as a shield, their bodies a barrier that prevented both you and Gaz from taking the shot. And then, without thinking, without hesitation, you moved. Instinct and years of training taking over, your body reacting before your mind could even process the risk, you stepped forward, ushering the mother and child behind you, shielding them with your own flesh and bone.

You’d made a choice.

And just as you made that conscious choice that second, so had John. It all happened in a blink of an eye. The radio comms were a mess, you heard your name, a strangled cry from John booming in your ear as he yelled for you to stand down, a mixture of desperate shouts that nobody had a clear shot – and then the unmistakable twitch of the finger on the enemy's AK –

The prosecutor, a man whose weapon was his voice, spoke up, his words cutting through the tense silence, slicing through your thoughts. “Captain Jonathan Price,” he began, walking slowly towards where John was sitting, “Let’s revisit the moments that led up to the point where you decided to fire upon the hostile. Was there any point during the hostage negotiation that didn’t involve engaging an armed man directly?”

John’s gaze shifted to the man standing before him, the predator circling its prey, seeking a weakness, an admission of guilt, that would seal his fate. “The situation was volatile,” he stated, his voice low, controlled. “The suspect had already demonstrated he was willing to use lethal force.”

“Yes, indeed,” the prosecutor agreed, his tone laced with a false sympathy that made your stomach churn. “One civilian had been shot, tragically. But tell me, Captain, were the remaining hostages in imminent danger at the precise moment you fired your – ” He paused, his gaze dropping to his notes, then snapping back to John. “...sniper rifle, an MCPR-300, I believe? With a compromised line of sight? Don’t you think that was reckless? Negligent, even?”

John didn’t answer at first, his eyes focused back onto a distant horizon beyond the room. He was taken back to that warehouse, the scene he had witnessed through his scope, the twitch of the finger of the man who was about to decide about the fate of innocent people, who was about to punish you for stepping in front of his only leverage, who —

“Captain,” the prosecutor repeated, “perhaps you haven’t been paying attention. I asked you a question.”

John took a slow, steadying breath, forcing himself to surface. “I heard the question," he said finally, his voice low and dangerous, almost sounding like a threat. “There wasn’t a second to spare. I had to take the shot. The second those hostages were moved, the hostile was enraged. He was about to shoot them all, and the Sergeant stepped into my line of fire. I knew that the shot wasn’t impossible. It was flesh and bone, no vital organ. I had to… I had to risk it.”

“So you risked the life of one of your own?” The prosecutor's voice dripped with disdain, a subtle emphasis on the word risked that twisted like a knife in John's gut.

“It was that,” John stated, his tone flat, devoid of emotion, a soldier reciting a mission report, the only way he knew how to survive this interrogation. “Or a far worse outcome. I made the choice that saved the most lives. It was the only choice.”

He refused to look at you, couldn't bear the sight of your bandaged shoulder, the visible reminder of his decision, his guilt. His gaze remained fixed on the far wall, as if he could will away the memories that haunted him.

The prosecutor, frustrated by John's stoicism, turned his attention to you.

“Sergeant,” he said, his voice taking on a deceptive gentleness designed to lull you into a false sense of security, to draw out the accusation he so desperately sought. “Perhaps you can help us understand what happened that day. Can you walk us through the events leading up to… the incident? In your own words.”

“Of course.” You stood, your back straight, your gaze meeting the prosecutor’s, your injured arm held slightly stiffly at your side – a consistent, throbbing reminder of the choice, the bullet, your pain.

You described how you and Gaz had entered the warehouse in hopes to clear the situation, how Price was in communication with Laswell about this unexpected turn of events, watching every movement through his scope; how Soap and Ghost were circling the perimeter outside to find any possible way to secure the situation from a different angle. You described the hostages huddled to the side of the room, their faces full of terror. You told them about the mother and her child, no more than five years old, singled out, terrorized by a man with nothing left to lose.

“Tell us,” the prosecutor interrupted, sharp and accusing, “why didn’t you fire on the man? You were closer. Why did you rely on someone outside to have a clear shot? Were you not confident in your own abilities, Sergeant?"

“Because, like I said, there was a mother and her child right in front of him,” you repeated, “and I knew he was going to shoot at them if one of us just lifted a finger.”

“But surely, a trained soldier -” The prosecutor began, his voice dripping with disdain, but you cut him off.

“There wasn't time, sir,” you shot back, “I didn't have time to think, to calculate, to consider my options. I acted on instinct. I reacted. And I did what I had to do to protect those innocent lives. Captain Price knew that, and he acted accordingly.”

“And by doing so,” the prosecutor pressed, “you put yourself directly in the path of Captain Price’s bullet. A bullet fired from a high-powered sniper rifle. A weapon designed to kill.”

You met his gaze, your jaw tightening. “Yes, sir,” you stated. “But if I hadn’t moved, that mother and child would be dead.”

You described the way you’d ushered the hostages behind you, ignoring John's desperate pleas for you to get down, knowing you had only seconds, maybe less, to act. “His finger was already on the trigger,” you continued. “He was unhinged. He wouldn't have hesitated. I did what I had to do.”

You looked at John, your heart twisting as you saw the agony in his eyes, the guilt he carried, the self-loathing that radiated off him in waves.

“And then?” the prosecutor pressed, his voice sharp, intent on dissecting this moment, this choice, until he’d found the weakness, the fault, that would bring John Price down.

“And then, everything happened very quickly. I saw the gunman fall, his weapon clattering to the floor.” You swallowed hard, forcing the memory down, the sight of the blood, his blood and yours, mingling on the concrete floor. “Then the pain hit. I fell… and then… everything went black.”

John’s shot, impossibly precise, impossibly fast, had found its mark, silencing a threat before it could unleash hell. 

“Captain Price’s shot,” you continued, “saved lives that day. He stopped a terrorist before he could execute any of those innocent men, women, and children. Before he could shoot Sergeant Garrick or me. It was the only shot, and it was the right choice.”

One by one, Gaz, Soap, and Ghost were questioned, their testimonies echoing your account – a chaotic situation, a volatile enemy, a split-second judgment call that had saved lives. 

Laswell’s testimony was calm, factual, and her words were carefully chosen. She offered no justification, no defense, only the cold, hard facts that painted a clear picture – there had been no other option, no other choice.

But his team’s words, their support, did nothing to soothe the guilt that burned in John’s gut. 

He’d fired the shot. He’d made the choice. And you, the woman he loved, the soldier who’d placed her life in his hands, carried the scar, the physical reminder, of that impossible decision.

Not guilty on all charges. 

John shook his lawyer’s hand, accepting congratulations with a curt nod, his gaze distant, his thoughts a million miles away. And as you watched him walk out of the courtroom, his shoulders hunched, his steps heavy, you knew, that the real battle had just begun.

The weeks that followed were punctuated by doctor’s visits, physical therapy, and the slow, agonizing process of reclaiming the strength and mobility you’d temporarily lost. Soap, Gaz, and even Ghost, took turns checking in, bringing you takeout, offering their clumsy attempts at comfort and companionship. It felt like you saw more of them during those weeks of recovery than you did John. 

But he was meticulous about your care, driven by a desperate need to somehow atone, to mend the damage he’d caused. He drove you to every doctor’s appointment, sat silently beside you in the waiting rooms. He made sure you had the best doctors, the best physical therapy. You’d find fresh ice packs in the freezer, pain medication neatly arranged on the kitchen counter, a schedule for your meds taped to the fridge with military precision.

He brought home flowers, he found that rare book you’d mentioned, the one you thought was lost forever, and placed it on your bedside table. A desperate attempt to bring back a sliver of the normalcy you’d lost.

He'd do it all to soothe his mind, to right the wrongs just a little bit. But it didn't help.

Just like that verdict hadn’t brought him any solace. He was a prisoner of his own self, the bars constructed from the barbed wire of guilt and self-accusation. He’d fired the bullet. With the knowledge that it would tear through your flesh, hurt you, make you bleed – 

Not guilty.

The words churned in his mind like a dark undercurrent, dragging him down, down, down into the depths of his self-inflicted torment. They echoed through the empty spaces of his days, a mocking chorus that followed him everywhere, laughing at him from the shadows.

Not guilty.

As the image of you being rushed into surgery repeated in his mind. His heart beating a million times a minute, replaying how your eyes rolled back into your head from the pain as soon as the adrenaline faded, how he had begged Laswell to send medical faster, how he watched his team tend to you because he was frozen in place, letting realization hit him of what he had just done with the force of a tidal wave.

Not guilty.

As he remembered pacing the waiting room like a caged animal, every thought about you a self-inflicting wound to his soul, every passing second an eternity. He saw your face everywhere, in the worried expressions of his team, on Laswell, as she relayed the surgeon’s updates on your condition. “It was a clean shot, John. Just like you knew it was. She will be okay.” But even those words – words of reassurance, of hope – couldn’t calm the storm raging within him, couldn’t drown out the relentless echo of that damning verdict.

Not guilty.

One centimeter. The surgeon talked to John personally, and it felt like a cruel joke when he praised the precision of the shot – painting him as the incredible soldier who’d done the unthinkable, the hero who saved the day – one fucking centimeter. A haunting reminder of your fragility, just how close he’d missed the subclavian artery, walking a thin line between duty and devastation, between love and loss.

Not guilty.

As he threw himself into his work, disappearing to the base for days, trying to outrun his own mind by getting lost in familiar routines – trainings, missions, briefings – a desperate attempt to swim against the current of guilt, but it was relentless, pulling him back into the depths of despair over and over again. 

He’d stand in the training room, the heavy bag swaying before him, a silent opponent that couldn't judge him, couldn't accuse him. He’d pummel it, again and again, the satisfying thud of leather against his knuckles a fleeting release.

Not guilty.

As he felt the sting of his knuckles split open, the blood a welcome distraction, a pain that grounded him in the present, momentarily pushing back the memories. He didn't stop, didn't flinch. He just kept hitting the bag, the rhythm of his blows a mantra, a futile attempt to atone for a sin he couldn’t wash away.

Not guilty.

As even his sleep was haunted by the echoes of that day. It was always the same - the screams of the hostages, the metallic clang of the terrorist's weapon hitting the concrete floor, your muffled gasps as the bullet ripped through you. He’d wake in a cold sweat, his sheets tangled, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He had to relive the moment over and over - his love for you against the lives of those hostages - the terror that seized him as his finger squeezed the trigger, the sickening thud of the bullet finding its mark, the knowledge that it was his skill, his precision, that had brought you so close to death.

Not guilty.

Could he have waited another second for a clear shot? 

No. He remembered it all too vividly; the frantic whispers in his earpiece - 

No clear shot, Captain. 

Civilians blocking the path. 

He’s moving. He’s gonna shoot.

The terrorist’s finger tightening on the trigger, the manic gleam in his eye. He was a cornered animal, desperate, ready to take everyone down with him.

The way you had moved, instinctively, selflessly, pushing the woman and child behind you, placing yourself in the path of the bullet he was about to unleash.

He’d made the only call he could, he knew that. But logic didn’t seem to matter against the gnawing guilt that had become his constant companion. The weight of it, the burden of that impossible choice, had him retreating further into himself, desperately seeking refuge from the truth he couldn't escape – he’d chosen to save those lives, and in doing so, had almost sacrificed yours.

Not guilty.

As he’d scrub his hands raw, the water running red in his mind, as if trying to wash away the phantom stain of your blood. He couldn’t bear to look at himself in the mirror, his reflection - the hard lines of his face, the haunted eyes - a constant accusation.

Not guilty.

As he’d walk through the door, late and weary, the aroma of his favorite meal would hit him, the familiar scent a painful reminder of the normalcy he craved, the domesticity he felt he no longer deserved. He’d find a bottle of his favorite whiskey already poured, two glasses waiting on the table, and you, in that soft, worn sweater he loved, would greet him with a smile that made his heart ache with a love he felt was both undeserved and unbearable.

Not guilty.

As he watched the aftermath of his choice everywhere. The way you winced when you tried to do mundane everyday tasks, reaching for the coffee on the cupboard, brushing your hair, finding a comfortable position to sleep. A reminder, constant and always present, of his choice, his bullet. 

And yet, when you caught him looking at you, you’d still offer him the brightest and reassuring smile. You smiled at him. You seemed to be so full of life, so full of love – something he felt he could no longer accept after what he had done. 

Not guilty.

It kept mocking him, over and over and over again – and the amber liquid in his glass did nothing to drown the demons that were laughing at him, their voices echoing the verdict, the words that condemned him more surely than any court of law ever could.

“Can’t sleep?” You’d ask, your voice soft and sleepy, as you approached him standing by the moonlit window, your hand reaching out to rest on his arm.

He’d flinch away from your touch, the reaction so instinctive, so painful, that it felt like a knife stabbed right through your heart.

“No.” His answer was short, clipped, and was followed by a silence that felt deafening, pushing the chasm that had been broken open between you even further. 

“Talk to me, John.” Your voice trembled, a mixture of frustration and sadness, a desperate plea for the man you loved to emerge from the shadows of his own making. You’d let him have his space, but you felt like you were losing him. You respected he would need time, but it was increasingly frightening to see him retreat further and further into this self-imposed exile.

“There’s nothing to say.” He set the glass down, the crystal clinking against the wood, a sharp sound in the stillness of the room. He turned to walk away, as if your presence was a physical burden.

You knew what he did wasn’t a rejection, but a shield, a desperate attempt to protect you from the shattered pieces of himself. He thought he was sparing you, keeping you from the darkness that threatened to drown him.

You longed for his touch, for the familiar comfort of his embrace, for the warmth of his laughter, the way he’d make you forget the world with a single glance. You longed for the man who laughed with his men, who stole kisses in the dead of night, whose touch had once been your sanctuary.

One evening, you stood in the bathroom to take a shower, as you desperately tried to reach for the clasp of your strapless bra. You hated that thing already, but you didn't have a choice, as straps would hurt your shoulder.

You couldn’t reach around, your shoulder throbbing with each awkward movement. The frustration of this simple task, the feeling of helplessness, amplified the deeper ache in your heart, the loneliness that had become your constant companion. You had enough.

“John!” It was both a cry for help as it was a plea for reconnection.

He was by your side in an instant, crossing your shared space to the bathroom in three quick strides, alert by the sound of your voice. “What is it? What’s wrong?” The urgency in his voice, the raw concern he couldn’t mask, a contrast to the coldness that had settled between you in the weeks since the trial, and it had tears flowing freely down your cheeks now.

The sight of you, usually so strong, so capable, brought low by something as simple as a stubborn clasp, tore through his gut like a burning blade.

He'd put that look on your face.

He did. 

“This damned thing…” you gestured to the bra clasp, your throat constricting as the emotions that had been suppressed for so long threatened to finally spill over. 

He didn’t hesitate. “Let me.” He said, moving behind you, his touch gentle as he brushed your hair aside and his fingers undid the clasp. Something he had done a million times before, but not with a touch that felt like you were made out of porcelain, about to shatter under the weight of his guilt.

“The doctor said I can change the bandages myself now,” you said, your voice soft, hesitant, “Can you… can you help me?”

He turned away, retrieving the first aid kit from the bathroom cabinet, his movements stiff, controlled, a familiar mask slipping back into place. But as you watched him lay out the gauze, the antiseptic, the scissors, you saw the slight tremor in his hands, the way his jaw clenched.

You knew, he was afraid of you. Or rather, he was afraid of himself, afraid of the damage he’d inflicted, the hurt he’d caused. He was afraid of hurting you again.

“Turn around, love,” he murmured, his voice husky, a rough caress against your ear. “May I?”

“You know you may.”

You turned, and you could feel the heat of his gaze, which burned into your back as if he could see right through you. You could feel the tension in him, the way he held his breath, as his fingers brushed against your skin, gently peeling away the old bandage.

Then you heard him inhale sharply, a sound that spoke volumes. He'd seen the bruise. 

“It’s…” His voice hitched, the word catching in his throat, the sight of that bruise, a grotesque masterpiece of purple and yellow blooming across your shoulder blade, a brutal reminder of the force of his impact, his choice, his guilt.

You didn't need to see his face to know the expression that twisted his features. You felt it, the self-loathing, the way it had poisoned him and had turned his love into a weapon turned against himself.

You tried to meet his gaze. “It's just a bruise, John,” you said, your voice softer now, a plea for him to see you, the woman who loved him, not the casualty he'd created in his own mind.

He worked silently to fixate the new bandage, the silence stretching between you, thick with unspoken emotions. Then he turned to leave, his hand reaching for the doorknob, but you stopped him, your hand reaching out, your fingers closing around his wrist.

“Don’t,” you whispered, your voice trembling, your touch a desperate attempt to anchor him to the present, to remind him that he hadn't destroyed you, that you were still here, still his.

He looked at you, his eyes clouded with a mix of emotions you couldn’t decipher - guilt, fear, longing, and a deep, abiding love that he'd tried so hard to bury. He wanted to pull away, to tell you that you deserved better, that he was no good for you, a danger, a threat.

“I should…” he began, his voice rough with the effort of holding himself together. “I have reports…”

But you weren't letting him escape. Not this time. You stepped closer, pressing your naked body against his, ignoring the ache in your shoulder, the protest of your wounded flesh, because the ache in your heart, the yearning for his touch, was a far more powerful force.

“Don’t,” you whispered, your breath warm on his skin, igniting a fire that threatened to burn away the carefully constructed walls he'd built around himself. “Don't push me away, John. Please.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, your scent filling his senses, something he’d craved, longed for, but felt he no longer had the right to claim.

“I don’t –” he started to protest, the denial on his lips, but you silenced him with a kiss, standing on your tiptoes to press your lips against his. He hesitated, a battle raging within him, then, with a groan that sounded more like surrender than anything else, he gave in. His hands, as if with a will of their own, found their way to your waist, pulling you closer, molding your curves against the hard lines of his body, seeking solace in the familiar feel of you, the warmth, the softness.

You moaned against his lips, a sound of pure need that seemed to break the last vestiges of his control. The weight of his guilt, the burden he’d carried for weeks, seemed to dissipate under the heat of your kiss, replaced by a more primal need; a raw, desperate hunger.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, to look into his eyes, the stormy blue depths you’d thought you’d lost forever, now blazing with a rekindled fire that sent a jolt of pure desire straight through you.

He kissed you again with a ferocity that had your knees going weak, his tongue a weapon claiming every inch of your mouth, his hands a possessive force on your hips, as if he could physically merge your bodies, your souls, erasing the distance, the doubt, that had haunted you for far too long.

He lifted you then, without breaking the kiss, carrying you towards the bedroom, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He laid you down on the bed, his weight settling over you, his gaze never leaving yours as he reached behind you, tucking a pillow beneath your injured shoulder.

He loomed over you, his body a welcome weight against your own. “This okay?”

“Yes,” you breathed, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, your body arching towards his, needing more, needing everything he’d held back for far too long. “God, yes, John… Just… touch me.”

His touch was no longer hesitant, no longer laced with guilt or apprehension. This was the John you knew. His hands, large and calloused, yet infinitely gentle, roamed your body with a familiarity like it was a map he had studied for years.

“Like this?” he rasped, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin beneath your ear, a spot he knew made you shiver with anticipation.

“Yes!” You moaned, arching into his touch, needing more, needing all of him.

“Tell me when it’s too much, yeah?” 

You wanted to tell him that nothing he could ever do would be too much, that the thought of him hesitating, of holding back any part of himself from you, was more unbearable than any pain he could inflict. But the words wouldn’t come, caught in the swell of need that tightened your throat, that turned your insides to molten gold under his hungry gaze.

He’d shed his clothes in a heartbeat, and then he was pushing your thighs apart. His knee settled between your legs, and the heat of him, the solid evidence of his desire, his erection standing full and proud, made you ache with a need you hadn't thought possible.

This was him, offering up his vulnerability alongside his desire, reminding himself, reminding you, that he was still the man you’d fallen in love with somewhere between the training ground and the front lines.

“John,” you breathed, his name escaping your lips as he positioned himself at your entrance, the tip of his cock, slick and hot against your aching core, a sensation both familiar and intensely, unbearably, arousing.

He entered you with a force that stole your breath, the feeling both familiar and overwhelming after weeks of forced abstinence.

He was fucking you. Hard, fast, with a ferocity he hadn't unleashed in weeks. Every thrust a desperate attempt to exorcise the demons that haunted him, to rewrite the narrative of his actions, to find solace, oblivion, in the heat of your body and the taste of your skin.

For a stolen moment, it almost worked. He lost himself in the feel of you, tight and hot around him; the scent of you, the taste of you on his lips, a drug that dulled the edges of his pain, offering a fleeting escape from the torment.

But the past had a way of catching up, even in this vulnerable, shared haven of yours.

You arched into him, your head thrown back against the pillows, a moan escaping your lips as he pushed deeper. Your face distorted, your features twisted in the throes of passion, and something within him snapped.

His vision blurred, the lines of your face dissolving –

Your eyes, rolled back, your brows furrowed –

From pleasure. Not pain.

Your breath hitched as he moved – as the bullet hit your shoulder.

Pleasure. Not pain.

He repeated those words over and over like a frantic litany in his mind, trying to erase the image that superimposed itself onto you —

He saw it again, your face, contorted in agony, not ecstasy, as he ran towards you in the warehouse, your body a broken doll sprawled on the blood-soaked concrete, a testament to his choice, his aim, his failure.

Pain.

The warehouse lights glared in his memory, harsh and unforgiving, reflecting off the pool of blood that seemed to expand, to swallow him whole. The metallic tang of it filled his nostrils, choking him. He felt the phantom weight of the rifle against his shoulder, heard the echo of the gunshot, the sickening thud as his bullet found its mark.

His stomach churned, the pleasure, so intense moments before, turning bitter in his mouth, a sour, acidic taste that had bile rising in his throat.

He couldn’t breathe. The room seemed to spin, your body suddenly a stranger, a fragile thing he needed to put at a distance before he destroyed you all over again.

“No…” The denial escaped his lips, a strangled whisper. His body shuddered, a wave of nausea rolling over him, forcing him to pull back, breaking the contact, leaving him stranded on a shore of his own making again, the waves of his guilt crashing over him again, threatening to drag him under again.

“John?” You sat up, the sheet pooling around your waist, concern furrowing your brow as you watched him recoil from you, his face distorted with an anguish you couldn’t decipher. You reached for him, your hand hovering hesitantly above his arm, unsure of how to navigate this sudden shift, this retreat back into the darkness he'd been fighting for weeks.

He shook his head, unable to speak, unable to face you. The shame, the self-loathing, was a physical weight that had him collapsing back onto the bed, his back to you, his body curled in on itself, seeking a refuge he knew didn't exist. It was as if he were trying to fold himself into the smallest possible space, disappear into the shadows, become as invisible as the ghosts that haunted him.

“John, what's wrong?” You whispered, your hand still hovering above him, wanting to touch him, to offer comfort, but afraid of intruding, of shattering the fragile shell he seemed to have retreated into.

He shook his head again, the gesture frantic, a silent denial of your offer. He couldn't look at you, couldn't bear the judgment, the accusation, he knew he deserved. The guilt, the remorse, the images that replayed in his mind – they were a relentless tide, an undertow dragging him down into a darkness he wasn’t sure he could escape.

“God, I don’t…” His voice cracked, the weight of his guilt crushing him, squeezing the air from his lungs, stealing his breath. “I don't deserve you… I don’t deserve… any of this.”

He finally turned to you then, and you flinched involuntarily. The pain in your shoulder was nothing compared to the agony etched on his face, the raw, unfiltered torment in his eyes, a reflection of the hell he was living in.

“I look at you…” He choked out, the confession a jagged piece of shrapnel piercing his heart. “And all I see is... the blood. Your blood. Everywhere…” He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking as a sob ripped through him, the sound raw and guttural, a stark contrast to the strong soldier you'd always known, the man who had built his life on control, on burying his emotions beneath layers of duty and discipline.

This wasn't the John you knew, the man who faced every challenge head-on, who commanded a room with his presence. This was a man undone, a warrior stripped of his armor, reduced to tears by the torment of his guilt, the terror of his own actions and his love for you. Vulnerable and exposed.

And as he sat there, his body trembling, his breath coming in ragged gasps, the dam finally broke completely. He was a ship caught in a hurricane, the waves of his guilt crashing over him, the mast of his resolve snapping, the sails of his self-control ripped to shreds. His sobs, raw and guttural, filled the room, a lament that echoed the turmoil in his soul, a sound that had your heart shattering into a million pieces.

“It’s… it’s everywhere. On my hands... On the walls… In my dreams… God, I can't… I can't escape it.”

You reached out, your hand settling gently on his arm, but you didn't speak. You could offer no words, no reassurances, that could alleviate this pain. You could only offer him your presence, your touch; show him that he did still deserved you and your love.

“Those nights… Every time I close my eyes, it's there. The warehouse, the hostages, the look on your face, the blood…” He shuddered, his voice breaking as he continued, “It's like… I’m back there, in that moment, but this time… this time you don’t get up.”

His gaze, filled with a desolate pain you'd never witnessed before, settled on the bandage on your shoulder.

“One centimeter,” he whispered then, “one fucking centimeter... and it was my choice, my bullet… ” He trailed off, the realization of it all, the weight of his actions, crashing over him all over again. “God, I’ve seen men die… good men, the best… I've held them as they bled out, watched the light fade from their eyes… But this…” He shook his head, the words choking him. “This is different. I… I can't…”

He shifted slightly, his gaze still settled on your shoulder. “You’ve been injured before,” he choked out, “hell, I've been shot, stabbed, blown up…” He laughed, a harsh, brittle sound – he’d survived a hundred battles, a thousand close calls, only to be brought down by his own hand, his own love. “But this… this time, it was me. I was the one who…” 

He couldn't finish the sentence, the words dissolving into another sob that racked his body. He pressed his palms against his eyes, as if he could physically erase the images that haunted him, but the memories were too vivid, too deeply ingrained - your startled gasp, the sickening thud of the bullet, the blood, your blood, blossoming against your skin. He saw it everywhere: on his hands, on his uniform, on the sheets of your shared bed. A stain he couldn't wash away, a mark of Cain branded onto his soul.

“I’m a monster,” he choked out, the words a strangled cry, a confession ripped from the very core of his being, a truth he'd been running from since the moment he'd pulled the trigger. “Don’t you see? I could have killed you... I almost killed you…”

You could see that he was losing the battle against himself, the fight for control he’d waged for weeks finally slipping through his fingers.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, his voice cracking again, the words an admission of his vulnerability, his need for you, the one person he felt he'd failed. “Please… forgive me.”

“John, stop.” You finally whispered as he seemed to have paused his emotional confession. You shifted closer to him, gently placing your hands on his ribs, his warmth seeping into your skin. “You’re not a monster. The hostages, they’re alive because of you. You saved Gaz. You saved my life. And you were the only one who could make that shot. You know that.”

Your hands found their way around him, to lift his head, so that he would look at you, so you could see him, the man you loved, lost in the depths of his own despair. You gently cupped his cheeks, your fingers wiping away the trails of tears that were rolling down, a gesture of comfort, of reassurance, and a silent plea for him to believe in your love, in the truth that transcended his self-inflicted judgment. “Listen to me.” You said, louder now, your voice a lifeline thrown out to pull a man drowning back to the surface. “There is nothing to forgive.”

“But I –” He started to argue, to protest, but the words caught in his throat, his breath hitched as he surrendered to the grief, the remorse, that had been bottled up inside him for so long.

"Shh," you soothed, leaning in, your forehead resting against his.

You pulled back slightly, meeting his gaze. “I don’t blame you for this, John. Not one bit. Not a single, tiny bit."

His eyes, shadowed with doubt, searched yours, as if looking for the lie, the accusation he was convinced he deserved instead.

“Yes, it sucks. Yes, it hurts.” You continued, your voice soft but firm, “but you know what would have hurt more? Dead parents and their children, and me… maybe not even here to hurt at all. He was about to fire, John. You know it. I know it.”

You held his gaze, your thumbs stroking the lines of pain etched around his eyes, lines that spoke of sleepless nights. “You may not want to be called a hero, John,” you whispered, leaning forward, resting your forehead against his again, offering him the comfort, the understanding, the love he so desperately needed. “But you are my hero. You did the right thing. If there's anyone on this earth who could make that shot, that impossible shot, who could put a bullet through my shoulder and stop a terrorist’s heart in the same breath… it’s you. It’s always been you.”

He stared at you, the intensity of his gaze softening as he listened to your words, the frantic beating of his heart gradually slowing, the storm within him beginning to calm.

“I just…” The confession escaped his lips on a shuddering breath. “I almost lost you. The thought of it…” He trailed off, unable to voice the terror that haunted him, the vision of your lifeless body, his bullet the cause, a constant nightmare from which there seemed no escape.

“I’m here,” you whispered, cutting him off before he could descend back into the abyss of his own making. “I’m alive.”

He closed his eyes, surrendering to the pressure of your touch, your warmth seeping into his skin. He let himself get pulled against your chest, his head resting so he could hear your heartbeat steadily in his ear. A reassuring lullaby to soothe him, a reminder that you were still here, with him.

“I love you,” he whispered, the words broken, a confession wrenched from his soul. “God, I love you so much… I almost… I’m so sorry…”

“I know, John.”

His breathing slowed as the tension ebbed from his body. He realized then, in the quiet aftermath, that pulling away, retreating into the silence of his own guilt, had only deepened the cut, amplified his pain. The distance had been a lie, a shield he'd put up to protect you from him, but now he knew: you didn’t need protection. You needed him, just as he needed you. The only force strong enough to pull him back from the abyss, the only remedy to heal those self-inflicted wounds, was you.

“I know.”

His tears continued to fall, but they were different now – not the hot, frantic tears of a man drowning in guilt, but softer, almost silent tears, born of exhaustion and a fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to forgive himself.

You watched him as he drifted off to sleep, his face finally peaceful. For the first time in weeks, he slept without nightmares and tremors. He was exhausted – emotionally, physically drained – the weight of his guilt temporarily lifted by the power of your presence, your touch, your love.

You leaned down, your lips brushing against his hair, your lips lingering, as you rested your head above his.

“I love you, too, John. It’s alright. We’re alright.”

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 6: Ladybugs and Dragonflies]

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, a bit of sexual content (18+ readers only), references to war-related violence, pregnancy/childbirth/etc., Red and Jace should go on Marriage Boot Camp, Lady Caro tries to bond with her weird replacement daughter, a little animal abuse??

Word count: 6.2k

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“How many people has he killed?” you ask as Jace takes your arm—not like Aemond would, not crushing and bruising but gently as if you are a creature with thin fragile bones, a blue jay or a bat—and leads you out of the Great Hall. The men still gathered around the letter on the table glance at you without knowing what to feel. As Jace’s wife you are their princess, you are their future queen, and yet you are Aemond’s sister and perhaps much more than that as well. Why else would he have abruptly fled Dragonstone to ravage the Riverlands, leaving Criston’s army vulnerable and scrambling to catch up?

“Thousands,” Jace says. “And there will be many more who starve because he’s torched their granaries and livestock. He’s sending ravens to the noble houses swearing that the dying will continue until you are returned to him.”

Thousands of people? Women like Mother and Helaena, children like Jaehaera and Maelor. “Let me write to him. I’ll tell him that I’m safe in hiding and not to harm any more noncombatants—”

“You think the Greens care about them?” Jace snaps as he brings you into the castle library, sparse and dusty, and you cannot help but remember the long hours Aemond spent in the Red Keep studying history, war, suturing, High Valyrian, the heroes of legends, the secrets of your body. “Daeron and Tessarion are burning people alive in the Reach. The Lannister army is pillaging every town they march through as they make their way east.”

“Jace, please, let me try.”

“Aemond isn’t going to believe a letter just because it claims to come from you.”

“There are things I can say that no one else would understand, and so he’ll know it’s really me and that I’m not acting against my will—”

“You’re not writing to him!” Jace shouts, and then collapses into a chair of pale lavender velvet and rubs his face with both hands. And you know—because he’s not someone who can easily hide what he’s feeling—that Jace is not just exhausted and frustrated but afraid. Afraid of the devastation Aemond sows, afraid of the hold he evidently still has over you. “It’s difficult for you to love someone like me, I think.”

“Yes,” you admit softly. “But I’m trying.”

Jace glares up at you; you have disappointed him. You have proven his suspicions true. “I don’t want it to take effort.”

“Isn’t it difficult for you too, Jace? To have affection for me? To see me as your wife instead of a captive enemy?”

“No,” he says. “Not anymore.”

You stand in the small neglected library—dust motes wheeling in cold grey daylight, dim nausea still churning in your belly—and watch him, feeling disoriented, feeling guilty, knowing there is nothing you can say that will help. It’s just like when Mother or Grandsire used to hint at your relationship with Aemond, grimacing with revulsion; you cannot make the accusations go away, you can only deflect. “Why would Aemond think I’m in the Riverlands?”

Jace sighs deeply, slumps in his chair, and runs his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. Maybe because Daemon’s at Harrenhal, and Aemond assumes he arranged your travel.”

Caraxes and Sheepstealer. Can Vhagar survive them both? “Aemond won’t try to take Harrenhal, will he?”

“He might!” Jace says, throwing up his hands with exasperation. “He’s reckless, he’s bloodthirsty, he’s insane, only the gods know where his lunacy will end.”

You don’t respond to this, though it is your instinct to. He’s not insane. He once promised to find me, and now he’s keeping his word.

“Isn’t he worried he’ll harm you?” Jace mutters, almost to himself. “If he’s attacking so indiscriminately, couldn’t he inadvertently burn you too?”

“He thinks he would be able to feel it if I was close by.”

Jace stares at you. “How would he possibly know that?”

“There are a lot of things you don’t understand.”

“About him?” Jace says spitefully, as if trying to decipher Aemond’s madness is beneath him.

“About us.”

Jace studies you. “What was the nature of your relationship?” he asks after a while, and then when you hesitate: “It must have meant a lot to you both. You’re still protecting him, he’s burning down the realm for you.”

“It’s in the past.”

“But it still matters.”

“I haven’t asked you about Baela.”

“She’s not a part of this war, she’s not here anymore. Aegon saw to that. He murdered her.” Jace’s expression softens, and his voice goes tender. “We need to learn to be truthful with each other. To respect each other, to be in harmony.”

“So you don’t repeat the sins of your parents,” you fling at him like a stone.

“Yes,” Jace agrees. “And because I love you.”

“Why do you keep using that word?”

“Because we’re married.”

“You don’t know who I am.”

“I want to. But you have to let me do it.”

“You won’t like the real me.” No one does. No one except Aegon, Helaena, Daeron, Aemond.

Again Jace asks: “What was the nature of your relationship?”

You look helplessly at the books stacked on the shelves, chronicles of plants, animals, ailments, battles, gods, heroes, dragons. Mounted high on the wall is Lady Forlorn, the Valyrian steel longsword of House Corbray, possessed by the elderly Lord Leowyn but no longer wielded by him. If you stood on your tiptoes, you would be able to reach it. Near the center of the room is a large globe of the world with the unknown reaches left blank. You walk to it, spin it slowly, stop when your fingertips land on the broken ruins of Old Valyria.

I wish we were still there. That’s where we belong. Aemond and I would be married, and Aegon would be unburned, and Jaehaerys would still be alive, and perhaps I’d even have a dragon.

“You and Aemond were close,” Jace says.

“Yes,” you confess.

“Mother said that Alicent told her you shared a flirtation.”

“We did.”

“And that entailed…what?”

“Just words, mostly.”

“You’re lying.” Jace stands and rages to you, his words halfway between a threat and a plea. “Stop lying to me.”

You can’t catch your breath, you can’t think. Your skull pulses hotly, your stomach roils, the scar on the left side of your chest aches where Aemond stitched you back together. Jace can’t hurt me, he can’t break our mothers’ pact and undo this marriage. Not if I’m carrying his child. “Jace, I don’t feel well—”

“You know about your body. The way you kiss, the way you move, the High Valyrian…you learned it somewhere.” And you can see in Jace’s face—the attractive yet unextraordinary face of a Strong—that he is terrified you learned it from Aemond. “What did you do with him?”

Your head feels like a shell struck with a mallet, splintering, shattering. Your arteries and veins have turned to currents of magma beneath the black volcanic rocks of Dragonstone. “Everything except what happened on our wedding night.”

Jace’s dark eyes widen, then drop to your breasts, your waist, your hips. “Everything…?”

“Except that, yes. What could result in a child was saved for my husband.” Aemond could never father a bastard. He would sooner die than debase himself like Rhaenyra did.

“You mean…surely you didn’t…” Still, Jace is gaping at you, his words slow and stunned. “I’ve heard stories from the soldiers, vulgar and wicked, strange ways of coupling, sins they commit with whores in brothels so they don’t leave children in their bellies to be murdered or abandoned…but…but you’re not…”

“Then you are adequately educated and we need not expound on it further. You got the truth you asked for. I hope you’re satisfied.”

Jace reaches for the sword at his belt, grips the hilt, then releases it. Instead he kicks over the globe—it hits the stone floor with a reverberating boom—and points to the door. “Get out of my sight.”

“Why are you mad at me?!” You are drained and dismayed, and then you’re furious. “I answered your questions, I was honest with you. You wanted to be in harmony and you believed this is what it would take. I tried to protect you from it. You insisted upon being hurt.”

“You told me you were a virgin.”

“And I was, you know that.”

“But he still fucked you,” Jace hisses. “In every other way. Things no decent lady would ever do. So that, what, he could rob your future husband? So he could degrade and humiliate you?”

“It wasn’t about that! He wanted to feel close to me, he wanted to please me, and perhaps you don’t care about pleasing a woman but I know for a fact Aemond did.”

Jace turns away from you. Again, his hand rests on the hilt of his blade. “You’re sinful, you’re disgusting. I can’t believe I’m fated to be bound to you for a lifetime.”

“You aren’t a Targaryen,” you seethe in High Valyrian, words you know he can’t comprehend, and you can feel your gaze scorching and cold mountain air on your bared teeth. “You can’t fathom the fury, the lust, the violence, the fire and the blood. We aren’t like the people of any other house. And we aren’t supposed to be.”

“Stop it,” Jace orders you.

“You’re not the blood of the dragon. You’re just some bastard built of ordinary things.”

“Get out!” Jace roars, and you flee from the library, from the castle, yanking on your boots and fox fur coat left by the entranceway and bolting out into the snow. It is halfway up your shins and coated with a layer of ice that crunches as you plod through it towards the tree line. You aren’t supposed to go into the forest of towering pines—not even with guards, and certainly not alone—but all your life you have been doing things you aren’t supposed to and it hasn’t killed you yet, and even if it did this time, what would be lost? Your imprisonment with a man who hates you? Cold snowbound misery here in some forgotten corner of the Vale?

I can’t save Aemond. Jace will never listen to me now.

Under the shade of the pines, so thick their dark green needles interlace like lovers’ fingers and blot out the sunless grey daylight, you find a felled tree and push snow off the trunk with the sleeves of your coat. Then you climb up onto it to sit, your boots swinging just off the ground, a frigid breeze billowing down from the Mountains of the Moon to make you shudder. Your right hand settles on your belly, where you are increasingly sure—now that you think back to how long it’s been since your last bleeding—that you are carrying Jace’s child. You don’t want it there, you have no maternal inclinations toward it whatsoever. You wonder if you can somehow sneak unnoticed into the storeroom of the maester here at Heart’s Home and find the ingredients for moon tea. But you don’t know how to brew it. You’ve never had any need of it before.

I’m not in the Riverlands, you think as loudly as you can, peering up into the trees and listening for the deep rumbling of Vhagar’s screams, the maelstrom of wind she stirs up. Aemond, I’m here in the Vale with House Corbray. Come find me. Come bring me home.

But you’ve never been able to make him hear you by your own volition, just like you can’t control your glimpses into his mind. And you fear Aemond wouldn’t want you back the way you are now.

Whether Jace or Aemond, either would be convinced the other ruined me.

You don’t feel ruined. You don’t feel like a different person at all; you don’t believe that any man has ever changed your strangeness, your desire, your love, your ferocity, your dreams of flying. But the world seems so fixed in its rules, and Old Valyria is gone, and perhaps now the Targaryens and their dragons are meant to be too.

There is the sound of crunching snow, and you look around expecting to see a bear or a shadowcat, something to maul you to death and drag your carcass away to be picked to the bones. Instead, it is Jace, and he has hurried outside in such a rush that he has forgotten his coat. He stops when he sees you and stands there silently in his black and red, the colors of his mother’s house, shivering but trying not to show it.

“You aren’t supposed to be out here,” he says at last.

“I know.”

“It’s dangerous.”

“And you’d be so devastated if I was devoured by a shadowcat.”

Jace sighs and pulls himself up onto the tree trunk to sit beside you. “My father had a temper,” he says, then flushes and gazes down at his own footprints in the snow, ashamed. “Harwin Strong, I mean. He had a temper.”

You are gentler with him now. It must be painful to lose a father who cares about you. “Yes, I’ve heard that.”

Jace looks over at you. “Did you have a choice in the matter?” With what happened with Aemond, he means.

Mother’s words echo in your throbbing skull: You don’t know better. You never had a choice. “It felt like I did at the time. Now I’m not so sure.”

“What kind of an answer is that?”

“Did you have a choice in loving Baela?” you ask, and Jace frowns thoughtfully. “She was your circumstances, she was beyond your ability to resist. But still you grew to love her as if she had been the wife of your choosing.”

“You loved him? That monster?”

“It’s very hard to explain.”

“Did he love you?”

“I don’t know,” you reply honesty. If he did, he never said it.

Jace reaches for your right hand and you let him grasp it. The motion is a bit awkward, but Jace is warm. Flurries fall from an overcast sky. “Neither of us wanted this match. I imagine we both fought against it with equal passion. But now it has happened, and nothing can unravel this bind we find ourselves in. We were wed in the eyes of the Seven. We consummated the marriage. You are my wife and I will never lie with another woman. And I don’t have any desire to. Whatever happened before, whatever we or our kinsmen did, we have to move beyond it. There was betrayal and death, and there was love too, and yet all of it must be worked through if this marriage is to succeed.”

“Not a simple task,” you murmur.

“No,” Jace says. “It isn’t. But I’ll try to do better. As your husband, it is my responsibility to protect and cherish you, not to be envious or cruel or wrathful. I shouldn’t have blamed you for what happened when we hated each other. I shouldn’t have ridiculed you for the effects of Aemond’s perverse influence. And I do want to know the real you, even if that hurts me sometimes.”

You watch the flurries whirl in the steel-colored air, feeling nauseous and dizzy and weary and fading away like the snowflakes melting into Jace’s dark hair. “I need to go lie down.”

Jace seems alarmed. “Are you ill?”

“I think it worked.”

He furrows his brow at you. “What worked?”

“Our efforts in the marriage bed. And in the stable.”

He blinks at you, startled, and then he smiles more luminously than you’ve ever seen him, and you think: I should be happy too. I should want this child. But I don’t, I don’t, I know I don’t. Jace rests his head against yours, his curls tickling your cheek, and whispers: “I am your family now.”

“Yes,” you say, a lie.

~~~~~~~~~~

Winter descends slowly, like a fever in reverse: cold that swims in your bloodstream, bone marrow turned to ice. Snow falls, ices over, melts on warmer days, is covered by a fresh blanket of powdery white. Daeron and the Hightower army wage war in the Reach. Aemond and the Lannister army besiege the Riverlands as Criston and his men march to join them. Aegon is missing. Sunfyre is presumed dead. Mother is still held in the dungeons of the Red Keep, along with Larys Strong, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, and a number of other political prisoners. Helaena is confined to her rooms but—as the result of Jace’s intervention—allowed to see her surviving children and walk in the garden under the supervision of armed guards. Rhaenyra rules over King’s Landing, a city that grows more restless and more hostile as Lord Celtigar’s taxes are levied and rumors of your disappearance spread. All over Westeros, people are starving and suffering and dying. And you are here, an island marooned in an ocean of mist and rocks, a remote land of the First Men and the Andals, earth you feel you do not belong on.

Jace and Vermax fly over the mountains and head south to King’s Landing, where Vermithor and Seasmoke circle high above the city and keep the riots from swelling to rebellions. You are left at Heart’s Home, and each night Sapphire flaps through the open window to visit you in your bedchamber when you are alone, and each morning you nurse your nausea and headaches in bed: mugs of cinnamon tea, toast with a thin scrape of butter and blackberry jam, nips of milk of the poppy that the maester allows you on particularly bad days.

“That is very skillful work,” he notes once when he spots your scar as he applies cold wet cloths to your throat and collarbones to bring down your fever. “Though I should not be surprised. I have heard that Maester Orwyle is among the best healers in the realm.”

“He is,” you say. “But Prince Aemond was the person who mended me.” After assassins sent by one of your Blacks beheaded a child and nearly killed me too.

But you know by the expression on the maester’s face—bewildered, disturbed, shrinking away from the unmistakable fondness in your voice—that you cannot speak of Aemond this way, that you should not speak of him at all, that no one here will ever see him as anything but the monster who murdered Luke and Rhaenys, who is presently raining dragonfire down on the Riverlands. And with each passing hour, day, week, month, you wonder if he really is a monster, and if you invented every soft moment you ever believed you shared, and if you would have chosen him if he hadn’t been the one who laid claim to you since birth.

By afternoon you are usually better, and Lady Caro drags you around trying to transform you into a woman of the Vale. She shows you how to tend to the goats and turn their milk into cheese and soap. She forces you to embroider dull scenes of snowcapped mountains and winding rivers. She sings—bellowing and off-key—the ballads of her childhood as you beg her to stop before it has some malevolent effect upon the baby. She brings you insipid-colored gowns tailored to accommodate your growing belly. She brushes your hair and tries out new styles constantly. She accompanies you for dinner each night and implores you to eat enough to make up for the breakfast and lunch you missed due to illness.

“I was horrified when my parents first told me I was to marry Lord Corbray,” she tells you one night as you dine on stew made from potatoes and peas and the meat of shaggy, black-haired yaks that roam the rugged terrain of the Vale, the fire crackling and her full cheeks ever-pink. Lady Caro is not one to ever run out of stories. She could have entire conversations all by herself, you are convinced. “I wasn’t even twenty yet and he was forty-five, and I thought that he was just…so…so old! But as it turned out, there are advantages to having an old husband. He treated me like I was the most beautiful woman in the world. He was too tired to chase after mistresses like all my sisters’ husbands did. And men with more experience…well…they understand how to please a wife in the marriage bed. Even if his male parts aren’t cooperating, he knows he has two hands and a tongue. And that’s all I’ll say!”

“I wish you’d say less,” you tease as you scoop up a spoonful of stew.

“And he was kind about it when we lost our children,” Lady Caro continues, soberly now. And she goes away, like she does sometimes, staring blankly at the window or the wall or the fireplace without seeing anything. “And then when Jessamyn was married and left for Seagard. Oh, that was an awful day for me.” Outside in the darkness wolves howl and owls hoot, and Lady Caro returns. “Do you know what Lord Corbray said to me last week?”

“What?”

“That my spirits are much improved since Prince Jacaerys brought you here. He thinks you remind me of Jessamyn, and so I get to be a mother again.”

“Did he really?”

“Yes! And of course I told him that he was absolutely mistaken, that you’re an odd and disobedient thing, always ruining your embroidery, sneaking off into the forest where you know you aren’t supposed to be, dodging all my kind words and soothing embraces. You’re nothing at all like my lovely sweet docile affectionate daughter.”

You smile mischievously. “I’m kind of like your daughter.”

Lady Caro snorts. “If you were my daughter, I’d walk straight into the ocean and drown myself.”

And you both burst out laughing, so loudly that Lord Leowyn Corbray overhears and ambles into the Great Hall to investigate the cause of the commotion.

When Jace returns, he is worn down: by the journey, by the tremendous suffering throughout the realm, by being overruled by his mother and her council. He tells you as you lie in bed together that night, Jace’s head resting on your belly and your fingers combing absentmindedly through his hair: “It never used to be this way.”

“Before the war, you mean?”

“Yeah,” Jace murmurs, kissing the place where his child lives. You wish you felt such devotion to it. You wish you felt anything. Mostly, you try to pretend it doesn’t exist. “We were able to speak kindly to each other. Mother was always reading stories and playing games with us. And Daemon…he and I were never especially close. But we didn’t quarrel. I respected him as my stepfather, and as the husband of my mother’s choosing. But he hasn’t earned that loyalty.” Jace is quiet for a while, and you assume he’s dozed off until he speaks again. “It changed all of us. Grandsire dying, Aegon trying to take Mother’s throne, Luke and Baela being killed. I suspect that in Nettles, Daemon sees Baela and my mother when she was young, and that’s why he’s grown so…attached to her.”

You wonder: Will Aemond find someone who makes him think of me?

Jace gets up to extinguish the candles. The window is closed so Sapphire can’t get in; you don’t think Jace would approve. Mosaics of the faces of your lost family hang on the walls, but when the candles are blown out no one can see them. You feel the feather mattress shift as Jace climbs back into bed and turns toward you.

“We don’t have to anymore,” you say. I’m already pregnant.

“No, you’re right. We don’t.”

But then in the darkness you reach for him—your body starving for passion, your bones cold—and this time it is slow and intense and brilliant, and Jace learns how to touch you, and although he is never as rough or as primal as you crave he does not leave you unsatisfied. And each time he and Vermax vanish into the mist-colored sky above Heart’s Home, you discover that you miss him more.

The Triarchy arrive with ninety warships at the mouth of Blackwater Bay—and you knew they were coming, but Jace didn’t—and the Sea Snake’s fleet repels them, but not before half his vessels sink to the bottom of the ocean and Seasmoke is killed by a bolt from one of the countless scorpions mounted on the Triarchy’s ships. Corlys, wounded in battle and having lost a wife, three children, a granddaughter, and a grandson, is unable to fight on and is brought to recuperate in the Red Keep. In the taverns of King’s Landing, Jace finds a Targaryen bastard called Ulf the White to ride Silverwing, who is claimed during a clandestine trip under the cover of nightfall to Dragonstone while Aemond is leagues away in the Riverlands. One less free dragon in the world, one more person judged worthy in ways you aren’t.

Without Jace’s knowledge or approval, Rhaenyra sends ravens instructing the loyal houses of the Riverlands to capture Nettles and bring her south to King’s Landing to be tried for treason. House Mooton of Maidenpool, fearful of Daemon’s retribution (as he and Caraxes are based nearby at Harrenhal), inform the prince consort of the plot. Daemon sends Nettles and Sheepstealer away—to where, exactly, no one knows—and then flies north to offer protection to Cregan Stark’s army so they will agree to invade the Riverlands. In his absence, Aemond and Vhagar take Harrenhal, and both the Lannister army and Criston’s men follow him there and dig in to wait for the Northmen.

When Jace is able to return to Heart’s Home to stay with you for a few days or a week, he tries to win your trust and show you that you have his. He tells you of the Blacks’ war strategies and that Rhaenyra has hidden Rhaena, Joffrey, and her silver-haired sons with Daemon, Aegon and Viserys, in the Eyrie with Lady Jeyne Arryn. And while Jace is here, you enjoy walking through the snow with him and visiting the horses in the stable, and at night you fall willingly into the shelter of his arms. But when he’s gone again, the pieces of yourself you have tried to smother come back to life.

You dream of being locked in a closet or a trunk and pounding on the wood for hours, but Aemond never returns to let you out. You startle when you see your reflection and don’t recognize yourself with your hair in the styles of the Vale. You recall Helaena placing ladybugs in your palms and watching them scurry up your forearms like blood drops. You feel your fingers yearning to swipe, to claw, to fight, to be pinned and overpowered. You remember when you taunted Aemond with words he once said in the garden of the Red Keep—“If I ran, do you think you could catch me?”—and he had bolted after you and chased you through the halls as you both laughed wildly, slamming each other into walls and doorframes as horrified onlookers gawked, dragging each other to the floor, until you had crawled on sore palms and knees into your bedchamber and Aemond finally caught you, rolled you onto your back, held your wrists to the floor as he climbed on top of you, and aching so badly it had put tears in your eyes you had begged for what you knew he could not yet give you.

You receive a vision through Aemond’s eye once, and only once, late on a night when Jace is hopelessly far away and you are petting Sapphire as he sits in your lap, his shiny black eyes gazing adoringly up at you and his fanlike ears twitching as they listen to your words. Abruptly you are in a different firelit bedchamber in another castle, and within Aemond’s skull is a turbulent sea of grief, fury, disgust, desire, and you see—who is that?—a flash of long dark hair.

Then Aemond is gone, but for only a few seconds he felt so close and so real that you are left breathless, broken, missing him more than you thought was possible now that you’re another man’s wife and carry his dark-haired heir in your belly.

Does he touch someone else? Does he love someone else?

You curl up on the cold stone floor and sob as Sapphire clings to your shoulder.

I can never go back to who I was before.

Then why is it so hard to forget her?

~~~~~~~~~~

Jace is gone again, and has been for weeks. You hope he is back before the baby is born. By custom, men do not enter the birthing chamber, but you still want him in the castle. It would make you feel less alone, here in the cold windswept Vale where Targaryens were never meant to be, here where an icy stream almost took your life when you were a child after Aemond pushed you in. Lady Caro and the maester say your labor will begin soon, but this seems impossible. The baby you carry has never felt real—not even when it kicks, not even when it puts aches in your spine and your hips—and you try not to think of it too much because what it makes you feel are only sinful things that anyone else would be horrified by: indifference, inconvenience, disconnection, disbelief.

You are in your bedchamber and Sapphire is here with you. He scrabbles clumsily around the floor as you work on your latest mosaic of shattered seashells. It’s the first one you’d made of Jace, and you are trying to figure out how best to place the black shards to mimic his curls. You are being a good wife. You are trying to believe that he is your family now.

The bedroom door opens and Jace sails in with his red cloak streaming out behind him, beaming now that he is home with you and his soon-to-be-born child. Before you can say anything, Sapphire takes flight and swoops at Jace, curious, benevolent, making new friends. Jace gasps and knocks him to the ground.

“Don’t!” you shriek, but it’s already happening: Jace stomps on the bat twice, but once would have been enough. Fragile bones are snapped and crushed, blood gushes out onto the grey stone floor. You’re wailing as you race across the room and cradle Sapphire’s limp body, his black and white fur a satchel of hemorrhaging organs and shifting bone splinters. His eyes are lifeless.

“What?” Jace is asking, desperate to help you but not realizing what he’s done. “What’s wrong with you? It’s a wild animal, it could give you diseases, it could harm you or the baby—”

“You know I love bats,” you sob.

“What?! No I don’t, what are you talking about?!”

“On the ship!” you shout, enraged now. “I told you on the ship when you brought me here!” When you trapped me, when you stole me.

Jace is blinking in disbelief. “That was nine months ago.”

He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t care. When he tries to comfort you, you push him away so violently his back hits the wall. You snarl at him in High Valyrian, words he cannot understand but a tone that is unmistakable: “You don’t listen to me. You don’t know me. Get out, get out, I don’t want you here.” And Jace storms out of the room simmering with his own disappointments, grieving that he will never have a wife who is sweet and compliant and comprehensible.

You want to burn Sapphire’s body so he can have the burial of a Targaryen, but the maids pour into your bedchamber and take him away as you try to fight them. They scrub his blood off the floor and make you change into a clean nightgown, and afterwards as you lie in bed with venomous tears snaking down your cheeks, you feel that everyone expects the person you were before to die and a new woman to reveal herself, but you can’t kill who you are—sometimes you wish you could, but you can’t—and there is a vague ache in your lower belly as you sink into dark, homesick dreams.

You wake at midnight in horrible pain, like the cramps you once had when you bled each month, but sharper and stronger and rather than letting up getting closer together until they are unrelenting. You stagger to the door, pink-tinged fluid leaking onto the floor, and call for the maids. They wake Lady Caro and the maester, then fetch linens and hot water and cold cloths. Lady Caro’s voice is calm, and her large hands are always there to seize with a crushing grip or help you stumble around the room. She tells you that Jace has been informed you’re in labor and that he is pacing in the library, where Lord Corbray is gamely trying to distract him.

I can’t be in labor. This baby isn’t real, this place isn’t real, I want to go home.

The maester thinks you should stay in bed, but you crawl down onto the floor and kneel there as contractions rip through you, and when he tries to urge you back into bed Lady Caro shushes him. The pain is very bad, and then awful, and then excruciating, and now you are convinced something has gone wrong and you cry out as your palms press into the cold stone floor.

“It’s not ladylike to scream,” Lady Caro says patiently, and you yowl at her and shove her away, and she laughs and comes back to cool your face with a cloth pulled from a bucket filled with snow. “It will be over soon. Right when you feel like you can no longer bear it, that’s when the baby will be born and the pain will subside.”

You look at her with sweated, exhausted terror. “Don’t pretend women don’t die doing this.” Rhaenyra’s mother Aemma did.

“Oh, they do, they do,” Lady Caro says. “But you won’t.”

Aemond would be here if I was his wife. “Please get Jace,” you tell her. “Can you bring him here? Please?”

Lady Caro glances anxiously at the maester and the maids. “Men aren’t usually permitted in the birthing chamber.”

“Please,” you moan. I’m dying. I’m afraid. I don’t want to be alone.

“Alright.” She squeezes your shoulder and then rubs your back reassuringly. “Let me go talk to him.”

It seems like Lady Caro is gone for a long time, but it must only be minutes. The maester is saying things you aren’t listening to, the maids are darting around franticly. It’s been a very long time since a baby was born in this castle. Then there are new footsteps in the room, swift and purposeful.

“I’m here,” Jace says, crouching down on the floor beside you. You clutch for him and he catches your hand, then kisses your knuckles. He chuckles nervously. “I don’t know what to do, but I’m here.”

“I’m sorry,” you whimper pitifully. “I don’t want to die with you mad at me.”

“I’m not mad,” Jace promises, and his lips travel to your cheek, your temple, your ear. “I’m not mad. I love you. I’ll get you new bats.”

There is unimaginable pain, and pressure, and blood too. Jace holds you as Lady Caro reaches beneath your red-stained nightgown and says you are almost done, a few more pushes and the baby will be here and the agony in the past; and while you still even now cannot fathom being a mother to anyone, let alone this child you cannot admit you don’t want, this encourages you. You shriek as the baby is born in a torrent of fire and blood, and Lady Caro catches him in a sheet that turns instantly from white to crimson.

“A boy!” Lady Caro is announcing, and the baby is crying as she and the maester clean him, and Jace is weeping ecstatically and asking to see his son, but you don’t even glance in his direction.

I don’t want this child, you think through the dissipating pain and the relief that the worst is over. I don’t want this life.

“Dear, you should hold him,” Lady Caro says gently, and before you can protest she places the child, no longer crying and wrapped snuggly in a blanket patterned with blue dragonflies, into your arms.

And although of course he does not look like a Targaryen—dark hair already twisting into curls, black eyelashes and Jace’s nose—when you gaze down at him it feels as if everyone you’ve ever lost has been returned to you, Aegon and Helaena and Daeron, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera and Maelor, a mother who understands you, a father who is present, Grandsire smiling proudly at you like he once smiled at Helaena, and even Aemond’s ghost (who haunts doorways and staircases, bedchambers and libraries); and when Jace marvels at the baby’s tiny wrinkled hands you know he is remembering Luke, and Harwin Strong, and Laenor Velaryon, and Baela, and he has forgiven you for all of it.

“We are your family now,” Jace says, and for the first time you believe him.

[pedrospatch]

conflicted

Raider! Joel Miller x Female Reader

summary: Your captor gives you a bath. You have some conflicting feelings when he touches you.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. RAIDER ERA. DARK!JOEL. DUBCON. also tagging elements of NONCON just to be on the safe side. UNSPECIFIED AGE GAP (reader is in her 20’s and Joel is 50). READER HAS NO PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION. mentions of Joel’s group murdering reader’s group, Joel killed her father, mention of blood, Joel pretty much kidnaps reader and keeps her as his own. pet names (baby, babygirl, honey, pretty girl, little girl), daddy kink, very minimal editing.

PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS.

if this isn’t your thing, that’s fine, just scroll on by.

word count: <1k

a/n: this is a bit less than a blurb. a blurb of a blurb. a blurbette, if you will. i shelled it out in like less than an hour. to me it is part of the captive universe, but can be read as a standalone! please be advised that this is not fleshed out at all, i just felt like writing something that didn’t require too much brain power.

He pours one last pail of hot water into the tub.

“How’s the water?” he asks you.

His voice is so deep. Rich, like molasses. 

It’s also laced with a southern accent, you’d noticed.

Aware he’s still waiting for an answer, you shrug.

He tries again. “S’not too hot, is it?”

He had ordered one of the women in the group to start a fire and boil water collected from the stream they had stumbled upon just a mile south of the small cottage.

“Seriously, Joel?” Angela had glared at him. “I am not a fucking maid.” Hands planted on her hips, she foolishly added, “If I’m gonna haul and boil water for a bath, it’s gonna be for me, alright? Not for that little fucking brat of yours.”

His switchblade had gone straight to her throat.

“Fuckin’ say that again,” Joel hissed, the sharp edge of the blade lightly slicing into her flesh. “Call her that one more time and see what fuckin’ happens.”

She apologized and then got to work, completing the task within a couple of hours.

Finally, you answer his question.

“Water’s fine,” you mumble. It’s hot, but not scalding.

“Good.”

Joel kneels beside the tub.

Flinching, you hunch over and pull your legs up against your chest.

It doesn’t matter. He’s already seen you naked.

He’s the one who had undressed you, after all.

Dipping a washcloth into the water, Joel instructs, “Sit up straight, honey.”

Honey.

The pet name makes you feel sick to your stomach.

You’re not his honey. You’re his prisoner.

He frowns, the creases between his brows deepening.

“Don’t make me repeat myself, pretty girl.”

Obediently, you nod and the water sloshes around you as do what he says.

You saw what he was capable of. You’re terrified of him.

With a satisfied hum, he begins washing you.

It had been three days since the massacre. Joel gently scrubs away the crimson caked onto your skin and the color of the water turns to rust. You don’t know whose blood you’ve been wearing—could it be your father’s?

He had been standing in front of you when his life was taken by the very same man that knelt beside you. Had his blood splattered on you? Was it being cleaned off by the same man who had so violently spilled it?

Your stomach lurches at the thought.

He had been trying to protect you during the ambush.

Your father had been trying to fucking protect you.

And Joel Miller had killed him.

He had killed him just to get to you.

Joel runs the washcloth down your arm, his dark gaze dragging over every inch of your body. “Such a pretty, pretty little girl,” he murmurs. Dropping the washcloth into the water, he gently cups one of your breasts in his large hand. He sweeps his thumb over your nipple and lightly teases the pebbled flesh, his digit circling it until it becomes a stiff peak.

Your eyes flutter closed and you inhale sharply.

There’s a strange feeling in your lower belly.

Strange because it’s not entirely unpleasant.

He trails his hand lower, raking over your tummy.

Lower.

Lower.

Lower.

He rests his palm over the mound of your pussy.

Gasping, your thighs clench together.

You’d like to think it’s to keep him out, to keep him from violating you further, but the burning pressure building in between your hips seems to be saying otherwise.

Horrified, you squeeze your thighs even tighter.

No. Don’t let him in.

But what if your resistance led him to force his way in?

You shudder, unable to decide which would be worse.

Joel leans forward over the bathtub, pressing his lips to your temple. “Don’t fight it, honey. S’okay that it feels good,” he mumbles against your skin. “It’s s’pposed to feel good when I touch you, baby.”

No, it’s fucking not!

Bowing your head, quietly begin to sob.

He wraps his arms around you. “Don’t cry, babygirl,” he soothes. “Don’t cry. Daddy’s gonna take real good care of you. I promise I’ll always take good care of you.”

His vow makes you cry even harder.

divider credit @saradika 🤍

[tune-on-in-folks]

Day 13! I actually managed to get this in time! And I do like this one, it has it's charm. Enjoy a Human!Alastor x Reader.

Tags/Warnings: Murder, blood, p in v sex, fem!receiving oral, oral sex, creampie, talk about murder, actual murder, abuse, mention of abuse, implied and written abuse, reader's husband is an abusive asshat, serial killer Alastor Word Count: 2, 876

There was not a man in town that was as captivating as Alastor Hartfelt. The popular radio host was quite the charmer, always managing to charm men and women alike. Which worked to his advantage. It was easy to lull his victims into a sense of calm, earning their trust. Long enough to draw them to his cabin, and end their lives. Of course, no one was particularly fussed when the people he chose went missing. They were often men who reminded him of his own father. They weren’t people that would be missed by anyone and he knew that. After all, his mother hadn’t missed his father one bit when he went missing one night.

Of course, with his charms and his rising popularity as a radio host, he began to draw unwanted attention. That often came in the form of womanly admirers, those who sought to try to win his heart. Or earn his favor. Of course, Alastor didn’t have time for them, he was a busy man after all. His friendship with Mimzy helped dampen the amount of womanly suitors enough that he was finally getting left alone.

Enough for you to catch his attention.

Alastor knew who you were, you worked for his radio station, after all. You were an intern, fetching coffee, taking calls, the sorts. He had spoken to you only a handful of times, typically when you brought him his morning coffee. You were quiet, never trying to strike up a conversation with him unlike all the other women who worked at the station. You were refreshing and Alastor found that he enjoyed your quiet presence. He requested you for tasks by name more and more.

“You, my dear, are a fresh breath of air!” He said one day, giving you a soft smile.

You had flashed him such a pretty smile in turn, “How so?”

“You, my dear, understand me.” He replied, refusing to elaborate.

The more you saw of Alastor, the more you were charmed by the man’s charms. He once told you that you were a fresh breath of air, but he was your own fresh breath. His witty remarks, kind smile, and soft touches were in stark contrast to your husband’s. You found yourself growing fond of Alastor and the increasing time you’d spend with the radio host. It wasn’t long before he promoted you to his assistant, which meant that you were spending most of your time with Alastor. It was nice, something you looked forward to. He quickly became your reason for living. You often fantasized about having married him instead of your husband. The silent camaraderie between the both of you was enjoyable. Alastor made you laugh, shared your humor, and your wit. He was gentle, kind, and charming. He was everything your husband was not. He was everything you wanted. Somewhere along the lines you had managed to fall in love with Alastor. Your promotion to assistant came with a single red rose a few days later that had your heart skipping a beat. Especially because you knew the meaning behind such a simple gesture. Alastor had given it to you, and kissed you in the privacy of his office, admitting to his affections for you. It was enough to make you swoon.

The news of your promotion got to your husband faster than you could muster up the strength to tell him yourself, fearing his anger.

The news of your promotion somehow got out to your husband.

You had just finished putting the rose into a small glass when your husband came home, raging drunk, demanding you to explain why he hadn’t heard of your promotion.

“I had to learn that from John. Is there something you don’t want me to know?” His hands slammed down on the table, shaking the vase with the single rose.

His eyes caught on the bloom, “Who the fuck gave you a single fucking rose?” He picked up the vase, hurling it, “Answer me, damnit!”

You barely flinched as the vase went flying towards your head, barely missing. “A work friend.”

Your husband had scoffed, advancing on you. “Work friend, my ass. No one gives my wife a single red rose and gets away with it!”

What he meant by that was that you got punished instead. His hand struck your face, sending you sprawling to the floor. You barely flinched, used to your husband’s anger. You were in for a long night, but you didn’t care. Because Alastor had given you a red rose and you knew exactly what that meant. Unspoken love coming to light. He was always such a charmer.

You came into work the next day sore, bruises barely covered with makeup, but enough that no one batted an eye at you. That was until you entered Alastor's office. He was working on his latest script, his eyes flickering up upon your entry.

“Hello, my dear.” He greeted, pausing as he saw your limp.

He sat up fully, pushing his round glasses further up his face to take you in better. After a moment of observing you he spoke up.

“Are you alright, little doe?”

You chuckled, trying to brush off his concern. “I’m perfectly fine, Alastor. I had a small tumble today, that’s all.”

“Hmm.” He hums, his eyes narrowed.

He had heard around the speakeasies that your husband wasn’t the kindest man. But he had never seen the physical signs of abuse before. His eyes caught on the bruise under your eye, your makeup having smudged.

“Come here, darling.” He gestured, reaching for your hand.

You flashed him a soft smile, taking his hand as he pulled you closer to him. 

“Alastor, you know I’m married, you charmer.” You attempted to joke.

His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your bruised cheek. He watched how you flinched at his slight touch.

“Yes, that’s what I’m worried about.” He mutters, his voice dropped into something low and dangerous. “He did this, didn’t he?”

You took a deep breath, knowing that no matter what, Alastor would always be able to see through you. “He did. But I’m okay, I promise, Al.”

He had withdrawn his touch, his mind already churning with plans on how to charm your husband. How to earn his trust and kill him for ever laying a single hand on you. He had already been narrowing down the speakeasies your husband frequented. It was only a matter of time before he was the next victim of the Bayou Butcher.

“I promise you, my dear. I will help you out of your situation.” He flashed you a dangerous smile.

You chuckled, sitting down beside Alastor, “And I would love your help.”

Oh if you only knew what you were agreeing to.

Alastor had managed to ‘accidentally’ cross paths with your husbandthe next night. He pretended to be new in town, working to charm your husband. But Paul wasn’t a stupid man and didn’t give his trust readily. Alastor realized it would take a few nights of charming your husband, much to his distaste. Barely an hour in and he was disgusted by the man. But you were the one woman who managed to capture his attention, and subsequently his affection. And Alastor was determined to free you from your husband. 

Your husband's beatings grew more frequent in the coming days, and you did your best to hide it.  Alastor always saw through you, however. His anger was growing, his patience slipping.

And now it was breaking.

You hadn’t managed to make it into work that day. Everyone noticed your absence, and they talked. They talked loud enough for it to get back to Alastor that your husband had hurt you badly. He left his studio early that night, having decided that that was the night he’d kill your husband.

“Alastor!” Paul roared upon seeing the Alastor enter the speakeasy, “Come here, my friend!”

Alastor gave him a polite smile, his eye twitching in utter annoyance, but he greeted the man all the same. “Salutations, Paul. Fine weather we’re having today, yes?”

“Who cares about the weather, hey!” Paul slapped his chest, “Let me buy you a drink.”

Alastor let him, keeping an eye on how much your husband drank. He always ensured that for every shot he had, your husband had two. It was a little game he was playing, his impatience showing. He was tired of trying to charm your husband, he was going to kill him and he was going to do it tonight.

Eventually Paul left to head back home, declining Alastor’s offer to help him home. The radio host could only quietly glower as his plans changed. He would just have to tail your husband home, and draw him away before he arrived at your home. Alastor couldn’t risk y0u seeing him kill your husband. But of course, he got distracted fantasizing about killing your husband, that he lost sight of him. Cursing, Alastor quickened his pace. He realized, too late, that Paul had arrived at your home. His anger was simmering beneath the surface, but he would be damned if he’d let Paul live another night. He needed a plan to draw him back out, away from you.

Yelling erupted from your home, Alastor’s anger sparking into a full roar as he heard what he thought was you being thrown to the floor. Unable to stop himself, he rushed up the steps to the front door of your home. Cold panic flooded him as silence suddenly blanketed the house. He shoved the door open, ready to kill your husband for hurting you, when he froze.

There you stood, covered in blood, a knife in your hands. Paul lay on the floor steadily bleeding out from a wound in his neck. Alastor gently closed the door behind him, locking it. He made sure that the blinds were completely drawn before he made his way to you. You set the bloody knife down with shaky hands, taking in Alastor’s calm approach.

“Alastor?” You whisper, not having anticipated his presence.

You had acted out of pure instinct when your husband lunged at you, he had managed to put two and two together. He had figured out it was your boss who had given you the rose. He had told you he was going to kill you, and yet here he lay, dying on the floor of the house you shared.

Alastor stopped in front of you, taking your bloodied hands in his. “Well, my dear, I must say I’m very proud of you.”

He cupped your cheek, smearing your husband’s blood onto your face. You shivered at the feeling, adrenaline still pumping through your body.

“Al-” He cuts you off, his lips pressing against yours incessantly.

You moan into the kiss, not having expected it.

Alastor rests his forehead against yours, his voice deep and sultry as he asks, “Tell me my dear, how does your first kill feel?”

You shiver, “exhilarating.”

“Mhm, good.” He smiles widely, capturing your lips again. “You did so good.”

His mouth trails down your jaw, to your throat. Your breath hitches as Alastor nips and kisses your skin. You wrap your hands around his back, sliding a hand into his hair as you moan.

“Alas-tor…” You whimper, “I just..fuck…killed my husband.”

He pulled your nightgown over your head,pulling a small gasp from you. 

“You did. And I’m so proud of you.” He praises kissing you again, “I was going to kill him myself, but you did wonderfully, my dear. We’ll take care of his body in a moment.”

You whine into Alastor’s kiss, feeling his grip on your hips tighten. He rolled his hips against you, his erection pressing against your low stomach.

“Alastor..” You gasp as he leans down to capture one of your nipples in his mouth. “You…You’re the Bayou Butcher?” It was less of a question and more of an observation.

“I’m surprised you figured it out, my dear.” He praises, sliding your panties off.

“Of course I did, I know you.” You whisper, gasping as he hoists you up, pressing you against your kitchen counter.

The knife you had stabbed your husband with was right beside you as Alastor kissed down your body.

“And how long have you known?” He asks, nipping at your inner thigh.

You moan softly, “I figured it out months ago. Enough time to figure out a pattern in the men you kill. I was hoping Paul was next.”

“He was, but you beat me to it, my dear.” He pushes your thighs open, licking a long stripe up from your slit to your clit.

You gasp, moaning as Alastor closed his mouth around your nub, his fingers sliding into your tight cunt.

“I’m surprised you’re as wet as you are. You did just kill your husband after all.” He teased you, curling his fingers inside you.

“And I have the man I love touching me.” you retort, rolling your hips down against his touch, your breath quickening.

Alastor chuckles, speeding his touch up as he sucks and nips at your clit. He could feel your walls squeezing around his fingers as you got closer to your release. A few more moments and you were crying out, cumming around his fingers. He continued to finger you through your release, lapping up your juices. He pulled his fingers out a moment later, licking his fingers clean. He reached for his pants, freeing his cock. Your eyes caught on his member, a shiver of anticipation running through you. He raises an eyebrow as you attempt to close your legs, prevented only by him being nestled between them.

“Now, now. No getting shy on me, my dear.” He chuckles, pumping his length a few times.

Alastor grabbed a hold of your knees, pulling you closer to the edge of the counter. He ran his cock through your slick folds, positioning himself at your entrance.

“You’re just so big.” You mummer, glancing behind him towards your husband’s body. “Bigger than him.”

“Ah-ah-ah, eyes on me, darling.” He scolds, grasping your face in between his fingers.

You meet Alastor’s gaze again in time for him to flash you his charming smile. He begins to press into you, slowly rocking his hips. He entered you slowly, drawing a long moan from you.

“I’m the only thing you should be concerning yourself with right now.” He murmurs.

“Oh fuck!” You whimper, rolling your hips down as he pressed into you.

“So good.” He moans himself, slowly reaching his hilt. “So tight. You were made for me.”

You smile softly, arms wrapping around his back as he begins to rock his hips.

“You did so well, my love, and now look at you, taking my cock so well.” He continues to praise, his thrusts long, deep, and slow. “I’ve waited far too long to be in your perfect cunt.”

You chuckle, meeting Alastor’s thrusts as he picks up his pace. “And I waited too long to kill my husband.”

He hums, his breaths coming a little faster. “Better late than never, my darling doe.”

He picked up his pace, the sound of him fucking you filled the air. Your moans were met with his grunts, mixing with the symphony that was your bodies meeting over and over. Your grasp tightened on Alastor’s back, kissing him deeply. Your pleasure was building higher and higher, the coil in your gut tightening. You knew you were close to your release again.

“Ah-Alastor, I’m close.” You mewl against his mouth.

He pistoned in and out of you faster, his breathing growing labored. He slipped his hand between your bodies, rubbing at your clit in tight circles.

“Let me feel you, darling. Let me feel you fall apart around my cock.”

You cried out, your head falling back against the cabinets at his touch. Your body quivered, his name spilling from your lips loudly as you came hard around his cock. Alastor buried his face against your neck, biting down on your shoulder as his pace faltered. A moment later he found his own release, pushing as deep as he could inside you. You moaned at the sensation of his seed filling you, your walls squeezed him, milking him for every drop.

“Fuck,” he panted, “Just like that. You’re such a good girl. My darling little doe, you took me so well.”

He kissed you gently as he slowly pulled from your cunt. You whimper at the loss of his cock.

“Alastor.” You whisper, reaching out for him as he takes a step back from you.

He flashes you his smile again, tucking his softening cock away. “Let’s get you cleaned up, hmm? Then I’ll dispose of this insolent creature’s body.”

Alastor scooped you off the counter into his arms. You smile, pressing another kiss to his lips.

“Thank you for your help, my love.” You whisper against his mouth.

“Of course, my dear, you don’t have to worry about him any longer. I’ll take care of it.”

You giggle as he begins to carry you upstairs, you couldn’t care less that Alastor was the Bayou Butcher, he was the man you loved. And lucky for you, he loved you back.

[bossbtch1]

Hottest Night of Your Life

Summary : Bucky and Steve joined you for a night out at the club, but things took a dark turn when a stranger spiked your drink. Bucky and Steve were more than willing to "take care" of you.

Pairings : Steve Rogers x F!Reader x Bucky Barnes

TW : Smut, NSFW, 18+

Tags : Possessiveness, Jealousy, Aphrodisiac, Slight Manipulation, Fingering, Threesome, Double Penetration, MMF, After Care

Words : 10.9k

A/N : Hey there! Apologies for the irregular updates, life's been quite hectic lately. Nevertheless, I wanted to share something with you for the holiday. I'm not sure if it's up to par, and I might delete it later, but for now, I hope you enjoy it!

My Masterlist

As you finished getting ready for the night out, you slipped into a daringly short dress with the clear intention of making a statement to get laid. The plan for the evening was simple – hit the club, have a good time, and maybe find some company for the night. Initially, Nat and Wanda were supposed to be your trusty wing-women, but they had mysteriously bailed on you, leaving you to navigate the scene solo.

Despite the slight annoyance at their unexpected absence, you couldn't stay mad, knowing the two had their own thing going on. A knowing smile played on your lips, realizing that you might be the sole occupant of the Avengers compound spending the night alone. It wasn't that you were one to sleep around, but the chance was too tempting to pass up, especially with the only man who held your interest seemingly oblivious to the depth of your feelings, at least not to the degree that he wanted to do anything about it.

With a self-assured mutter, you declared, "Alright, I’m ready to get laid." as you slipped into your high heels and grabbed your purse, ready to take on the night.

As you swung open the door, you were met with the unexpected sight of Steve and Bucky standing there. Their heads turned toward you in unison, jaws dropping, and their eyes shamelessly traced the contours of your figure, creating a heat that resonated through the room even before they touched you.

"Oh, hey guys. Sorry, I didn't see you there," you greeted them, ensuring your voice carried enough volume for them to hear. Their expressions shifted from confusion to subtle appreciation as they took in your well-put-together appearance. Tonight, you looked not just good but exceptionally gorgeous.

As you casually inquired, "I'm just about to go. Is there anything you need from me?" you maintained a calm tone, masking the arousal building within you as their intense gazes lingered on your form.

Steve, attempting to regain composure, stammered, "I, uh..." struggling to meet your eyes.

Bucky, captivated by the exposure of your legs, found himself at a loss for words, his mouth subtly watering. Silence lingered, a charged atmosphere thickening between the three of you.

Not willing to prolong the moment, you broke the silence, "Okay, bye. I'll see you later," and started walking toward the exit. Their apparent speechlessness didn't deter your determination to have a good time.

They didn’t say anything and you didn’t want to wait for them any longer, "Okay, bye. I’ll see you later," You mumbled as you began walking towards the exit, it seemed like the two didn't have anything else to say and you weren't in the mood to wait any longer, you were ready to have fun.

Before you could reach the door, Bucky's voice halted you with a single word, "Wait."

You stopped and turned around, concealing the effect their scrutiny had on you, hoping they  didn't notice how wet you were through your panties, you didn't need anyone to know that your pussy was begging for attention, you just hoped that nobody could smell you. "Yeah?" you inquired, awaiting whatever he had to say, uncertainty hanging in the air.

"Uh," Steve and Bucky both stumbled, their thoughts racing in a direction they deemed inappropriate for you to discern. The air thickened with unspoken desires and awkward tension.

Concerned by their peculiar behavior, you raised an eyebrow and questioned, "Do I have something on my face?" Your gaze moved between the two men, sensing their discomfort and odd demeanor.

"No, not at all. It's just... Do you have plans?" Steve stuttered, casting a lingering glance over you. He couldn't help but imagine you in those heels, a tantalizing image that sent shivers down his spine. He felt his cock twitch and he was having a hard time not picturing you wearing those while he fucked you. "Where are you going?"

With a shrug, you replied, "Well, the girls bailed on me, so I'm going alone for some clubbing."

You couldn't help but notice their uneasy state. "Are you guys okay?"

"Fine," they both chimed simultaneously, their synchronized response only adding to the peculiarity of the situation.

Smiling softly, you turned to continue walking, bidding, "Okay then, well, bye."

"Hold on!" they exclaimed in unison, bringing you to a stop.

Turning back with a furrowed brow, you asked, "Yeah?"

"Would you mind if we came with you?" Steve questioned, his eyes devouring your form. He wanted to etch every detail of you into his memory, unwilling to miss out on any part of the captivating picture you painted.

Your eyebrows lifted in surprise. "You? Why?"

Bucky, his hands twitching with a desire he couldn't hide, chimed in, "You can't go out alone, it's not safe." The urge to touch you was evident in his restless movements, a silent plea for permission.

"I think I'll be fine, it's just clubbing," You shrugged, you weren't in the mood for babysitters, especially when all you wanted was a carefree night with drinks and hopefully a dick. “I can take care of myself.”

"It's not a good idea, we're coming with you," Bucky said, the two had already made up their minds.

"I don't know, guys..." Your hesitation lingered in the air as a tinge of worry crept into your voice. You were cautious, fearing they might unwittingly sabotage your chances of getting laid. Trying to dissuade them, you crafted excuses with a playful touch, "You guys don't really seem like the clubbing type. It's not exactly a hotspot for old people."

Steve, slightly offended, retorted, "Hey, we're not that old."

A playful chuckle escaped your lips, "Well you both are pushing 100 years old." Your attempt at humor fell a bit flat as you sensed their discomfort. The attempt at humor hung awkwardly in the air as you noticed their discomfort.

Your smile faded, and you cleared your throat, "Sorry, it's just that a lot of the music is newer, and you might not be familiar with the songs," you apologized, subtly appealing to their sensibilities in the hopes of swaying their decision.

"We can dance to any song, no matter the year, we'll fit right in," Bucky assured you, a trace of a smirk playing on his lips.

"Fine, but I don't want to hear any complaints," you agreed, not seeing the harm in taking the two along. You just hoped it wouldn't end up being awkward. "Now let's go," you urged, signalling them to follow as you turned back around.

"Wait, you're going in that?" Bucky questioned, pointing at your outfit.

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" You crossed your arms, glaring at the man, "If I recall, I don't believe either of you have a right to tell me what I can and can't wear."

"Yeah, I'm with her, you can't tell her how to dress, if she wants to go clubbing in an outfit that shows off her curves, then that's her business." Steve defended you.

"Thank you, Steve," You smiled at the man before turning to Bucky, "I'm waiting, I don't think it should take this long for you to come up with a response."

"Nothing is wrong with the dress, it's just… You're going to attract a lot of attention," Bucky muttered, he didn't want a bunch of guys staring at you, he didn't want anyone laying a hand on you.

"I'm sure that's the point," you sighed, feeling impatient as you grabbed their hands and pulled them towards the door. You weren't in the mood for arguments, you just wanted to have a good time. "Can we please just go now?"

"Why do you want attention?" Steve asked, letting you pull him along, not that he needed any persuasion to follow you.

"Because," You sighed, rolling your eyes, you were not about to admit the real reason to the two super soldiers, you would rather die. "I just want a fun night out, now let's go, please."

Deciding not to press further, Steve and Bucky mumbled in agreement, choosing not to upset you and risk changing your mind. They followed after you, their eyes inadvertently drawn to the way your hips swayed as you walked—a sight that proved quite hypnotic.

You made your way out of the building and down the streets, it wasn't that far of a walk to the club you were going to, which was great since you weren't sure if the two super soldiers could fit into a taxi with you.

After a couple minutes of walking, the three of you finally made it to the club, the bouncer let the three of you in right away when he realized who the three of you were. Inside, you found a spot at the bar and motioned for the two men to sit on either side of you. They complied willingly, both instinctively warding off anyone attempting to claim a seat next to you.

However, Steve and Bucky looked conspicuously out of place, clearly unimpressed by the pounding beats and unfamiliar tunes that resonated in the club. Their discomfort was palpable, and they appeared more attuned to jazz or big band music.

Internally amused, you chuckled at their reactions, witnessing the awkwardness that had already garnered attention from the ladies. All eyes were on them, and you couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy, secretly yearning for the kind of attention they effortlessly attracted.

"Hey, can I get a martini and three shots of vodka, please?" you yelled, catching the bartender's attention. "Oh, and a beer for each of them."

"Sure," he replied, swiftly working on the drinks and placing them in front of the three of you moments later.

You wasted no time, grabbing your drink and downing it. "So, what's the plan for tonight?" Bucky asked as he and Steve sipped their beers.

"Well, I'm gonna get wasted, that's what," you replied, signaling the bartender for another drink. "And then I’m probably gonna dance." The night was young, and your intentions were clear – a mix of intoxication and uninhibited dancing awaited as you sought to make the most of the evening.

"That's a lot of things, are you sure you can do all of that?" Steve inquired, his eyes once again appraising you.

"Is there a problem with that?" you asked, taking a leisurely sip of the fresh martini the bartender handed you.

"Not at all, we just want you to have fun," Bucky reassured, his gaze focused on you.

"Thanks," you smiled, raising your shot glass for another round.

"No problem, sweetheart," Steve grinned, his fondness evident.

You hummed as you downed the second martini. "You know, I'm sure the two of you can get lucky tonight. There are tons of horny girls already drooling over you. I mean, you guys are super attractive."

"Oh, so you think we're attractive," Bucky grinned, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement.

"What?" You stuttered, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks as you realized the unexpected admission had slipped out.

"We heard you," Steve chimed in, a playful smirk gracing his lips.

"No, I didn't say anything," You replied, trying to cover up the fact that you admitted that the two were attractive, "You must be hearing things, I didn't say anything. Anyway, I-I’m gonna go dancing now."

No, I didn't say anything," you replied quickly, attempting to cover up the unexpected truth. "You must be hearing things. I didn't say anything. Anyway, I-I’m gonna go dancing now."

Ignoring the protests from both Steve and Bucky, you gracefully slid off the stool and made your way towards the dance floor. The pulsating beats grew louder, drowning out the lingering echoes of the conversation at the bar. As the rhythm took hold, you let the music guide your movements, relishing in the freedom of expression. The neon lights of the club flickered, casting a vibrant glow over the bustling dance floor.

Bucky and Steve couldn't tear their eyes away, captivated by your magnetic presence. Your hips swayed with the music, the ambient glow revealing the delicate sheen of sweat forming on your skin. As the attention from onlookers intensified, it became evident that you were blissfully unaware, each drink ordered contributing to the intoxicating haze that enveloped you.

"I don't like this," Steve growled, his gaze narrowing as he observed a guy dancing too closely behind you, hands brazenly on your hips.

"Me neither," Bucky muttered, glaring at the man who had his hands on you, his blood was boiling and his grip tightened around the glass, threatening to break it.

"Let's go over there, make sure he doesn't do anything," Steve suggested, a protective edge coloring his voice.

"Yeah," Bucky nodded, downing the remnants of his drink in one fluid motion.

They both made their way over to the dance floor, bringing them closer to where you laughed and letting the guy touch you. Bucky tapped the man on the shoulder, a fierce glare directed at him. "Can I help you?" the guy challenged, met with the unyielding resolve of the two super soldiers.

"Yeah, get your hands off her," Bucky warned, his voice a low growl that conveyed both authority and a simmering threat.

You frowned at their interruption, momentarily taken aback as you relished your time with the guy. "Or what?" the guy scoffed, clearly unimpressed and unfazed by the two super soldiers.

"Bucky, what the fuck?" you snapped, irritation evident in your voice. From your perspective, the guy was doing just fine.

"We're leaving," Steve declared, wrapping his hand firmly around your arm.

"I'm not going anywhere with you. Fuck off," you snarled, attempting to yank your arm from Steve's grip.

The guy, undeterred, maintained his hold on your hips, his curiosity piqued. "You know them?" he asked, eyes shifting between you, Steve, and Bucky.

"Yeah," you replied, uncertain about the stranger's intentions. "They’re just a friend. Let's go back to dancing."

"I'm not fucking around, get your hands off her or I will make sure that you won't be able to hold anyone again," Bucky threatened.

"Are you serious?" The guy chuckled, his grip on your waist tightening in defiance.

"You have no idea who we are. If I were you, I'd release her and walk away," Steve interjected, a stern warning in his tone. He had no intention of letting the situation escalate into a public altercation.

"Yeah, since she's so eager to go with you guys," he retorted, sarcasm dripping from his words as he rolled his eyes dismissively.

"Steve, Bucky, I'm warning you, leave us alone!" you glared at them, frustration evident in your voice. Turning back to the guy, you pleaded, "Let's just ignore them," hoping to salvage the evening, you were getting horny and wanted him to fuck you.

"No. We're leaving," Steve ordered, he was tired of playing nice.

As Steve attempted to pull you away, the stranger stood firm, refusing to release his grip. "What the fuck is your problem?" The man growled. “Get a hint, asshole!”

"My problem is that you're touching her," Bucky declared, frustration boiling over as he seized the guy by the throat, forcefully pressing him against the wall. He was done being, he was going to punch him in the face.

"Bucky!" you yelled, shocked by his sudden aggression.

"Are you just going to stand there?" you questioned Steve, incredulous at his apparent nonchalance.

He merely shrugged in response, his demeanor nonchalant. "He should've left," Steve remarked casually, strolling over to observe the unfolding scene as Bucky maintained his grip on the man's throat.

"Let go," you pleaded, attempting to pry Bucky off the man. Despite your efforts, it became apparent that Bucky didn't register your words over the haze of his anger. Desperation crept into your voice, "Let him go, now! Or I won’t ever talk to you both again."

As you issued the ultimatum, Bucky turned his head toward you and dropped the man, watching as he crumpled to the ground, gasping for breath. He glared up at Bucky. "You're a psycho!" he yelled before hastily running off. "There are plenty of women here anyway. You’re not worth it."

“Wait, don’t go! Um...,” you hesitated, realizing you forgot to ask his name. “Ugh, whatever. I’m not in the mood anymore.”

Rolling your eyes, you turned around to face Bucky. "What the hell was that?" you demanded, frustration and anger evident as you punctuated your question with a punch to Bucky's chest.

"Ow," Bucky flinched.

"Don't act like that hurt, I didn't hit you that hard," you retorted with an eye roll. Pissed off and no longer in the mood, you added, "Seriously, why the hell did you do that?"

"He had it coming. He was touching you," Steve pointed out, his tone defensive. "We couldn't stand by and watch."

"Yeah, and what's wrong with that?" you challenged, genuinely perplexed by their actions. You folded your arms, awaiting an explanation.

"Are you seriously asking us that?" Bucky questioned, his shock evident as he rubbed the spot where you had punched him.

"Yes, I don't understand what's so wrong with you guys. You don't have the right to tell me who I can and can't sleep with," you declared, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. The club's music throbbed in the background, adding a surreal intensity to the confrontation.

"You want to sleep with him? Really?" Bucky asked, his tone was condescending.

"And what if I do, why does it matter?" You countered, getting more and more irritated.

"You can't be serious," Bucky scoffed.

"It's none of your business who I sleep with," You glared at him. "I can't believe this. That was my chance! And you guys completely ruin it."

"What chance? You should be grateful, that guy is an asshole," Bucky mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “He didn’t deserve you.”

“That wasn’t your call! And you know what, don't talk to me," you snapped, frustration etched across your face. "I'm going home, I can't deal with this shit."

"No, we're not done talking," Steve protested, attempting to grab your wrist.

"Let go," you yanked your arm away, irritation fueling your movements. "I'm going home."

You spun around and marched towards the exit, not bothering to wait for the two. Then as you walked, your head suddenly felt dizzy, you stopped and held your head, everything was spinning and the sounds were muffled. "Fucking hell," You groaned.

"Are you okay?" Bucky asked, concerned, as he came up to your side, placing a hand on your shoulder to steady you.

"Don't touch me," you hissed, slapping his hand away. Anger boiled up inside you, but then your head started to feel light, and you stumbled, your vision becoming fuzzy.

You didn’t understand why your head suddenly felt dizzy, you hadn’t consumed that much alcohol. You knew your limits, and this amount shouldn't have made you feel drunk.

"You don’t look fine sweetheart, how many drinks did you have?" Steve asked, placing his hand on the small of your back. You were too weak to push him away so you just ignored him.

"I dunno," You mumbled, trying to focus on them. “It shouldn’t make me this drunk…”

“Did you take any drinks from that guy?” Bucky asked and you thought for a moment, you didn't, but maybe, you couldn't remember. You didn't know what happened after the last couple drinks, everything was blurry.

"Maybe, I don't know," You replied.

“I’m going to fucking kill him.” He was about to go inside again. But Steve stopped him. “Buck, later. Now we have something else to worry about. We should make sure everything is okay." Bucky was reluctant but listened to Steve, they would get him later.

"We'll take you home, sweetheart don't worry," Steve spoke, rubbing your back.

"It's okay, I can manage myself." You pulled yourself away from his touch and turned away, wanting to leave. You wanted to be alone and rest, not be near the two super soldiers.

But you took a step and your body collapsed, if it weren't for the super soldier, you would've hit the floor. "See, you can't," Steve stated, holding you up by your waist.

"But I don't want your help," you protested weakly, your stubbornness clinging to you even in your compromised state.

Steve sighed, exchanging a worried glance with Bucky. "We can argue about this later. Right now, let us help you, we'll take you to my place and then we can figure out what's wrong, okay?" He suggested.

"Fine," You reluctantly agreed, leaning into his hold.

"Come on Buck."

Bucky hailed a cab since walking home in your current state was out of the question. As you settled into the backseat, a sudden surge of heat engulfed you, making the ride feel more suffocating than the dimly lit club you'd just left. You fanned yourself, beads of sweat forming on your forehead, and the dress sticking uncomfortably to your skin.

"Fuck, why is it so hot in here?" you complained, looking at Steve and Bucky, who appeared unfazed by the sudden rise in temperature. “Aren't you guys feeling hot?”

Steve had already discarded his jacket, his shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing his casually confident demeanor. On the other hand, Bucky remained fully dressed. The two exchanged knowing looks before Steve spoke up, "Doll, you were roofied."

"What?" Your voice came out soft, a mix of confusion and disbelief. But soon, anger surged within you, intensifying the heat in your head, making you feel nauseous. "Ugh, why can't I fucking catch a break?"

"You're okay sweetheart," Steve assured you, "Buck and I will help you, we won't let anything happen to you."

"Okay," You gave in, resting your head against the seat. You were tired, you just wanted to go to bed. You felt Steve wrap his arm around your shoulders and pull you close. You rested your head on his shoulder, you were too weak to care.

"Okay," you relented, leaning your head against the seat. Exhaustion weighed heavily on you; all you wanted was to crawl into bed. Steve wrapped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. You nestled your head on his shoulder, too drained to resist.

Upon reaching home, you found yourself being gently guided to the bedroom. "Here, doll," Steve said, placing you on the bed and handing you a water bottle. "Drink some."

"I don't want it," you grumbled, pushing it away.

"Drink it, you'll need it."

"Fine." You took a few sips, but the water offered little relief. Instead, the heat intensified, your stomach now feeling uneasy, akin to a fluttering of butterflies. Confused and uncomfortable, you couldn't pinpoint the cause, especially since the water should have calmed the fire.

You attempted to take off your dress, but weakness overwhelmed you. Sensing your struggle, Steve sat beside you and gently assisted in removing the dress. "We have to take your clothes off, okay? It'll help," Steve informed you.

"I'll just do it myself," you mumbled, determined to exert independence. Pushing yourself up, you tried to stand, but the drugs had weakened you considerably, causing you to sway dangerously. Fortunately, Bucky acted swiftly, grabbing your arm just in time.

"I got you, doll. Just let us help you, okay?"

"Okay," You gave up.

Bucky gently assisted you in sitting up on the bed and then proceeded to remove your heels. Steve then came in and pulled down the zipper, allowing your dress to slide off your shoulders. Beneath, you wore a simple laced bra and underwear set.

Bucky and Steve tried not to stare too much, not wanting to make you uncomfortable. They were just helping a friend out. "Okay, do you need anything else?" Steve asked.

Despite still feeling hot, weird, and tired, the comfy bed and cool air conditioner offered a tempting sanctuary. "Stay," you requested, lacking the energy for further explanation.

"You want us to stay here?" Steve sought clarification.

"Yes," you affirmed, your fatigue evident in your response.

"We'll stay here," Bucky reassured you.

You smiled and closed your eyes. The room was spinning and your head felt dizzy. You felt so weak and tired, you could just fall asleep right here. But then a sudden burst of energy rushed through your veins, you were no longer tired, and your body was heating up.

"Fuck," You moaned, clutching the sheets. "Steve...Buck..."

"We're here," Bucky sat beside you, while Steve was in front.

You opened your eyes, feeling dazed and hazy. "I feel weird," You mumbled.

"How, sweetheart? Does it hurt?"

"My body is hot, my stomach feels weird," You rubbed your thighs together, trying to relieve the tension between your legs. "Fuck, I feel weird."

"Shit, she's horny," Bucky realized.

"What?" You asked, confused.

"Doll, the drug is supposed to make people horny, basically it's an aphrodisiac that the dude slipped into your drink," Steve explained.

"Then what do we do now? Fuck... I...feel….," You panted, your breathing became heavier.

You were already wet, your panties damp. You were still wearing the underwear so it was fine, not a lot of discomfort yet but you kept rubbing your thighs to get some friction.

Steve then opened your legs and exposing your heat. Steve could see how soaked your panties were, the wetness covering the area.  "Steve what are you doing?" You asked, watching him as he spread your legs.

"We have to get the drugs out of your system," Steve replied, his face so close to your core.

"What?" You couldn't believe what Steve was doing. "But how does that work?" You asked as Steve kept your thighs open and looked at your clothed heat.

"I’m going to try and suck out the drug," Steve said as if it was nothing.

"What?! Steve no, you don't have to do that," You blushed and shook your head at him, but then you felt his hands gripped your inner thighs tightly.

"No, no, no," Steve shook his head and then he started to kiss your thighs making you moan. "Trust me, Y/N, I want to," He continued, sucking the sensitive skin making you moan again.

"Fuck, Steve," You moaned as you felt his lips kissing your thighs. Steve kept kissing and licking, marking your thighs with his lips.

"Just let us help you, doll." Bucky said as he watched you getting turned on by Steve.

"Okay, okay," You gave up, feeling the heat in your stomach, wanting release.

Steve was so close to your cunt, you could feel his warm breath. You were squirming from the stimulation but Steve kept a good grip on your thighs, not letting you move too much.

"Fuck," You cursed, you could feel his teeth and his lips on your thighs, the pain was pleasurable, a nice contrast to the teasing.

Steve kept teasing, kissing everywhere but where you want him the most. You were getting frustrated and you were about to tell him when he licked a stripe across your clothed heat, the damp lace barely covering anything.

You groaned and bucked your hips but Steve kept you still, his big hands gripping your thighs tightly. "Steve please, I need more," You begged him, you wanted to feel his mouth directly on your cunt, not your underwear.

"I'll give you what you need, don't worry," Steve said as he started to rub his thumb on your clit.

You gasped as he touched the sensitive bundle of nerves, sending shocks throughout your body. Steve's touch felt amazing and you wanted more, but the lace was in the way. Steve then hooked his fingers on the lace, pulling the underwear off. You were now bare for them to see. Bucky watched as Steve kept touching you, making you a mess.

Steve then put your legs on his shoulders and licked your cunt. He didn't waste any time, he ate you out like he's been starving. Your eyes were shut, mouth agape as Steve worked his magic.

Steve was really good, knowing where to lick and touch. He kept eating you out, his tongue circling around your clit. Your hand went to his hair and you tugged his hair, making him moan, sending vibrations to your cunt.

"Oh god, Steve!" You screamed his name.

"She sounds so pretty, Stevie. Can't wait to have her screaming our names later," Bucky said as he moved behind you, making you sit up so you were leaning against his chest.

Steve didn't reply, he just continued to eat you out. He could feel his cock hardening at the thought of you cumming and screaming his name.

Bucky's hands went to your breasts, groping them, massaging them, and removed your bra. "Your tits are perfect, Y/N," Bucky whispered into your ear as he played with your nipples.

"Oh fuck," You moaned and arched your back as Steve inserted a finger into your tight pussy.

Bucky watched Steve, his friend's face was buried between your thighs, eating you out, making you feel so good. Steve inserted another finger, fucking you with his long digits, hitting all the right places. You were moaning loudly, your orgasm was building, you could feel the knot tightening, but you couldn't cum. The drugs were making it hard for you to cum.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," You cursed as you held Bucky's hands and squeezed his flesh arm tightly.

"What's wrong, doll?" Bucky asked as he stopped playing with your breasts and held you instead.

"I can't cum, I need more," You told him. "Please, please, Steve," You begged him, you hoped that they could give you more, help you reach your climax. He wanted you to cum, so he could hear you scream his name again. He wanted to taste you. So, he put two fingers inside you and moved them while his mouth was focused on your clit.

Steve increased the speed, fucking you harder and faster, sucking on your clit while Bucky's hands roamed your body. The pleasure was overwhelming, you couldn't take it anymore. "I'm so close," You mumbled, feeling the tension building in your stomach.

"Then cum," Bucky growled as he pinched your nipple.

"Cum for me, Y/N. Cum on my tongue," Steve said, looking at you, his blue eyes darker than usual.

And that's what did it. You came, screaming both Steve and Bucky's name, tugging Steve’s blonde locks, your body trembling from the intense pleasure. Steve pulled away with a string of your slick connected to his lips, his chin was soaked from your wetness. He looked up at you and smirked.

"We'll give you a minute to calm down and then we'll continue," Steve said as he watched you catch your breath.

"Continue? What do you mean?" You asked, confused. You didn't think they were going to do anything else, this was enough. After all, Steve said the drug would be gone after he sucked it out.

"The drug's not gone yet," Bucky stated as he gripped your chin and turned your head to him. "We thought by sucking you was enough, but we need to make sure that we got all of it," He continued as he crashed his lips onto yours, kissing you hungrily.

Steve then went to kiss your neck, licking the spots where Bucky bit and sucked earlier. "Looks like I didn't do good enough job earlier." Steve whispered as he kissed your neck.

Bucky hands travelled to your cunt, rubbing your clit. "I don't know if we have to keep going or not," He whispered in your ear, sending shivers down your spine. You moaned as you leaned back to Bucky, his chest pressed against your back.

"Bucky," You whimpered.

"What do you say, Steve?" Bucky asked his best friend.

"I don't think we've done a good enough job, she's not begging us," Steve said as he pulled away. "I think she doesn't want us, Buck."

"Really, doll?" Bucky replied as he rubbed your clit in slow circles teasingly. You couldn't help but to arched up into his hand, whining as you felt the familiar coil in your stomach. Bucky chuckled as he pulled his hand away, making you whimper. "Looks like Steve might be right, what should we do?"

"I don't know, Buck." Steve sighed, stroking himself slowly. "It's a shame, really. If she begged we'd give her everything she wants. I mean, she's just sitting there, wanting us so bad," Steve taunted while he was kissing all over your body, making you whimper again.

You could feel their cocks hardening against your ass and your thigh. They wanted you, and you wanted them. "I want you, please," You begged. "I need more."

"More of what?" Steve asked as he pulled his shirt over his head. "Say it, doll, I wanna hear you say it," He demanded as he removed his pants and boxers, revealing his hard cock.

"More of your fingers, more of your mouth, your cocks, I don't care. I just need you," You cried, feeling desperate for release. "I want your cocks in me, I want to ride both of you. Please, just fuck me, please," You begged, you couldn't take the teasing anymore.

"There, was that so hard?" Bucky teased as he stood up and removed his clothes.

Both Steve and Bucky were naked, and they looked even more gorgeous. Bucky had a metal arm and a scarred shoulder, but he was handsome, and he was ripped. Steve had a similar look to Bucky, only his arms weren't scarred, they were smooth. His muscles were huge and you wanted to run your fingers all over them.

"Fuck, you two are so sexy," You commented, looking at them up and down. You didn't know if it were the drug or the lust that was talking, but you couldn't find a better description for them.

"Look who's talking," Steve smirked. "Now, are you ready?"  He asked, wrapping an arm around your waist, supporting you.

"Yeah, I'm ready," You replied.

Steve picked you up, carrying you bridal style, and walked to the bed, laying you down carefully. Steve climbed on top of you and Bucky joined the two of you on the bed.

"Fuck, doll. You look so beautiful, laid down like this," Steve whispered as he stroked your face. You blushed as you looked away. "Look at me, baby," He said, turning your head back.

Your heart was pounding, you couldn't believe you were actually doing this. Steve started sucking your neck, making you moan as his beard tickled you. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you, moaning.

"I wanna fuck her," Steve said, looking at Bucky, who was stroking his cock.

"Go ahead," Bucky said to Steve. “Why don’t you spread your legs for us, doll? Be a good girl and do as we say,"

You laid down on the bed and spread your legs, exposing your wet cunt. You could see Steve and Bucky's eyes darken with lust. They were both naked now, their muscular bodies were perfect and they were huge, especially their cocks.

Steve spread your legs, pushing himself inside of you, groaning. You gasped as you felt him filling you, moaning as he started moving. Steve was huge, and he felt so good, stretching you out. You couldn't help but to arch up to him, feeling the tip of his cock brushing against your cervix.

"You're so tight, doll," Steve groaned as he fucked you faster.

Bucky moved, climbing on the bed next to the two of you, positioning himself near your face. "Open up," He said. You opened your mouth, allowing Bucky to slide his cock inside. You moaned as he began to thrust into your mouth.

Steve grabbed your legs, placing them on his shoulders as he fucked you, his balls hitting your ass with every thrust. "Mmphhh" You moaned, arching up.

"Shit," Bucky groaned, moving his hips, thrusting his cock into your mouth. You ran a hand over his thigh, moving down, touching his balls, giving them a gentle squeeze. "Fuck, Stevie. Her mouth feels so fucking good, it's so hot and wet," He moaned as you bobbed your head, moving up and down his cock, moaning.

Steve growled and began fucking you faster, hitting deeper. You arched up, grabbing the sheets. "Oh, fuck!" You gasped, feeling your orgasm coming.

"Her pussy feels so fucking good Buck" Steve groaned, his hands were on your hips, gripping tightly.

"I can't wait to fuck her next," Bucky groaned as he grabbed a fistful of your hair, thrusting in and out of your mouth.

"You like this huh sweetheart?” Steve moaned, “You are squeezing my cock, sweetheart Fuck,"

"Fuck, I'm so close," Bucky said, moving his hips, fucking your mouth harder. "Fuck, baby, suck my cock, that's it. Such a good girl," He praised, making you moan.

You couldn't speak, your moans were muffled by Bucky's cock. You were moaning, feeling Steve's cock hitting your g-spot, bringing you closer and closer to your orgasm. You closed your eyes, letting the sensations overtake you.

"I'm gonna come," You managed to gasp, feeling yourself starting to tense up. You were close, you could feel your orgasm building up, your pussy was pulsing, and your nipples were hardening. You wanted to scream, but Bucky's cock was in your mouth, stopping you from doing so.

"Shit, fuck, fuck, doll, I'm coming, fuck," Steve growled, his thrusts becoming sloppier, losing his rhythm. He grabbed your hips, holding them tightly.

"Me too," Bucky gasped, grabbing a fistful of your hair, pushing his cock deeper in your mouth. Bucky and Steve thrust were getting sloppy. You were choking and drooling around his cock. You could taste the salty pre-cum and you loved it.

They both came at the same time, you were right behind them, coming, clenching around Steve's cock. "Fuck," Steve growled, coming, spurting his load inside of you, his cum spilling out. "That's a good girl," Steve praised as he pushed you deeper.

Bucky came with a loud groan, his cum filling your mouth. You swallowed as much as you could, but some of it spilled down your chin. He pulled out, stroking himself, making sure to get every drop out.

"Fucking hell, doll. You're so good at that," Bucky moaned.

"Shit, baby," Steve panted.

You were laying down, feeling completely blissed out. Your whole body was tingling, and you were panting. You never came that hard in your life, maybe the drug enhance the experience? Or was it the fact that you were being doted on by two incredibly handsome, and kind men? Either way, it was an amazing experience, and you wouldn't change a thing.

You were still horny even though you just came. Maybe you could convince them to go again? You were about to say something when you felt a hand on your cheek. You opened your eyes and saw Bucky smiling down at you.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Mhm, more than alright," you smiled back. You saw both of them got hard again, your eyes widened, "How can you get hard so fast?" Guys usually needed time to recover after coming right? Or did they not come that hard? You thought they did.

"It's the serum," Steve explained. "We can get hard, stay hard, and last longer than most men."

"You're not done yet, doll," Bucky whispered. "We still have a lot of fun ahead of us."

"We're not stopping until you can't walk straight," Bucky added. "You're going to take us both. At the same time."

Your whole body was still tingling, and you felt a warmth spreading through your belly. You were already aroused, but hearing him say that, you felt even more aroused. You let out a small moan, and you blushed, covering your face.

"Don't hide, doll," Steve coaxed, moving your hands away, "We want to see your beautiful face."

"Yeah, we want to see your pretty face," Bucky agreed, kissing the corner of your mouth.

"Come on, doll, don't hide," Steve coaxed again, pulling your hands away.

"Okay," you nodded, moving your hands. You blushed, your cheeks turning red. You looked down, feeling shy. You weren't used to the praises. It was a new thing for you, a nice thing. But it still made you feel a little shy.

"That's it. Don't be embarrassed," he said. "You're perfect, you hear me? Perfect. You took our cocks like a good girl."

"Yeah, doll. You're fucking perfect," Bucky added.

"Let's get you ready for round 2, huh?" he asked, running his thumb across your bottom lip.

You nodded again, and Steve leaned in, kissing you. He was slow and gentle, his tongue exploring your mouth. He kissed you deeply, passionately. You were breathing heavily, your heart racing. You were so turned on, it was unreal.

Bucky watched with a hungry expression, his eyes roaming your naked body. "I'm so fucking lucky," he muttered under his breath. He moved between your legs, his hands moving over your thighs, and then to your pussy. He stroked your pussy, his fingers teasing you. "I can’t fucking wait to fuck this sweet pussy.”

After you and Steve broke the kiss, Bucky then pulled you into straddling his lap, his cock was resting against your stomach. He was stroking your back, kissing your neck. He was being gentle, his movements slow and deliberate. You were grinding on his lap, his cock pressing into you. You were aching for more, "Steve, I want her to ride me, you can prep her, and then join us, okay?"

"Sure." Steve got up to grab the lube and moved behind you. "I need you to lean forward, baby doll." You followed his instruction and leaned forward, bracing yourself against Bucky's shoulder.

You looked over your shoulder to see him squeezed some lube on his fingers. Then he leaned forward and kissed you. You could feel the coolness of the lube touching your ass as he gently worked one finger into your tight ass. You hissed at the intrusion. "It's okay, baby, just relax." Bucky said. He ran his hands up and down your back.

You nodded, letting out a breath. Steve continued his slow movements, "There you go, baby. Taking me so good." You began to feel comfortable with his finger in your ass, it hurt from his finger you worried about taking his cock.

But then it started to feel good with Bucky now helping you to relax by sucking and licking your breast, his other hand playing with your clit. You moaned at the sensation of Steve's fingers, and the feeling of Bucky playing with your nipples. You were grinding down onto Bucky’s hardness, desperate for friction. You were sure he could feel how soaked you were on his cock.

 "You think you're ready for another?" Steve asked, looking down at you. You nodded. "Use your words, baby doll."

"Yes, sir," you replied.

He then removed his finger, squeezing some more lube and pushing another one inside of you. "Ahh," you let out.

"You're okay, doll. You're doing so well. Such a good girl." Bucky praised.

The feeling of Steve's fingers, along with Bucky's praise sent a new sensation through you. It wasn't necessarily arousal, but it was something similar.

"You're doing so good, baby. Take my fingers so well," Steve said.

"Please," you begged, "I want more." You looked at Bucky with pleading eyes. "Want you inside of me."

You saw Bucky's jaw clench and eyes darkened, "Fuck doll, you can't just say that." Bucky growled, "I can't wait any longer, I need to be in you now," Bucky was holding his cock, and positioning it at your entrance.

He slammed you down. You took a breath as his cock slowly stretched you. The wetness from your previous orgasms making it easy for him to slide in. You whimpered as he moved. Bucky's eyes never left yours.

Steve was behind you, whispering encouragement into your ear. "Such a good girl. You look so pretty taking Bucky's cock."

Bucky slowly picked up his pace, thrusting harder into you. "Fuck doll, why didn't we do this sooner?" He groaned, moving his hips upward, pounding into you. You were a moaning mess, you felt as if you were going to burst. The pleasure was building up inside of you.

Your mind went blank, and all you could think about was how good it felt. You couldn't stop yourself from moaning. "Oh yeah, just like that. Keep making those pretty sounds for me, doll," Bucky said. You could feel him hit your g-spot over and over, each time it got more intense. You wrapped your hand on Bucky's shoulders, digging your nails into his flesh.

Steve pushed two fingers inside you and curled them, finding the spot that drove you crazy, your walls clenched around his fingers. You started riding Bucky's cock, grinding your hips on his hard member as Steve was scissoring you, trying to stretch you out. When he had worked a third finger in, he started thrusting them in and out. "Taking both of us will take some work. You're doing so good for us now, sweetheart."

Bucky kept his eyes on yours, making sure you were okay. After a few moments, they began working together faster with their combined rhythm while fucking harder from both ends.

Soon, you were rocking back and forth between them, moaning their names.

"Such a good girl," Steve praised.

"So fucking hot," Bucky groaned.

"Please," you begged. Steve moved his other hand and pinched your nipples while he turned your head around to taste your mouth. Your whole body tingled and the sensations were so overwhelming, you could feel yourself getting close. You rocked your hips faster, bouncing up and down on his length. You were so lost in the pleasure, that you didn't realize when Steve started to stretch you with two fingers.

You could feel your second orgasm building, and it was going to be bigger. "Fuck, Bucky! I'm so close, oh fuck, right there!" You moaned, digging your nails deeper into his shoulder. You moaned. You felt Steve's other hand reach around and start rubbing your clit.

Your whole body was on fire, and you felt like you were going to explode. Steve kept pumping his fingers in and out of your ass while rubbing your clit. While Bucky thrusting inside you faster and rougher.

"Cum for us, Y/N." Bucky ordered. "Let us hear you scream our names."

Your orgasm tore through you. Your body shook violently as you screamed their names. "Fuck, Bucky! Steve!" It was so strong that you couldn't even hear yourself screaming his name.

You were completely limp, lying against his chest, your head resting on his shoulder. "That's it, baby doll. So good. Taking us both so good." Bucky praised. He placed a kiss on your forehead, his breathing ragged.

You felt Steve's fingers slow down and his thrusts became shallower. Steve was still fucking into you, trying to prolong your orgasm. He pulled his fingers from your ass and trailed kisses around your back. “Good job, sweetheart. We are so proud of you.”

Bucky was still inside you but he stilled his hips, allowing you to catch your breath. "How do you feel, doll?" Bucky asked.

"Amazing," you breathed out.

Steve kissed your shoulder blade, "You did so good, baby. I'm proud of you," he said. "Are you ready to take us both, doll? You think you can do it?" Steve asked.

You felt like your eyes were going to pop out of your head. The two most gorgeous men on the planet had you trapped between them and they were making a plan to fuck you into oblivion. It was a dream, right?

You nodded. You were ready. "Yeah. I'm ready. I can handle it."

Steve chuckled. "That's our girl. We'll make it good for you. It will be better than any dream."

You moaned, hearing his words, you wanted them both inside you. "Please, fuck me," You begged.

Bucky grinned, he looked over your shoulder at Steve. "You hear that, Stevie? She wants us to fuck her."

"Yeah, I heard, Buck. Can’t wait to fuck this sweet ass." Steve smiled back at you, he was still behind you, pressed his chest against your back, wrapping his arms around your waist. Bucky was sitting upright, his legs spread apart. He held you up, helping Steve position himself behind you.

“You move first so she can adjust to it first then I’ll move.” Bucky said.

 Steve then poured more lube onto his length, he poured generous amount of lube and stroke it onto his cock. Then he was positioned at your entrance. "Are you ready?" He asked, his mouth was against your ear. His hot breath sending shivers down your spine.

"Yes," you nodded.

"Relax," Steve said. You were aware of Steve's hands spreading you open. The tip of his cock brushed against your hole.

"Fuck," you whined.

"It's okay, doll. We'll take care of you." Bucky said, rubbing circles on your thighs.

Steve pushed inside you slowly, feeling his girth spreading you wide. "God," Steve groaned, his head leaning back. You could feel him stretching you open. You gasped, and gripped onto Bucky's shoulders, the pain was intense, it burned a little making you winced.

"Shit, fuck, shit," You groaned. It was uncomfortable at first. But he waited, and he didn't move, he was letting you adjust.

"You're doing good, sweetheart." Steve whispered, stroking your back. "Just relax."

You took a few deep breaths and tried to relax. They were stretching you out, "You ok, sweetheart?" Bucky asked. Bucky kept his eyes on yours, making sure you were okay. “Is it too much for you?”

"I'm okay. Just give me a minute." You closed your eyes, trying to relax. You knew it would pass, and the pleasure would be worth it.

Both of them were helping by rubbing your back, kissing your lips, and whispering sweet praises into your ear. You could feel both of their hands on your hips, and their mouths kissing and sucking at your neck and shoulders.

"How are you feeling?" Bucky asked. You had never felt more full.

"It feels so good, you guys are so big. Just... give me a second," you said. They both waited patiently, not moving as they allowed you to adjust. You began to move your hips, trying to encourage them. "I think I'm ready. Please."

Both of them started to move at the same time. Their pace was slow and deliberate, giving you a chance to get used to them being inside you. You moaned, throwing your head back against Steve's shoulder. It felt amazing, having both of them moving at the same time. The burning sensation was replaced with an intense feeling of pleasure. You could feel both of them hitting the spot that drove you crazy.

Steve reached around and started playing with your tits, sending shivers down your spine. Bucky had one hand on your hips, and his other hand was between your clit. Both of them were thrusting in and out of you, hitting that sweet spot over and over again, making you scream their names.

Bucky groaned, "Oh doll, you feel so fucking good."

"I think we're going to have to pick this up a bit," Bucky said as he thrust deeper inside you.

"Yeah, I think she's ready." Steve started to move faster, thrusting deep inside you.

"Yeah, baby. Take our cocks. You like taking our cocks, don't you?" Steve hands from behind were groping your tits, squeezing and massaging them.

" Yeah, baby. Take our cocks." Steve growled, his hands from behind were groping your tits, squeezing and massaging them as he pounded into you. "You like being filled up by two cocks. You love having us inside you."

"Oh, fuck, yes. I love it. Fuck me harder, please," You begged.

"Your ass feel so good, sweetheart. So tight and hot," Steve groaned. "You're doing such a good job, taking us both. You're being such a good girl for us, baby."

They were both thrusting inside you, your body sandwiched between them, their movements making the friction against your clit that much sweeter. You were surrounded by their smell, their skin, their sweat, their moans of pleasure. You were overwhelmed, your senses consumed by them. Part of you thought it was the drug's effect but another part knew that it was just because of who they were.

Now you could care less if it was the drugs, it was amazing. The sensations were so intense. Bucky gripped your chin, "Focus on us, doll. On our cocks inside you, on our voices." His grip on your chin was firm, but he was still gentle.

"That's it, focus on how good we feel," Steve whispered in your ear, his hands gripping your hips, guiding your movements. "Do you know how beautiful you are? How sexy?"

Bucky moved his hand from your chin to your hair and grabbed a fistful of it, pulling your head back so that he could claim your lips. He kissed you fiercely, his tongue pushing past your lips and exploring your mouth. You moaned into his mouth, loving the possessiveness of his kiss.

When the kiss ended, Steve turned your head so that he could claim your lips as well. Your body was burning up, their combined pleasure coursing through your veins, your blood singing with the feeling. Your pussy clenched around Bucky's cock and you could feel his breathing becoming ragged. He was getting close.

"Fuck, Bucky, I don't know how long I'm gonna last." Steve said. You knew Steve was holding back, he could easily pound into you if he wanted to, but he was waiting for you and Bucky to get there.

"She's close, just a little more," Bucky grunted.

"God, I'm so close, please," you begged. You needed to come.

"Come for us, doll." Bucky growled.

"Yes, yes!" You cried as your orgasm washed over you, your walls clamping down on both of their cocks, the sensation of you walls spasming and contracting was too much for them to handle, pushing them both over the edge. They both kept fucking you through your high as their thrusts became frantic, both of them chasing their own releases.

"Buck, I'm close," Steve grunted.

"Yeah. Me too. Come on, Stevie, come in her ass. Fill her with your come. Show her who she belongs to. Claim her."

Bucky groaned, his body going stiff as he emptied his load into you. Steve let out a loud moan as his orgasm hit. He thrust deep inside you, filling you up. You could feel his cock pulsing inside you, his seed coating your insides.

You slumped against Bucky, your body completely spent. They stayed inside you for a moment, both of them trying to catch their breath. Steve moved first, carefully pulling out of you. He gently picked you up and placed you down on the bed. Bucky pulled out, and you let out a small moan. You were already sore.

"I'll get you a towel," Steve said, placing a tender kiss on your forehead. "Just stay right there."

"Here, sweetheart. We’ll clean you up." Bucky gently wiped away the remnants of his and Steve's cum.

You smiled, feeling so relaxed. Bucky finished cleaning you and threw the towel on the ground. He kissed you deeply, and you couldn't help the smile that crept on your lips. He broke the kiss and laid next to you, holding your body close. He snuggled into your other side and pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

"That was intense," you commented, a smile playing on your lips.

"That's an understatement, doll. You were amazing," Bucky chuckled, expressing his admiration with a sweet kiss.

"Thanks to both of you. That was incredible. You two have been with women, but that was my first time with two people. I'm so glad it was with you guys." You looked at each of them, your eyes full of love.

"Are you kidding?" Steve chuckled, "We should be thanking you. You're the best thing to happen to us, darlin'."

Bucky's fingers traced light patterns on your arm, and he added, "I agree. So, did you enjoy yourself?"

"What do you think?" you laughed. "I don't know how I'm going to walk tomorrow."

"Well, hopefully, it will be a nice reminder of tonight," Bucky grinned playfully.

"Yeah, I doubt I'll be forgetting tonight anytime soon," You chuckled.

"Good," Steve smiled, his gaze filled with affection. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to yours, delivering a gentle kiss. "I'm glad you had a good time. We did too."

"You have no idea, doll." Bucky smirked. He gave you another kiss on your forehead. "Do you need anything? Water?"

"That would be great, actually. I'm a little thirsty," you admitted, the aftermath of your shared activities leaving you in need of hydration.

"We should all hydrate after that," Steve laughed.

"I'll be right back." Bucky walked out of the room, heading to the kitchen

Steve shifted to lie beside you. "That was quite a ride."

"It was," you smiled, the post-experience glow evident on your face.

"You're really amazing, you know that?" Steve complimented, gently brushing your hair away from your face.

"You're not so bad yourself," You laughed.

Bucky returned, cradling two bottles of water in his hands. He extended one to you and the other to Steve before settling down on the opposite side. His eyes reflected a mix of concern and care.

"Are you okay? You didn't hurt yourself or anything?" Bucky inquired, his gaze fixed on you.

"No, I'm fine, Buck," you reassured him with a warm smile.

"Good," he sighed in relief, his shoulders visibly relaxing. "I'd feel awful if we hurt you.”

"Don't worry about me. I can handle a little rough sex." You laughed.

"If you say so." He chuckled.

You smiled, finishing the last drops of your water. Steve gathered the empty bottles, disposing of them in a nearby bin.

As you laid down, a yawn escaping your lips. The drug coursing through your system, coupled with exhaustion, was taking a toll on you. As you lay there, a hazy stupor enveloping your senses, you could hear Bucky and Steve engaged in conversation, but couldn't understand what they were saying as everything began to fade.

You drifted off to sleep.

The next time you opened your eyes, the morning sun bathed the room in a warm glow. Glancing over, you noticed that Steve and Bucky were still peacefully asleep next to you. You took a few minutes to enjoy the feeling of warmth and comfort before carefully disentangling yourself from them and tiptoed into the bathroom for a refreshing shower. Afterward, you draped yourself in a robe and made your way to the kitchen.

It was the morning after your first night as mates. It wasn't a secret that Steve and Bucky had wanted this for a long time, but you hadn't been so sure. They were your best friends and you didn't want to risk messing that up by bringing feelings into the mix. And yet, they'd somehow managed to convince you.

As you bustled around the kitchen, the mellow sounds of brewing coffee filling the air, a subtle noise pulled you from your tasks. Swiveling around, you found Steve and Bucky, now fully awake, standing in the doorway. "Good morning, boys," you greeted them, a warm smile gracing your lips.

They exchanged puzzled glances. "What are you doing up? Why didn't you wake us?" Steve inquired, clearly confused.

"I just wanted to get a head start on the day," you replied casually, your smile unwavering.

Steve closed the distance between you, a gentle expression softening his features. "That's not how this works, doll. You wake us up. You need anything, you let us know." He smiled, planting a kiss on your cheek.

“Well, you both look so worn out, and I don’t blame you after what we did last night. So, IO figured you could use the extra sleep,” you explained, pouring two mugs of coffee, offering them each one. “Plus, I wanted to make you a thank-you breakfast, for being so amazing to me,"

“Careful, doll.” Bucky sidled up to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and leaning his chin on your shoulder. "You keep this up and we'll start to think you want us around." He smirked at you, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

"And that's a bad thing?" you challenged, raising an eyebrow at him.

Bucky pressed his lips to yours, before pulling away with a playful grin. "Not in the slightest, doll."

"I don't know about you guys, but I'm starving." Steve announced.

"Well, that's no surprise," you teased, earning a glare from Steve. "I'll finish making breakfast, you two can sit."

"No way," Steve retorted, snatching the spatula from your hand and taking over. "Go sit."

"Yeah, doll," Bucky added. "You sit. Relax." He nudged you toward the kitchen table.

"Guys, come on, let me help," you insisted, attempting to reclaim the spatula from Steve's firm grip. He playfully held it just out of your reach, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Not a chance," Steve chuckled.

You pouted, "But… I want to be nice to you guys."

"You are being nice, sweetheart." Steve leaned in, his lips brushing against your forehead as he placed a tender kiss. "Now, come on, sit. Let us take care of it."

Reluctantly, you complied, settling into a chair and observing as the boys skillfully took charge of breakfast preparations.The sizzle of eggs, bacon, and pancakes filled the air as they expertly flipped them, occasionally stealing glances in your direction. Engaging in casual conversation, you asked, "So, what are your plans for today?"

"Nothing too exciting," Bucky responded, flashing a charming grin your way.

"That's fine," you reassured him. As they finished cooking, they presented a delightful spread in front of you. "Wow, this look delicious, thanks, guys!"

"It was our pleasure, sweetheart," Steve smiled, taking a sip of his coffee.

"We love spoiling you." Bucky grinned, digging into his food.

"But after this, we have some business to take care of," Steve chimed in, his tone serious.

"Business?" You raised an eyebrow, curiously.

"It's nothing for you to worry about, doll. Just a quick trip we need to make." Steve's reassuring words did little to ease the sudden wave of concern washing over you.

You furrowed your brow. "What do you mean?"

"We've got a meeting," he disclosed, taking bite of his food.

Your expression shifted into one of curiosity and concern. "A meeting? With who?" you pressed for details.

They exchanged glances, prompting Bucky to downplay the importance. "It's nothing, doll. Just some boring stuff," he assured with a nonchalant tone.

"Are you sure?" you persisted, a hint of skepticism coloring your expression. The uncertainty in their demeanor was hard to ignore.

"Don't worry about it," Steve smiled, attempting to brush off your concerns with casual reassurance. "Everything will be fine."

You sighed, unable to shake the feeling that there was more to this meeting than they were letting on. "If you say so."

"We do. Now, enough about work. Let's talk about something more fun." Bucky smirked, the mischievous glint in his eye sending a shiver down your spine.

"Like what?" you asked, curious about the direction of the conversation.

"Well, we were thinking..." Steve began.

"About last night," Bucky continued, finishing his best friend's thought.

"Oh." You couldn't help but smile, a subtle blush creeping into your face at the memory of the previous night.

"And we'd like a repeat performance," Steve stated, his expression serious, though a playful undertone was evident.

"Would you?" you mused, feigning ignorance and adding to the playful banter.

"Yes, we would," Bucky affirmed, a mischievous glimmer dancing in his eyes.

"Well, then," you replied with a sly smile, a mischievous smirk tugging at the corners of your mouth. "I suppose that could be arranged."

Your giggles echoed in the room as you enjoyed their company, relishing in the shared thoughts and feelings about the night before. The three of you engaged in lively conversation, delving into the details of the memorable encounter. As the atmosphere remained light and playful, Steve and Bucky reluctantly acknowledged the ticking hands of time, signaling their departure.

"Doll, we’re going to have to leave," Bucky said, glancing at his watch.

"Okay," you nodded, your smile persisting. "Stay safe, you two."

"Always, sweetheart." Bucky kissed your forehead. "Now, why don't you get some more sleep?"

"I might do that." You smiled.

"Good." Steve planted a gentle kiss on your cheek.

"Come on, let's get going." Bucky urged, taking the lead as he walked toward the front door.

"See you later, sweetheart." Steve kissed your cheek before turning to follow his partner.

“Bye, boys." You waved, your smile lingering as you watched them walk out the door, leaving you to your own devices for the rest of the day.

Once alone, you headed back to the bedroom, crawling into bed and snuggling under the covers. Closing your eyes, you let sleep claim you, a content smile gracing your lips as dreams of Steve and Bucky danced through your head.

Last night was indeed the hottest night of your life.

What are your thoughts about the story? If you found it enjoyable, would you like me to pen a part 2? And if so, any ideas or suggestions for the next part?