#discussion of limb loss

[moonchildstyles]

strawberry

pomegranate part three: y/n goes on a date and harry has a migraine. but she comes back.

wordcount: 9k

—————

"H? Where are you?" 

Harry, with his eyes reading the label on a can of enchilada sauce, called over the partition of the aisle, "Over here, (Y/N)." 

Just as quickly, he heard pattering footsteps rounding the endcap and heading right towards him. When she had wandered off for laundry detergent and a new book, she had left him with empty hands. Now, she had returned with no laundry detergent, but two books, a bag of chocolate covered fruit, and a jar of honey with the comb floating through the amber. 

"Look, look," she chattered, racing towards him with the jar of honey extended, "It's the kind with the honeycomb in it, look." 

A soft smile touched Harry's lips. He took the jar as if receiving a gracious gift, replacing all of his attention on the label instead of the dinner list he had been working on. 

He hummed a pleased noise at the sight of the honey. "'S like the ones in the video—with the fancy cheese and all." 

"That's what I was thinking!" 

While Harry was interested in making one of the recipes (Y/N) had sent him many videos of, seeing the smile on her face when he dropped the jar in the basket was worth much more. Even when they started down the aisle, (Y/N)'s face in her phone looking up recipes they could try out with her new find, Harry couldn't get that smile out of his head. 

Though it was a delusion he wasn't fond of letting himself live in, he swore something had changed after that kiss a couple of weeks earlier. He couldn't be sure if he was just searching for something special to be growing between them, but it was hard to recall moments that she had smiled at him like that before they had kissed. 

He swore she'd never looked at him with moony eyes like that. That she'd never stretched her grin that wide before. That every time she reached out to him, felt his skin under her palms, that something sparkled in her eyes. 

Harry was inclined to assume those details were things he only saw because he wanted to see them, but she had kissed him back just as intensely. More often than not, sleepovers were shared either in his bedroom or out in the living room of their home, (Y/N) always finding her way into his space, just short of wrapping her limbs around him. Kisses on his cheek was the norm, something shared any time they were to be apart for longer than a few hours. Even their television nights on the couch were dotted with thighs pressed together, legs draped over his lap, her head on his shoulder. She wasn't even soft and sleepy when she started melting all over him, she just wanted to be close to him. 

But, much like the first time they'd done anything more, they hadn't discussed a single moment of that night on the couch. Not when she had been on her knees before him, how he'd confessed to building a home for her right in the forefront of his mind, or the loss of control he had when he pressed his lips to hers just after he'd cum in her mouth. 

Every pining affection he held for her was now turned up to max volume. His nights were plagued by the idea of her climbing into the bed right with him, whether to give into more of his fantasies or just to rest her head on his chest. She was slowly but surely backing him into a corner where there was nowhere for him to run. The space in his heart was becoming cramped the more of her she was able to sneak inside. Harry worried just how much longer he was going to be able to keep his head on straight and react like a normal roommate before he was going to explode and spill all his guts out for her to see.

"H, look!" (Y/N)'s chirping voice brought Harry back to the middle of the supermarket, her phone being shoved in his face. On the screen was a bubbling wheel of cheese with sweet honey and crisped prosciutto, crusty bread dipped into the paste. "Do you think we could do this?! Is there brie here?" 

Peering at her over the top of her phone, a small smile curled the corners of his mouth. He was going to do anything she asked of him, even something as simple as finding a cheese for her. 

Because Harry loved her. He doubted there was ever a time he didn't. 

"'M sure we can find something." 

Her rewarding smile was enough for him. He'd pretend it was just for him.

—————

Harry groaned, rolling in his sheets with his pillow fluffed under his head. Despite the curtains drawn, his eyes pinched shut and noise cancelling headphones over his ears, his bedroom needed to be darker and quieter. If not, he feared his brain was going to squeeze itself out of his ears. 

Work wasn't even that stressful today, especially since he'd worked remotely for the day. There was no real reason that there should be any kind of pressure building behind his eyes. 

He just wanted to sleep. Hopefully, when he woke up this migraine would be over.

A gentle hand landing on his shoulder, pinched that hope out of his mind. Muffled through the silence of his headphones, he heard the syllables of his name. 

Taking in a balancing deep breath, Harry forced his eyes to crack open. He twisted in his sheets, finding (Y/N) hovering above him. Concern swam in her eyes, her lips set in a thin line. 

As he figured, her makeup was swept in pretty pinks and mauves over her skin. Her eyes shimmered with flecks of glitter, lashes fluttering wisps. Her hair was done, twisted out of her face with stray strands framing her face. The heart-shaped locket around her neck dangled down above him.

He didn't have to scan over her to know the dress she had picked out for the night. She had asked him a million times yesterday which one of the outfits she had in her closet would work best for her date tonight. 

For her fancy date. Her first with some blonde-haired man she met on an app.

The reminder was enough to have another surge of pressure bubbling inside his skull. 

Inching one of the cups of his headphones off of his ear, Harry quietly hummed in question. 

"How are you? Are you feeling any better?" (Y/N) whispered, her voice low enough to not trigger any extra pain in his head. 

"Not really," he muttered, his voice graveled from disuse.

Her lips puffed into a pout. "H," she murmured, her voice drawling in a croon, "Is there anything you need? Anything I can grab before I go?" 

A dull throb pounded against his skull. 

"'M alright." 

(Y/N) looked far from convinced. He watched as she pinched her lips between her teeth. 

She didn't say much before she climbed into bed beside him. Her hair piled against his pillow, her breath fanning across his skin as she settled in. 

"Can I stay here before I leave?" 

Her eyes met his with clear intensity. Everything was soft as she gazed at him, brows downturned in concern with her iris melting before him. 

He only nodded, eyes fluttering closed. 

Harry felt her arms wrap around him only a moment later. Her forehead gently rested on his when she pulled him closer, the very tips of their noses grazing one another. For the first time all afternoon, his splitting headache dulled just enough. 

The pile of blankets around his hips felt cold in comparison to her hold. Her fingers driving through the curls on the back of his neck had his muscles melting, his bones loosening after being wound so tight for so long. 

A soft sigh fell from his lips. 

With his eyes still closed, Harry could only feel the heat of her skin as she drew closer. The tip of her nose brushed the bridge of his own just before the touch disappeared, replaced with the soft of her glossed lips landing in the same spot. She dotted kisses down his nose, to the apple of his cheek, to the very corner of his mouth. 

He couldn't help but lean into her affection. He'd missed this—despite only having her kiss once, he missed it like he'd left behind a childhood comfort. Her touch was a balm to his nerves, soothing even his migraine. 

One hand on the back of his neck slid around until she had his cheek cupped in her palm. She thumbed away the sparkling kiss marks she no doubt made in her wake. 

"I'm going to miss you tonight, H." 

Then stay.

His heart ached more than his head when he choked back the instinctive words. Even with the sweet press of her lips and graze of her hands over his skin, she was going on a date tonight. 

This was just how she expressed her care for him now, with all of these barriers of touchy-affection broken down. 

Forcing himself to pull back, Harry cracked his eyes open. He looked at her, sparkling eyes and frowning lips. 

"I'll miss you, too," he confessed, unsure if she felt the weight he attached to his words, "What time do y'have to leave?" 

It was her turn to sigh, the exhale pushing her perfume towards him in a vanilla plume. "Probably now." 

He gave her a smile that he hoped didn't give away just how sad he was. "Excited?" 

(Y/N) nodded, only a lopsided smile touching her mouth. "I'll be home soon, though. Call me if you need me to pick anything up for you, okay?" 

It was Harry's turn to tip his chin in a nod. 

With only the sound of the sheets rustling around their bodies, (Y/N) gave him one last hug before peeling away. She crawled out of his bed with Harry's eyes following her. 

She crossed his room with her dress flaring around her hips. Stopping in the threshold, she turned to look at him once more. 

"I made some spaghetti noodles for you if you're hungry, but if you want something from the restaurant, let me know." Her lips bloomed into a soft smile, though Harry didn't see the same warmth light her eyes. "I'll see you soon." 

"Have fun, (Y/N)." 

She didn't offer any cheeky promise the way she would have only weeks ago when embarking on a date. (Y/N)'s smile lingered on him for a passing moment before she left him be. 

Absently, while lying amongst his sheets, Harry heard her movements through the home. He didn’t have to see her to know that she was tracking down her shoes, spritzing a final spray of perfume, fluffing her hair and reapplying her lip gloss. Usually, he enjoyed watching these finishing touches, he thought it was cute how much effort she put into nights like these—even if he wasn't really a fan of the fact she was out meeting someone else. 

But, tonight, he almost wanted to rise from his bed like a zombie and catch her mid-haste. Stop her and force her to come back to his crypt to keep her forever. 

Nonetheless, the sound of the door swinging open only to be clicked shut a moment later filled the house. 

A throb rang through his head. 

He just needed to sleep.

—————

Slouched under a pile of blankets on the sofa, Harry almost wished he still had his migraine. That way he would have at least been distracted from watching the ticking time on his phone, the minutes pushing the night on later and later. 

And, (Y/N) still wasn't home. 

While he wasn't apt to admit it aloud, Harry knew tonight was the trigger for his migraine. The idea of (Y/N) all dressed up, sitting across from another over candlelight, flirting and playing footsie under the table, had his stomach roiling. He couldn't get himself to regret any moment spent with (Y/N), especially between the sheets or with her on her knees before him, but it definitely had to be the catalyst that was pushing him to take this first date so personal. 

That's what he deserved, messing around with his roommate who only thought of him as such. 

The pint of ice cream he plucked from the freezer was beginning to form a soup in the cardboard confines, unable to stomach any more of the comfort treat. It was nine p.m. and she still wasn't home. 

She would have texted him if she was planning on spending the night elsewhere, though. That was something she always did. She wouldn't have forgotten about him. Right?

Like an answer to unspoken prayers, the sound of the garage door lifting shuddered through the house. Twisting in his spot, he watched as she swept inside, her hair loose from its earlier constraints and her mouth in a thin line. 

(Y/N) didn't spot him at first, most likely figuring he was still holed up in his room. He watched as she dropped her bag from her shoulder, her jaw in a stern line. She definitely didn't have that shy, pleased expression he usually did after a first date gone well. No sheepish smile as she plucked her phone from her purse, no dreamy run of her hand through her hair. No smear of lipstick over the corner of her mouth, kissed away from another. 

He didn't interrupt her as she unhooked her shoes by the front door, the heels creating a mess he would later take care of. Only when she started, bare feet barely stomping against the floor, Harry piped up. 

"(Y/N)?" 

Practically jumping out of her skin, she let out an airy gasp. Her hand fluttered to the base of her throat, eyes wide as she spun on her toes. 

"H? I didn't think you'd be awake." 

Harry didn't want to get ahead of himself, but he swore he saw the tight lines on her face loosen. Her expression folded into curved lines and rounded edges. Eyes lighting as they met his. 

"Sorry," he muttered, a single dimple denting his cheek as a soft smile pulled his lips, "I didn't mean to scare you." 

"It's okay," she immediately waved off, half heartedly tossing her bag into her room before rushing towards his cocoon on the sofa, "How are you feeling? Does your head still hurt?" 

"'M alright," he shared, unfolding the edges of his many blankets to allow her underneath, "It went away a little while ago. After I ate." He gave her a pointed glance, nudging her shoulder with his to pull a small smile out of her. "Thank you for that." 

She shook her head. "Of course. I felt bad leaving you, but I'm happy you're better. What have you been doing?" 

Harry felt the presence of the half melted ice cream behind him like a confession. "Nothing really. Jus' watching some movies," he smiled, adjusting his position to keep her from spotting the confection on the side table behind him, "How was your date?" 

Just like that, her expression dropped. A familiar roll of her eyes had her features pinching. 

"He was the worst, H," she shared, melting into the cocoon of blankets he offered her, laying her head back on the cushions of the couch, "The worst." 

There was a traitorous spark of joy that fluttered in his chest. What kind of friend was happy to hear that someone they cared about had a bad night? 

"What happened?" 

With an exasperated shake of her head, she started listing off on her fingers, "Didn't let me talk for more than a sentence. Ordered my food for me without asking. Told me my lipstick reminded him of his mom—but he still thought it was hot, I guess. Asked me how many people I've slept with. And, if I thought he was hotter in person or in his pictures." 

Harry blinked. His jaw fell open.

"And thats just what I can remember," (Y/N) pressed, "I'm scared more happened and I just blocked it out." 

"(Y/N)," Harry started, total awe painting his features, "I... I don't think y'should use that app anymore." 

A breathy laugh fell from her lips. "Tell me about it. I just don't get it, H. I know it's not all men, but why are all men like this?!" Her contradictory question pulled a plume of laughter from his own lungs. "Truly, I don't get it," she went on, "Is it me? Or do they all really think that the best way to get me to sleep with them is to pretend that it's already a done deal? And why do so many of them have something going on with their mom, and don't think it's weird? 

"And on top of that," she continued, raising a finger as if to make the point that much more potent, "if they even get past dinner, it's never as good as they think it'll be! Sometimes, it's fine enough, but most of the time I feel like it's such a waste of my time and I end up coming back here and taking care of myself anyway. Am I crazy or something? Like, are my standards too high?" 

When she looked at him, blinking her fluttery lashes, Harry realized she was actually asking him. 

He was quick to shake his head, attempting to get the image of her tucked away in her bedroom taking care of herself wiped from his brain. 

"'S not you," he cemented, "Definitely not. 'M sorry so many people waste your time like that—and are so disrespectful." 

She rolled in her spot, moving closer to him for comfort. "It's not fair," she pouted, exhaling with exhaustion, "I hope this isn't weird to say, but I'm bored of having to look after myself, you know? I'm putting myself out there, giving people chances, and I still end up taking myself home and finishing the job. They don't make me feel good—about myself, or otherwise. It's exhausting being my own boyfriend." 

Harry's throat ran dry.

What was he supposed to say to this? He supposed they didn't have the same boundaries they started their friendship with years ago, but he wondered if he was even really supposed to hear these things? It felt like a diary entry, not something (Y/N) shared after a date gone wrong. 

It broke his heart to hear her blaming herself. To hear so candidly how exhausted she was having to be the one that took care of her needs, to make herself feel beautiful in the ways that she needed. He hadn't been taking care of her as well as he thought he had been. 

Her words made him realize just how easily he could be dropped into that same category. The pile of selfish men who took advantage of her giving nature and pretty eyes. 

She had made him cum at her hand twice, and not once had Harry even attempted to return to favor. He wasn't much better than a man on an app, was he?

"'M sorry, (Y/N)." 

She waved him off without a second thought. "It's okay, it's not your fault—" 

"It is," he cut her off, meeting her gaze steadfast, "I haven't been good t'you, like I thought. 'M not any better than any of them." 

(Y/N) stayed quiet as she took in his words, mouth in a small gape. 

"I... I haven't been trying m'best to make y'feel good—in any way y'want. I don't take care of you like I should." He hoped so badly she could spot the points he was trying to make; that he could be those things she wanted, as long as she let him try. He'd promise to never make any comparisons to his mom at least. 

"Harry," she started cautiously, "If you mean about the stuff we've done, it's not a big deal. I offer so—" 

"But it is," he said, swallowing around the clog in his throat, "'S not fair. I... I don't know much, but I can try. I'll be—or do—anything y'want, jus' might have to teach me a little." 

She blinked at him. 

Her pretty, pretty eyes glimmered as she took in the honesty in his features. A soft pout has her lips in a gape, exhales fanning between them. Looking at her like this, cheek smushed against the back sofa, Harry wondered how anyone could see her—have the privilege of being on a date with her—and not want to hear any and everything she had to say. He would have groveled on his knees just for a chance to impress her. 

Though, a large, selfish part of him was grateful that the others before him had fumbled their chances. Even if Harry never had a real chance himself, this was going to have to be enough, he decided. These moments tucked away in the privacy of their home were going to have to be enough. 

"Are you serious?" she whispered, eyes dropping to the shape of his lips before skittering back up to match his own. 

He could only nod, his mouth bone-dry. 

She shuffled closer to him, the blankets shifting around her form. Her words were tentative, "You know you don't have to, right? I'm okay with just doing things for you." 

"I know," he murmured, "But I want you. I-It's something new, you know." 

A soft smile decorated her features. "I guess so. All about the learning experience, you are." 

"Something like that," he played along, loosening up at her light-hearted attitude. 

Her hadn't reached through the folds of the blanket cocoon to wrap around his. Her palm was soft, just as the remembered, warm and inviting. Her thumb worked a comforting circuit on the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. 

"Is there something specific you wanted to try?" she broached, her foot gently brushing against his calf under the quilt. 

"Anything y'like." 

Her lips curled. "Okay," she started, beginning to stand with her grip on his hand tightening to pull him along. "I have an idea then, but only if it sounds fun to you too." 

Harry's heart bumped against his ribs. It took an immense amount of effort to keep his eyes from drifting down her body. "What is it?" 

It was (Y/N)'s turn to grow sheepish, turning away to start leading him towards her bedroom. "You've never... like, eaten anyone out before, right?" 

Was it a bit pathetic that his cock stirred at her words alone? But that was just what it was like being around (Y/N), he supposed. 

"Never," he choked out, quickening his pace to push them along to her bedroom that much faster. His skin already felt heated at even the possibility of seeing what she had under her dress. 

A breathy laugh fell from her lips as she led him into her bedroom. It was a space Harry never really breached, not unless (Y/N) expressly called him in. Maybe that was why the wall of her scent seemingly slapped him in the face, the warm, sugary fragrance intoxicating him like a whiskey neat. 

It brought him right back to the morning between his sheets, nose tucked into her hair as she slid her hand down the length of his body. A shiver ran up his spine at the memory, hand pulsing around her own. 

(Y/N) kicked her thrown bag out of the way, tipping her head to look up at him. "You can relax, you know." 

"'M fine, 'm fine," he muttered as she drew him closer to the plush mess of her bed. 

Rumpled sheets and the thrown back comforter called to him, leaving him to imagine—a bit too vividly—what she looked like when she woke up wrapped up in the silky fabrics. Her satin eye mask was thrown haphazardly over the fluffed pillows, a golden kitten face sparkling in the overhead lighting. 

Before he could move any closer, she rounded in front of him, blocking his path to the mattress. "No really," she said, gazing at him through her lashes, "We don't have to do anything. You take care of me just fine without getting me off too, H." 

He was sure she intended her words to be a passing joke, something lighthearted to ease him into the uncharted territory, but Harry felt his heart do the exact opposite. The muscles of his abdomen tightened, chest stuttering.

"I want to," he said, rushing out the words without much thought. His throat bobbed as she swallowed around the dry lump. "I just... I want it to be good for you. That's all." 

Her teasing smile turned affectionate. Reaching her free hand up to his face, she cupped Harry's cheek in her palm. The pad of her thumb skated over the soft skin under his eye. 

"You're going to do just fine, H," she crooned, tipping her head back in a way that would make it so, so easy to catch her in a kiss. "Relax and have fun, and you'll do fine." 

Relax and have fun, she said. As if he were going away to summer camp and not about to push her dress up and put his face between her legs. 

She must have caught the expression on his features as a huff of laughter fanning from her lips. Rising to her toes, she pressed her lips to his cheek. It was a familiar affection, one she had shared with him much for the last couple of weeks, but the peck felt decidedly different at the moment. It was more, he thought. Especially in the way she lingers, lips brushing the very corner of his mouth as they had earlier in the evening, when she seemed so hesitant to leave him behind for her date. 

It took every effort not to turn his head and line his lips to hers, stealing a kiss. He reminded himself: if she wanted to kiss him, she would have. 

Instead, he fluttered his eyes to a close, leaning into the flush of her touch. 

When she finally drew away, (Y/N) looked at him with her bottom lip trapped between his teeth. Without having to say a word, he would have followed her whoever she wanted him.

Which, for tonight, appears to be her sage and bubblegum colored bed. 

She fell backwards atop the plush bedding, bringing him down with her as her hand was still twined in his. He fell atop her, already breathless as he gazed down at her. 

His mouth ran dry as his eyes met hers. She was entirely too pretty, too perfect, so out of his league. What was she thinking letting him even touch her, let alone inviting him to do more? Was she going to come to his senses and realize who he was? 

Harry hoped not. 

Bringing her hands to the nape of his neck, she curled the baby strands around the tips of her fingers. "Don't look so scared, H," she laughed, eyes searching his own, "You're making me feel bad—like I'm corrupting you or something." 

He shook his head. "Sorry, that's not—I don't... Don't feel bad," he insisted, "You're jus' so pretty, (Y/N). Don't know why you're even letting me be here, with you." 

A blooming smile appeared on her mouth. "Because I trust you, remember," she said, taking him back to those moments between his sheets, when he had confessed so much to her. "And, you're pretty too, you know. Your eyelashes are so unfair." 

A sheepish grin tilted his lips. "Thanks." 

"Just relax," (Y/N) repeated, her smile warming him, "Do whatever feels right, and if I want you to do something different, I'll tell you." 

Harry swallowed, nodding his head. He supposed that was going to be the only way he was going to learn. She couldn't exactly draw him a diagram and what exactly, movement by movement that she wanted out of him. (Or at least, not in a way that wouldn't kill the mood). 

Do whatever felt right, he thought as he dropped his head to the crook of her neck. He pecked his lips against the soft skin. His nose skimmed the column of her throat as he slowly moved, deposited kisses in his wake. His confidence grew as she craned her head back, lengthening her neck and giving him more space to make his mark. 

Though he wasn't planning on being quite as crude (not tonight, anyway), he tried to think of the videos he'd seen or the pages in books he's read. When he'd imagined himself in a moment like this, what had he craved to do? 

A light scrape of his teeth against the sensitive skin was the first in an experimental move. A soft sigh left (Y/N)'s lungs, goosebumps raising around his kiss. Spurred on by her reaction, Harry attempted a small bite to the same space. It was a nibble, barely holding onto the skin for more than a second before he released her to soothe with a lingering kiss. 

Her legs around his hips moved to close around him, caging him right where he was. A good sign, he decided. 

He gained confidence, letting his mouth linger on her throat, the kisses long and leaving small marks or glistening prints behind. A part of him was waiting for (Y/N) to correct him, tell him to do more, or do less. She never did, only holding the baby curls on the back of his neck and giving him the prettiest sounds. 

Even when he dared to dip his head lower and approach the neckline of her dress. The swells of her breasts heaved as she took in lingering breaths. Harry dared to peek up at her through his lashes as he kissed down to the top of her dress, the scalloped edge tickling his chin. He swore he could feel the beat of her heart rattling underneath her sternum.

(Y/N) laid with her eyes closed, lips parted. She looked entirely at peace as he kissed her body, micro twitches of her lips, the soft flutter of her already closed eyes, being the only giveaways to the fact that she was just as present in this moment as he was. 

A slight scrape of his teeth over the top of her breast had goosebumps reaching over her décolletage. A slight shift of her hips occurred underneath his own.

"H?" she breathed, feeling her chest move under his mouth as much as he heard the call of his name. 

"Hm?" he hummed, soothing the soft nip with a kiss of his saliva-slicked lips. 

"Um," she started, finding her voice, "Are you... Do you want to do more? Or just this?" 

"More," he answered automatically, "Yeah, more."

 Her smile was dreamy this time as he raised her head to look at him. "Okay," she started, a bit breathless compared to just moments before, "Are you alright with being on your knees? Or do you want me to move?" 

Harry didn't have to think before he was shaking his head. She wasn't adjusting a single part of herself, unless it was for her comfort or it fit her wants. Otherwise, he planned on taking on everything. If she wanted him on his knees, then that was what he was going to do. 

"'M alright," he said, already sinking to rest on his knees before her. 

Her thighs hesitantly unlocked from around his hips, letting him rest with the cuffs of his knees on the fluffy rug underneath her bed. The hem of her dress dangled before him, temptingly innocent with that same scalloped edging that had just grazed his chin. 

(Y/N) shifted where she laid. Her legs spread wide enough to allow him between, tightening the material of her dress around her thighs. Scooting closer to the edge, her hips were just barely situated amongst the bedding, the apex of her thighs just that much closer to his face. Harry grew incredibly antsy where he sat, hands restless in his lap and bottom lip tucked between his teeth. 

She moved so comfortably, reaching for him as if he wasn't one of the most monumental moments of his life. 

"Okay?" she asked, craning her neck to look down at him. 

Harry jerked his head in a nod, decidedly a bit too frantic to match the nonchalant air of her. Though, (Y/N) only laughed, affection twined within the sound. 

"Um," he started, feeling his cheeks heat, "How do y'want me to start?" 

Laying back, she ran her fingers through his hair. "However you want. I'm ready whenever you are—really ready." 

Not allowing himself to process the implication of her words lest she completely burst into flames, Harry braced himself as he placed his hands gently on her knees. Absently, her legs parted that much more, leaving more room for him to make his home. 

"Okay," he shakily answered. 

It was easier said than done to just relax and have fun like she wanted him to. Instinctively, he wanted to pick apart every action, every touch, every breath. But, Harry knew he couldn't do that. If there was one thing—other than his lack of experience, of course—that would make this not pleasurable for (Y/N), it would be any hesitation or fear he had bleeding into his treatment of her.

Even if he wasn't sure of himself, he was going to have to pretend for the time being. He had to trust that if something wasn't right, (Y/N) would tell him and give him the chance to fix it. 

He muttered a quiet Okay to himself before sliding his hands over the cuffs of her knees. Her skin was soft under his palms, every bump, mark and scar that made up her story glided under his touch. Reaching the hem of her dress, he held his breath as he slid his fingertips under the material. 

Carefully, Harry pushed her dress up. As more and more of her skin was revealed, he could feel his own begin to heat. The warmth crawled up his throat the same way his hands moved up to the plush of her thighs. When his thumb grazed the soft inside of her thigh, he released the breath he'd been holding. The air fanned across her skin, drawing a layer of goosebumps to rise over her thighs.

Harry could hear her breathing stutter, the reaction spurring him on. 

Pulling her dress up until his fingertips met the edge of her underwear, Harry paused. 

"Um," he started, suddenly breathless compared to just moments before, "Tell me if you want me to stop." 

Her hands coasted through his hair, affectionate and warm even when she pulled him that much closer. "Okay, just... hurry." 

It wasn't a command, harsh and unforgiving, but Harry acted as if she gave him no choice. Hearing that small, breathy plea was enough to have him working quickly. Any and everything she wanted, she was going to get. Even if Harry did it with sweaty palms and flushed cheeks. 

 As per her request, he surged on. Taking the plunge and pushing her dress up the rest of the way, he left the material to pool at her waist, revealing her panties. They weren't lacy and extravagant, full of glittering thread or intricate beading. It was only a simple pair, covering her modesty in pink-dyed cotton, a red rosette stitched at the center of the waist. 

Nonetheless, the sight took Harry's breath away. No wonder there were people in the world addicted to this act. 

His hands shook as he set them on the bones of her hips. He knew she wanted him to hurry, but he wasn't sure if he was ready to move on from this. Not when he could see the fabric of her underwear clinging to the shape of her core underneath. The folds and lines of her pussy were clear, a small dot of wetness had collected on the gusset, darkening the material to a mauve tone. Just like the blush on her cheeks. 

He curled his fingers into the waist of her underwear, but didn't make any move to pull them down. He moved instinctively, dropping a kiss to the joint of her knee. He didn't linger there long, dragging his lips over her skin. He explored the expanse of her thighs though he kept his gaze trained on her core through the fan of his lashes. The very tip of his nose skimmed over her skin with peeks of his tongue appearing to connect the trail of his kisses the higher he moved up her leg. 

Harry stopped when he reached the leg of her panties, hesitating for only a moment before he surged forward and pressed his lips to the middle of her underwear. Her legs on either side of him tensed and made a move to close, turning him into a wedge between them. He could feel the outline of her beneath his kiss, complete with the bud of her clit pressing into his nose. 

(Y/N) let out an audible beneath at the touch. It was shaking and delicate, just barely loud enough for him to catch, but enough to let him know he was doing something right. 

The single peck he gave turned into a string of open-mouthed kisses, giving into his own desire to earn more of her essence. It was a teasing game, he thought, a game he was playing against himself. His cock stirred in his lap, a pinch appearing between his brows the more he forced himself to restrain. 

The material of her underwear was growing sodden from his affection, something that only furthered when he placed the flat of his tongue against her and gave a lingering lick. Despite being through her underwear, it was still enough to get a taste of her on his buds. 

"Harry," she breathed, voice watery, "I need more, please." 

Hearing the sound of his name wrapped up in her voice, spoken on her breathless tongue, was more than any fantasy could ever hope to be. He felt his eyes roll to the back of his head as he gave a punishing kiss to the bump of her clit. He lingered for only a moment, attempting to crew his head on straight before drawing away.

"Okay, okay," he started, "I can do that, love." 

She spread her legs in response, fingers tightening in his hair. 

He didn't think before he pulled her underwear down. (Y/N) assisted as she lifted her hips and angled her legs to help him pull them down. Once she settled again, she pulled her legs apart without a care. As if Harry wasn't witnessing the most beautiful thing he could imagine ever existing. 

Before him, she was laid bare. Her folds were glistening, parted just enough to show her pulsing opening. The bud of her clit was puffy at the top of her pussy, just where he could imagine his nose going when he dug his tongue inside her hole. Just like the rest of her, she was too pretty, too alluring. 

It was the tug on his hair that reminded him of the real world going on around him. "H," was her quiet whine. 

"I know, sorry," he breathed, shuffling on his knees towards her, his neck craning to be level with her core, "Jus'... You're perfect, (Y/N)." 

He could hear the quiet smile in her voice as she spoke, "Thanks, honey." 

It was enough to have his own puffy lips growing into a lopsided grin, a single dimple on his cheek. Honey. How sweet was she?

Mimicking his actions from before, he pressed his lips to the top of her slit. His chin pressed lightly into her seeping wetness, warm and sticky against his skin. A breathless sigh left her lungs in gentle relief. 

Shuffling on his knees, he hooked his hands around her hips. Instead of drawing away and giving himself a chance to become distracted by her once more, Harry dragged his mouth down the length of her. His breath fanned across her slick skin as he pressed his lips directly to her clit. It was a gentle kiss, though he didn't pull away when her legs tensed around him, thighs moving to attempt to wrap around his head. 

"Right there, hold on," she breathed, her first direction. 

Harry did as she requested, turning his single peck into a string of soft pulling kisses. Parting his mouth just enough, he fit her bud between his lips. He delivered a gentle suck to the pearl, getting his first real taste of her wetness on his tongue. Everything was heady and warm, a previously undiscovered delicacy. He could see himself sitting right where he was for hours on end, attempting to learn every intricacy of her taste. 

Laving his tongue over her clit seemed to be just enough for (Y/N) to peel more noises from her. She tensed against his touch, her opening pulsing against the point of his chin, muscles bunching in her abdomen. A quiet whine dripped from her throat. 

"Fuck, H," she whimpered, filling her messy room with something so pretty as her whining for him. "I-I—More, please. Inside, inside." 

 It was a treat alone to get to taste her, but nothing was like the whipped cream, and cherry on top that was her begging him for more, broken sentences stringing together.

Following along, he drifted away from her clit and dragged his tongue through her parted lips. Her slick collected on his tongue, washing over him and down his throat. It was his turn to let out a rumbling groan. His own pleasure bundled in his middle, urging his muscles to tense and bunch with his cock rising to the occasion. 

But this was all about (Y/N), as far as he was concerned. She was going to come first—in both ways.

He took his time to taste her. He felt the pulses of her opening urging him to do as she requested and plunge his tongue inside, but he wanted a selfish moment to get every taste of her he could. More and more slick seeped out of her as he cleaned her, matching the stuttering of her breathing and the trickling stream of quiet moans she let out above him. 

With his chin wet and nose pressed to her clit, Harry dipped lower on her pussy until his mouth was level with her hole. The tip of his tongue danced around the shuddering entrance, (Y/N)'s fingers curling in his hair, the roots beginning to burn just enough under her grip. 

"H," she cried, a pleading note to her voice. 

He knew what she needed, and he wasn't planning on making her work hard for her pleasure. 

With that, he pressed his tongue inside her. Her walls shuttered and pulsed around him, sucking him inside. He could feel the ridges of her as he writhed his tongue inside, feeling the spongey give just beside her opening. (Y/N) let out a shuddering sigh. 

Harry pressed his face harshly against her, eager to taste more and more of her. His breathing came out heavily, fanning over her glistening skin and pearling bud. Slick noise filled the room as he began making tentative strokes of his tongue through her, pulling back just enough before plunging through once more. 

"Oh my god, Harry," she breathed, plush thighs becoming earmuffs around his head. She pulled his head towards her core with her grip on his hair, nose scrunching against her clit. "Y-You—You're so good, so good." 

If not for his busy mouth, Harry was sure a prideful grin would have decorated his face. But he was much too engrossed in tasting her praise. He could feel the sticky wetness dripping over his chin, beginning to river down his jaw. 

Focusing on the movements of his tongue in hopes of drawing more praise of her, Harry barely noticed the way the grip on his hair changed. (Y/N), with her renewed leverage, moved his head against her, wagging his chin over her slick. She shook his head against her core, a grumbling moan leaving his throat as he felt her walls pulsing around his tongue, her clit throb against the tip of his nose. 

A string of curses fell from (Y/N)'s lips, her plush thighs tight around his head. He could feel her toes curling around his back as she hooked her ankles underneath his shoulder blades. A broken whine croaked from her throat. 

"Harry, I-I'm sorry, I think I'm gonna cum," she bubbled, apparently delusional if she thought she needed to apologize.

Unwilling to pull away from her, he could do nothing other than commit to tasting her to show her that he didn't mind. He wanted to feel her pleasure wash over him, to taste every bit of her release. She had quit her pulling of his hair, her bones going lax, leaving Harry to take over what he was learning she liked. 

He wagged his head against her core, digging his tongue inside her. Shifting his hand over her wriggling hip, he dared to meet the pad of his thumb to her budding clit. She practically jumped out of her skin, her insides snug around his tongue. 

Despite the slight tremor to his hands, he circled his thumb around her clit. There was so much to keep track of, so much he wanted to make sure was perfect and worth it for her. But, he knew everything was a bit messy, a bit off-kilter, not the pristine experience he wanted to give her. Though (Y/N) didn't seem to mind; she appeared to like the messy, clumsy way he was eager to get her off. Even if that meant she was going to end the night with puffy lips and slick thighs. 

"H, honey," she cried, a crackle entering the syllables of the pet name, "I-I'm gonna—" 

He nodded his head against her. Do it, please. I want to taste, please, please, please. 

As if she could hear his thoughts, it took only another circuit of his thumb over her clit and a plunge of his tongue through her pussy that he felt everything tighten. 

Every muscle in her bunched and warmed while her bones went loose. She came around his tongue with her legs wrapping around his head, trapping him just where he wanted to be. He writhed his tongue inside of her, working her through the pulsing, shaking orgasm he was lucky enough to serve to her. 

Every moan and bubble of his name was a fire to Harry's blood, warming him from the inside out. His cock was full and hard in his lap, aching to feel what it would be like to truly be inside her. Despite the distracting fantasy, he stitched his attention solely on her, working her through the pleasure. 

Harry could have sat there on his knees for hours, helping her come down, but eventually, (Y/N) appeared to start floating back down to earth. Her thighs around his head loosened first, her toes uncurling. She cringed away from him once the feel of him was too much, her nerves too sensitive to allow him to keep going. 

The grip she had used on his hair that kept him pinned to her now became the force pushing him away. It took a bit of effort before Harry realized she was wanting him to stop, too caught up in the taste, and feel, and absolute wonder at knowing that he had this effect on her. 

Pulling his head away, Harry looked up at her with swollen, slick lips. From where he sat on his knees, he was granted an angle of her face. He saw her puffy lips parted, slight marks within the pillow of the bottom one where her teeth had sunk in. He swore her skin held a new radiance—the kind he'd never seen on her before, but wouldn't be able to get out of his head for a while. Or ever, really. 

All at once, a wave of something overwhelming washed over him. Here he sat, with the taste of her on his tongue, his heart beating wildly in his chest and skin warm. All while his dream girl sat above him, fanning lashes and pretty lip gloss on her mouth. He didn't have to check to know that her own heart was hammering in her chest. He could feel the heat pouring off of her skin already. She had his mark, however faint and fading, on her neck. 

This was (Y/N). And she was here, with him. She had a beating heart, and stilted lungs. He had a working list of all the things he loved about her, but it all boiled down to the brain in her head and her heart in her chest. The idea that she had thought about him at all, let alone enough to be here with him tonight when there was a world outside waiting for her, had a different kind of bliss blooming inside him.

He loved her, he loved her, he loved her. 

Rising on shaky legs (it appeared the fluffy rug wasn't enough to cushion his knees like he thought), Harry moved on autopilot as he fell atop her. Instead of kissing down her neck, his lips met her cheek. His arms wrapped around her middle, her dress shifting down her waist to make room for the cage of his forearms. 

(Y/N) didn't hesitate before she looped her arms around his neck. 

"H," she crooned, energy depleted, "That was—You're... perfect." 

It was breathless the way she spoke. In Harry's heart, he wanted to believe it was from the same awe that he felt. 

"You," he countered, refusing to draw too far from her skin, "You're perfect, (Y/N). You're... everything." 

It was cheesy and cliche, but his overwhelmed brain couldn't think of anything better. She was everything. She was every bright morning made for easy breakfast, and chilled night made for cuddling. She was the fulfilling nights spent under blankets with only the most comforting movie on the television. She was the best dinner money could buy. She was the feeling of a sweet animal choosing you as its person. She was a rainy afternoon with a new favorite book. She was everything. 

Everything led back to her. 

It was (Y/N) that had paused for a moment before turning her head just enough to match her lips to his. He all but melted into her. 

A moment he had been waiting for. He'd missed kissing her as if he'd been doing it his whole life. Oxygen didn't sound appealing when there was the option of pressing his mouth to hers. Slotting his lips to hers felt like second nature, allowing a soft taste of her mouth, uncaring of the lipstick painted over her pout.

Lips smearing against one another, Harry felt his brows pinch. While it wasn't his ecstasy that had filled the room, the high tension from wanting, aching to give her pleasure was beginning to crash down on him. His arms around her waist tightened, his hands cupping the curve of her waist with denting fingers. 

How was he to go on after this? This night was a turning page, spurring him on before he could have a second thought. 

"I'd do anything for you," he murmured, blurting out his thoughts without hesitation. He didn't even lift his lips from her own, his affections wafting over her mouth. "Not-Not jus' this—I'd do anything for you, (Y/N)." 

"I know, H," (Y/N) smiled, smoothing his hair back, "You're the best friend I—" 

"No," he cut her off, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead on her own. He didn't dare open his eyes, lest the courage bubbling behind his ribs be doused. "'S more than that," he confessed, breathless, "I... I care about you s'much. I want to make y'happy, and I don't want y'to have to use your apps anymore. I... I can do the hard work for you—y'don't have to be on your own." 

He clung to her the way he clung to the hope that she was understanding what he was saying. That she was on the same page. Or even reading the same book as him. 

It was (Y/N) that made the move to draw away from him, even when he chased after her mouth. She stopped him with a hand cupping his cheek. 

Her eyes were downturned, lips parted and swollen. "You care about me?" 

He wasn't sure if it was the right thing to do at the moment, but Harry couldn't stop himself before the words tumbled out of him: "I love you." 

Her expression softened before his eyes. Something melted swam in her eyes, swirling and glistening. Her skin was warm, plump with simmering blood. Just barely, he caught the very edge of her mouth up turning into a small smile. 

"You love me?" 

"More than anything." 

She tugged him down for another kiss. It was messy and clumsy, off center, but still incredibly perfect. 

"I thought you just like being friends with me," she laughed against his kiss, "I didn't want to freak you out in case you just... you know. Oh my god, you love me." 

"I love you," he repeated, unsure of how she could ever have a doubt over his feelings but determined to wipe them away. "Love being friends with you, but it would be kind of nice to be more." 

Another laugh, this one giddy came from (Y/N). "It would be really nice, huh. Oh, H, I love you too." 

His heart soared, taking over the space at the base of his throat. If he thought he was overwhelmed before, that was nothing compared to the swirling mass of everything brewing inside him. 

She loved him. She loved him like he loved her. 

Harry could only kiss her, could only hug her tight. (Y/N) clung to him just as tightly. 

He could have laid atop her for hours on end, kissing her and keeping her snug against his heart—right where she belonged. But, (Y/N) once again had the clearer brain.

She nudged her nose against his, knocking him to smear his lips over her cheek instead. 

"Do you think we could have a sleepover again tonight?" 

It was his turn to let out a bubbling laugh. As if he was planning on leaving her to sleep by herself tonight. 

"Anything y'want, love." 

—————

strawberries represent perfection; the sweetest at the end of june

thank u sm for reading, sorry for any mistakes, and please sned n any fun ideas you have!

[postcrashcurly]

A Deep Dive into Curly's Injuries

CW: Medical discussion and graphic themes.

I see a lot of people discussing Curly's injuries in the fandom and I thought that I would take some time to absolutely word vomit information for consideration as someone training in the medical field.

Burns and Calculating Total Body Surface

Starting off simple, we’ll discuss the following burns:

First degree burns only affect the outer layer of the skin (epidermis). Second degree burns, or partial thickness burns, affect both the epidermis and part of the layer underneath (dermis). Third degree burns, or full thickness burns, affect all layers of the skin, fat, and muscle. Third degree burns DO NOT HURT as they destroy the nerves.

Typically you will not see significant 4th degree burns premortem- they are often postmortem and resemble more of a char. The body is basically cremated/incinerated. I'll touch more on this further down.

The rule of nines is the method for estimating the percentage of affected body surface (size of the burn). I used this to roughly estimate that Curly is burned anywhere from 82-91% of his total body surface. We don't see his backside, but assuming he walked into the cockpit before the crash it is POSSIBLE that his backside isn't as burnt.

Note the R-Baux score and prediction of burn-related mortality (TBSA – Age + [17 x R] TBSA: total body surface area R: 1 (Inhalation injury) or 0 (No inhalation injury)

Amputation Possibility and Weight of Risk

While there are a lot of factors to keep in mind when it comes to Curly’s condition and subsequent survival, in order to connect reality and canon the following needs to be considered.

We'll go over two of the most popular interpretations post-crash:

1. Anya performing amputation as a preventative measure.

We have to think about the veins and arteries in the human body when discussing rudimentary amputation.

Note: Arteries carry blood away from the heart to the body, while veins carry oxygen-poor blood back to the heart. Arteries and veins are connected by capillaries. Direction as follows:

Risk to major arteries and veins would potentially result in excessive blood loss (we will focus on arteries since they are larger in diameter and their ability to withstand high pressure from pumping blood). Repairing arteries typically requires surgical intervention.

Curly's right arm ends at the wrist, while his left ends midway up the forearm. This would sever the radial and ulnar arteries.

Curly's right leg ends just below the knee. The popliteal (back of the knee) artery is the continuation of the femoral artery- one of the largest arteries in the body.

Curly's left leg ends about midway down his calf. We can assume that severs the posterior and anterior tibial arteries.

The image below is a quick edit and isn't an accurate representation of location, only a rough diagram.

Note: The legs network of small arteries are available to SOMEWHAT compensate for blood flow if one of the major arteries is damaged, but it likely wouldn't be enough to prevent excessive blood loss.

We CAN consider cauterization in emergency situations; however it would require some ingenuity and a significant heat source. Small tools that could be repurposed to cauterize Curly’s wounds would do more harm than good, and it is likely that Pony Express has banned large, heat producing objects. They ARE on a space freighter with artificial gravity and set oxygen levels, after all.

Lack of proper equipment and medical knowledge would make amputation unsurvivable.

2. Curly's limbs were eviscerated by the crash.

This is where we talk more about the possibility of fourth degree burns and what that means.

Fourth degree burns are the most severe type of burn that affects muscles, tendons, and bone.

Where to position Curly in the cockpit during the crash is… tricky.

It’s difficult to imagine the angle he would need to be in order to sustain full body burns and loss of limbs. This is the part I pondered the most, and I think a good explanation would be electrical burns from the control panel on impact.

Electrical burns are carried by nerves because it is the path of least resistance. Extremities are more susceptible to damage when a current passes through them. (Yes, this means his genitals are gone too. Sorry, folks!) *See article on electric extremity injury under Read More

Facial Injury and Eye Trauma

Moving towards Curly’s face we come back to our discussion of third degree burns, which I’ve explained a bit above. I do want to note that the survival of his left eye interested me the most while compiling this post.

Your eyes don’t melt in extreme heat (goofy ahh Indiana Jones shit).

Your eyes are mostly composed of water, which makes them resistant to combustion. Since we never directly see the eye socket beneath the bandaging it’s reasonable to assume that his right eye is not entirely destroyed but instead severely damaged (flattened, scarred, cloudy). Without eyelids or even eye drops his remaining eye would dry, potentially blinding him if the heat on impact didn't.

Another point of interest is Jimmy manually manipulating Curly’s mouth several times throughout the game.

This rounds back to third degree burns and the damage to the superficial masseter muscle (moves the lower jaw upward – mastication, or ‘protrusion of the mandible’), the deep masseter muscle (retraction of the mandible – mastication, or ‘closing the jaw with force’), the temporalis muscle (mastication, enabling jaw movement for chewing, biting, and grinding), and surrounding tendons.

Knowing this, a ‘slack jaw’ position would cause visible oral damage like dry mouth and halted saliva production. I’ll touch more on this below.

Loss of Skin and Infection

The skin is the largest organ in the human body with a variety of life sustaining functions like protection and excretory function.

In Curly’s condition, the loss of his skin leaves him open to systematic infection. Skin protects against infection by producing antibacterial substances (defensins and cathelicidins), which greatly increase when injury or inflammation are present. Without skin your body's natural defenses no longer protect against bacteria.

Pathological vulnerability is the key factor in this section. A severe and sometimes fatal response to infection (sepsis) would likely occur under these conditions without proper medical care and antibiotics.

Administering Water, Food, and Medication

This section is where some interpretation comes into play.

The average healthy person can survive approximately three weeks without food and 3 days without water (both vary greatly). According to the games timeline he was kept alive in this state for four months, which means that somehow, in some way, they were able to get him enough nutrients for basic human survival.

This was likely in the form of paranutrition bags and IV fluids since Curly does not seem to have the ability to move his mouth or swallow on his own. When your mouth is kept open for extended periods of time you stop salivating as frequently because the act of swallowing, triggered by the build-up of saliva, is no longer happening.

When having medication administered, Jimmy can be seen (or more so heard) shoving the pills down Curly’s throat with his fingers.

I can’t help but speculate that additional damage was done to his esophagus and vocal cords since there isn’t a way to push the pills far enough down to avoid the steady breakdown of the medication in his throat.

Without properly swallowing pills Curly most likely developed pill esophagitis (irritation of the esophageal lining), which causes painful acid reflux.

Speculation of Internal Injury

This is more presumptive than other sections.

Due to previous notes regarding the source and nature of Curly’s wounds, it is reasonable to assume that not only is smoke inhalation a contributing factor, but ash, technological equipment, and shrapnel also run the possibility of entering his lungs on impact.

However, when I was looking into photos of the cockpit post-crash it brought another potential inhalation/consumption risk to mind; the expanding foam.

It is known that it expands to cover potential weak spots in the ship, so the strength of the substance needs to withstand the pressure of space and maintain the artificial gravity. The cockpit is covered in it, so it is possible that in some way Curly was physically in contact with it when the crash occurred.

Whether he ingested or inhaled it something to consider, but externally there must have been some effort removing the foam from his already burnt skin.

So, what does this mean, Leo? What’s your point?

Well, there is no real point to be made. Everyone is going to interpret things differently! I just thought it would be cool to put forth some real world medical knowledge and compare it to canon! I AM STILL IN TRAINING and I have a lot to learn, but I wanted to put something together for you guys! You can take something from it, or nothing at all!

Final Notes:

Realistic Prognosis (prediction of outcome):

Without medical treatment total body third degree burns are NOT SURVIVABLE.

Extended periods of festering and infection would make skin grafting impossible (There is some wiggle room with this depending on how you perceive medical care to have changed- but I do think it's important to consider the limits of the human body).

🖤 If you made it to the end, thank you for reading! 🖤

Thank you so dearly to my love, my life, @13nn0x for the help compiling information and just generally being the sexiest person alive.

Some extra articles to refer to:

Note: Some articles include images but I put a warning on the ones that do.

(CW: Includes Photos) Clinical spectrum of electrical burns - A prospective study from the developing world by Ashok Kumar Sokhal, Krishna Lodha, and Rajkumar Paliwal. LINK

(CW: Includes Photos) Electro-Amputation of Lower Limbs Due to a High-Voltage Shock: Report of an Unusual Case by Suraj Sundaragiri, Senthil Kumaran M, Venkatesh Janarthanan, Chaitanya Mittal, Gerard Pradeep Devnath S. LINK

Ocular Burns by Gregory C. Patek, Amanda Bates, and Allison Zanaboni. LINK

Drug-Induced Esophagitis by Fatima Saleem and Ashish Sharma. LINK

Better among the two for Burn Mortality Prediction in Developing Nations: Revised Baux or Modified Abbreviated Burn Severity Index? by Sheerin Shah, Renu Verma, Rajinder K Mittal, Ramneesh Garg. LINK

[dissociacrip]

disability and chronic illness and whatnot are really complicated sometimes and can result in a lot of complicated, messy feelings, but the pervasiveness of ableism and the fact being disabled doesn't exempt you from participating in it (yes, including on a violent interpersonal and an also an institutional level, as there are disabled people that work in the very healthcare system that neglects and violates many of us! there are disabled people that work as caregivers who are capable of abusing that power!) makes it important to discern whether you need to be airing out those messy feelings in public vs. working through them on a private level, not just for your own sake

people with terminal cancer, ALS, etc. aren't somehow "luckier" than those with PASC/long covid for having research and awareness and they aren't automatically treated well or taken seriously despite what one might assume

obligate wheelchair-users aren't "lucky" for having no choice but to navigate a world that is built for ambulatory people with a mobility device that is expensive/difficult to acquire, requires routine maintenance, can wind up damaged and destroyed, etc. and bars them off from being able to participate in all the same areas of life as the able-bodied because - again - society is physically constructed with ambulatory people in mind

people with visible disabilities aren't "lucky" for being recognized as having something "wrong" with them by other people (because "visible disability" does not necessarily mean others thinking "oh that person is a real disabled," it's more complex than that)

someone having a very visible aspect of their disability like a limb difference doesn't mean their disability can be reduced to just that limb difference (e.g. there are a lot of ways someone might end up medically needing an amputation, including forms of chronic illness, like diabetes leading to nerve damage, leading to infected wounds that then can't heal properly!)

having assumptions made about your intelligence or "mental age" by strangers based off visible aspects of disability is 100% a form of ableism but there are ways of discussing and addressing this that don't contribute to ableism against people who are genuinely intellectually disabled (some of whom might have the same condition you're talking about!)

autistic people who require caregivers for survival aren't somehow privileged compared to autistic people who can live independently but get burnt out, living independently = not having to worry about getting abused or violated or neglected by people you have no choice but to depend on to feed you, bathe you, attend to medical equipment, clean your living space to prevent bugs or mold, etc.

i also highly doubt sensory disabled people are automatically taken seriously in terms of "oh they're actually disabled" either, even people with total vision or hearing loss, so excluding sensory disabled people from the label of "invisible disability" (in cases where it isn't accompanied by visible disability, like strabismus impacting vision) based on that is purely something out of ignorance

too many people in online disability spaces (physical or psychiatric) actively spit on other highly vulnerable groups of disabled people by saying/doing these things and it needs to end, especially as the overton window continues shifting to the right when it comes to ableism in the western world and elsewhere

and don't sit around waiting to be corrected and instead deliberately expose yourself to the experiences of disabled people whose lives are unlike yours and are continuously shut down in online (and offline) spaces, which is part of the reason these prejudices and misconceptions exist in the first place; if we don't have solidarity, then we have nothing

[thebarneschronicles]

Closer To Home VI

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 10.8k

Last night was a turning point—love laid bare, no more running, no more doubt. In the golden light of morning, wrapped in Bucky Barnes’ arms, there’s nothing left to question. He loves you. He’s yours. And for the first time, he’s not afraid to show it.

What started as teasing and lazy touches turns into something deeper—an unspoken promise of everything you’ve built together. A chance encounter at breakfast forces Bucky to confront his past, to see himself not as the weapon he once was, but as a man worth remembering. Worth loving.

He’s still learning, still finding his way, but one thing is certain—he isn’t hiding anymore. Not from himself. And never from you.

Trigger Warnings: mentions of emotional distress, angst, and relationship struggles, a hint of jealousy and abandonment issues, emotional withdrawal, implied PTSD and survivor’s guilt, explicit sexual content (light dominance, possessiveness, overstimulation, and loss of control), moments of mental and emotional turmoil, slightly rough sex with lingering soreness and bruising, public teasing with suggestive dialogue, discussions of war and past violence, themes of self-worth and struggling with identity.

Closer To Home Masterlist

Author’s Note: Surprise, surprise: I couldn't resist it. I wrote the morning after. This one is lighter, more fun, they're just basking in the glow of their 'i love you's' and being menaces to each other. Bucky has a little moment later on and I thought it was something nice for him to have. Give me your thoughts! Love, B xx

--

The first thing you register is the light. Too much light.

It pries its way through the towering hotel windows, an unrelenting golden-white glow bouncing off the surrounding buildings and flooding the room with an almost holy brightness. It’s intrusive, obnoxious—offensive, really. It cuts through the haze of deep sleep, before warmth, before soreness, before the lazy, satisfied hum curling through your limbs, steeped in the lingering echoes of the night before.

A groggy, disgruntled noise escapes you as you burrow deeper into the warmth beside you, determined to outlast the sun’s persistence.

"Shut the blinds," you mumble, voice thick and heavy with sleep, pressing your face into the solid wall of heat next to you.

Bucky barely stirs, barely even acknowledges the request beyond a vague grunt. "You do it."

You groan, shifting just enough to crawl over him before immediately abandoning the effort, nuzzling into the crook of his neck instead. "You’re bigger."

He exhales a breath that might be a laugh, a slow, lazy sound still drowned in exhaustion, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t push you away. Instead, the arm draped over your waist tightens just slightly, fingers ghosting up the bare expanse of your spine in slow, absentminded strokes. The sensation sends a pleasant shiver rippling down your body, soothing and grounding, the contrast between his warm skin and the cold bite of vibranium a familiar comfort.

"Mm, sweetheart," his voice is a low rumble against your hair, thick and rough with sleep. "You tryna merge with me or somethin’?"

"Yes," you grumble against his throat, tucking a leg over his hip in silent declaration.

You're both still bare from the night before, neither of you ever quite bothering to reclaim your clothes. Your body—drifting in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness—has yet to register the full extent of your so-called reunion. Not just the dull ache in your limbs, the heaviness in your muscles, but the deeper, lingering soreness between your thighs—a telling reminder of just how thoroughly he’d taken you apart.

Bucky shifts under the covers, adjusting to accommodate your relentless burrowing without complaint. And for a little while, sleep drags you both back under, a quiet, contented peace settling between you, until the light finds you again.

No matter how much you twist and turn, how much you try to sink deeper into the safe haven of Bucky’s body, the glare sneaks through the gaps, prying you from the depths of sleep. A frustrated groan pushes past your lips, muffled against the firm plane of his chest. Bucky, to his credit, doesn’t complain when you press yourself impossibly closer, seeking shelter in the broad expanse of him. Instead, he shifts, muscles flexing beneath your touch as he pulls you closer, his breath fanning warmly across your temple.

"You’re real fussy for someone who should still be asleep," he murmurs, voice laced with amusement.

"Light’s in my eyes," you grumble, tightening your arms around him. "You’re supposed to be my fortress."

"And you’re supposed to be my peace and quiet," he counters, voice still hoarse with sleep. "Guess we both lost."

Your heart stutters at the admission, warmth blooming in your chest, but you ignore it—ignore the way it makes something deep inside you melt and ache in the sweetest way. Instead, you huff dramatically, fisting your hands against his side as you try to roll both of you over. "Shield me."

A lazy chuckle rumbles through him, vibrating against your skin. "What?"

"The sun is attacking me. Be useful. Please."

Bucky exhales a slow breath but doesn’t resist. Instead, with a tired grunt, he rolls onto his side, tugging you with him. The shift in position grants you the reprieve you seek, the imposing strength of his body blocking out the unwelcome morning glare. You hum in approval, pressing yourself flush against him, sighing contentedly as his arms tighten around you.

"Better?" he rasps, his lips grazing the top of your head.

"Mmm." You shift, pressing a sleepy kiss against his collarbone. "You make a good blackout curtain."

Bucky hums, the sound already half-lost to the pull of sleep. "Glad I could be of service."

For a while, it works. The warmth of him, the solid weight of his presence, the quiet rhythm of his breathing—all of it lulls you closer to the edge of slumber once more. But the longer you lay there, the more aware you become.

Of the dull ache lingering in your muscles. The faint bruises imprinted against your hips, still ghosting with the memory of his grip. The soreness between your thighs, the undeniable evidence of the night before.

And then, the memory crashes into you.

A quiet, breathless whisper escapes before you can stop it. "…You said you love me."

Bucky’s breathing stutters, just for a fraction of a second. Then, a low, sleepy hum, his grip around you tightening. "Mmhmm."

His lips press lazily against your forehead, like he can shush the thought away. "I do," he murmurs, the words warm, half-drowned in sleep, but no less true.

A slow, unstoppable smile spreads across your face. Your heart stumbles over itself, a pleasant, grounding weight settling in your chest. You are his. Claimed. Wanted.

But then, other memories filter in, fragments of the night resurfacing in sharp detail—the fight, though resolved, is not forgotten. The way he had lost himself inside you, scared to lose you. And because you don’t know what else to do with the overwhelming weight of it, you deflect.

"Can’t believe you folded mid-stroke," you tease, breaking the silence. "Didn’t realize my pussy was a safe space for emotional and psychological breakthroughs."

Bucky snorts sharply, his chest shaking with laughter, but his grip on you tightens in retaliation. His vibranium fingers dig into the curve of your bare ass in a firm, vindictive squeeze.

“O-ow!”

"What’s wrong with you?" he accuses, voice thick with amusement, his teeth grazing your shoulder in a playful nip.

"I don’t know, you tell me," you shrug, smug. "You were deep enough in me to find out."

Bucky guffaws, in disbelief. Then, a slow and satisfied smirk spreads over his lips. "So if we’re calling each other out—" He trails his nose along your jaw, his stubble a delicious scratch against your skin. "You said you wanted to marry me."

Your breath hitches. Heat blooms over your cheeks.

"Marriage and babies, if I remember correctly," he adds, his tone dripping with triumph.

Your face burns. "Oh, shut up."

"Nope." His lips graze the sensitive skin beneath your ear, smug and lazy. "You said it."

"I was delirious. You were inside me."

"You sounded pretty serious, sweetheart."

You exhale sharply, feeling his grin against your skin as he presses slow, lazy kisses along your shoulder. It’s not fair how effortlessly he can turn the teasing into something tender. How he can have you giggling one second and breathless the next.

You shift against him, sighing as your fingertips trace slow, lazy patterns over the scars on his shoulder. The ridges are familiar beneath your touch, a testament to everything he's survived, to the strength beneath the softness he reserves only for you. His skin is warm, solid, grounding. Your body aches in a way that makes you want to stretch and wince all at once—every muscle tender, every inch of you still thrumming from the way he’d taken you the night before. And when his thigh shifts slightly, pressing just enough to remind you of exactly where he had been, exactly how thoroughly he had ruined you, a small sound catches in your throat. A tiny, involuntary “ouch”.

Bucky notices immediately.

His movements are unhurried, fluid, but in a blink, you’re on your back, his body hovering over yours, the weight of him pressed into his forearm as his sharp blue eyes roam your face. Concern flickers in them, furrowing his brows, lips pressing into a firm line. He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch achingly gentle in contrast to the roughness of his grip from hours before.

"You okay?" His voice is still rough with sleep, but there’s a new sharpness to it now, an edge of worry threading through the drowsiness. "Did I hurt you last night?"

You blink up at him, surprised by the sudden shift in his demeanor—how easily he can go from teasing and smug to careful and serious, how deeply attuned he is to you. A slow smile tugs at your lips as you reach up, brushing your fingers through his hair, sweeping it back from his face. His concern is sweet, but unnecessary.

"No," you murmur, smoothing your palm down the side of his face. "I mean—" You stretch slightly beneath him, only to feel another pang of soreness settle deep in your bones. You shift, letting out a small, amused huff. "I am kinda sore. Like, all over. You weren’t exactly gentle."

Bucky’s smirk is immediate, smug and devastatingly cocky, his gaze dipping down, dragging slowly over your body, drinking in the marks he left behind—his marks, his evidence of last night. He lets out a low, satisfied hum, thumb brushing idly over your hip, tracing the faint outline of his own fingertips pressed into your skin.

"Didn’t hear any complaints at the time," he says, voice dipping, rough with amusement.

"That’s because I was too busy getting railed into the mattress," you deadpan, watching as his smirk grows into a full-fledged grin.

He huffs out a quiet laugh, dipping his head slightly, his nose brushing along your jaw, voice teasing. "You sound like you wanna complain now."

"Nope. Definitely not a complaint," you clarify, shaking your head. You weren’t about to have him backtrack on you. "Just an observation." You pause, letting your fingers trace slow, absent circles over his shoulder before adding, "I’ve always wanted you a little rough."

Something shifts in his expression at that—subtle, but unmistakable. Amusement gives way to something darker, something deeper. His fingers drag over your stomach, slow and teasing, his touch lighter than before, more deliberate. His gaze follows the movement of his own hand, eyes darkening as he takes in the faint bruises along your ribs, the places where his grip had been firm, possessive, the crescent moons of his nails etched into your skin.

"You look good like this," he murmurs, voice dipping lower, rougher.

Your breath catches in your throat.

"Like what?" you ask, though you think you already know the answer.

Bucky shifts, his lips barely grazing over your jaw, his hand sliding lower, his thumb pressing slow, deliberate circles into your hip bone. The touch is featherlight, teasing, the contrast against the soreness making your stomach tighten, heat curling low in your belly.

"Marked," he says simply, voice thick with satisfaction.

Your stomach flips.

For a moment, you don’t say anything—can’t say anything. Your heart beats a little faster, your breath a little shallower. You can feel the warmth of him everywhere, the solid weight of his body, the press of his hand.

“I like it too,” you confess, feeling your body heating up from the inside out.

His nose brushes yours, the heat of his breath mingling with your own. "Think I wanna finish what we started last night."

Your lips part slightly, your breath coming just a little quicker.

"Yeah?" you whisper, tilting your chin up, inviting.

"Yeah," he breathes, his lips grazing over yours, barely there, teasing, tempting. "If you’re up for it."

You hum softly, letting your hands slide up his back, fingers curling at the nape of his neck. "You really never got to cum…" you murmur, your voice laced with playful sympathy, your nails dragging gently down his back.

Bucky exhales through his nose, nuzzling against your lips, his smirk pressed to your skin. "I didn’t," he confirms, his tone heavy with exaggerated pain.

A grin tugs at your lips. "Poor you, huh? Must be hard."

"Very," he nods solemnly, though the corner of his mouth betrays him. You can feel his smirk against your cheek, the amusement threaded through his voice. “I’m in deep suffering.”

You let out a quiet giggle, biting your lip as you shift slightly beneath him. "Oh, are you?" You arch a teasing brow. "Do I not satisfy you every other time?"

Bucky’s lips quirk, amusement flickering behind his eyes as he presses a slow, lingering kiss to your jaw. "You do, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice dropping into something lower, something that makes your stomach tighten. His fingers drag lazily over your skin, tracing the path of last night’s indulgences. "But you were the one who said your pussy had healing properties."

Your breath catches. A laugh slips out, unbidden.

“Bucky Barnes–” you shake your head. “So you did have a revelation," you tease, grinning against his skin.

"Well, if your pussy's got that kind of power..." His hand slides lower, fingers tracing the curve of your hip before dipping between your legs. He tilts his head, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your throat, letting his teeth scrape just slightly. "Think I might need another hit. For, y’know... therapeutic reasons."

You pretend to consider it, tipping your head back slightly, giving him more room to roam. His mouth is warm against your skin, his tongue darting out to taste, his teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver and his fingers tease your slit, light and gentle.

"Well," you murmur, voice light, playful, but already breathless, "I wouldn't want to deprive you of something so… essential to your well-being."

Bucky hums, low and pleased, his lips still moving lazily against your throat, like he’s savoring you. "Sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice rich with amusement, "you're a goddamn saint."

His fingers part your slit, teasing, barely there as he dips into your entrance—just enough to make heat coil low in your belly, tight and simmering. It’s a whisper of a touch, more suggestion than satisfaction, and it leaves you aching, desperate. You arch slightly into him, hips tilting instinctively, trying to chase more, but his touch remains infuriatingly light. Barely a ghost of pressure, just the tease of his fingertips skating over your slickness. He’s playing with you. Taking his time. Drawing it out just to watch you squirm.

Your breath hitches, frustration curling alongside arousal. You can feel him watching you, feel the weight of his stare as he drinks in every little movement, every twitch, every shaky breath. You look down between you, your gaze roaming the broad expanse of his chest, over the ridges of muscle shifting as he moves. The way his arm flexes between your spread thighs, corded with strength, veins prominent and beautiful. And lower—

Your breath catches.

His cock, thick and flushed, stands hard between you, the sight of it making your stomach flip, making the need pulse hotter in your core. It’s beautiful—he’s beautiful. Every inch of him, from the strong slope of his shoulders to the delicious cut of his abs, the sheer strength in his arms, to the way his lips quirk ever so slightly as he watches your reaction. Like he knows. Like he’s savoring every second of it.

And God, you love him. You love him so much it hurts. Sometimes, the sheer weight of it presses down on you like an unstoppable force, consuming and unshakable, taking up so much space inside you that you don’t know how to contain it. He was warmth, he was kindness, he was something thoughtful and rare, something that made you feel safe even in your most vulnerable moments.

But the desire—the desire was something else entirely.

It was its own beast, wild and insatiable, growing every time he touched you, every time you looked at him and saw something new. A different angle of him bathed in low, golden light. The way his muscles flexed beneath your fingers. The sound of his voice when it dropped lower, when it got rough with want. He was a work of art, sculpted and breathtaking, but unlike the admirers who could only appreciate from afar, you got to touch. You got to experience every part of him—the heat of his skin, the way he tasted, the shiver in his breath when you kissed the right spot, the sounds he made when he lost himself in you. Sometimes, it was too much for your body to comprehend. The pleasure, the need, the sheer overwhelming reality of him.

“Oh God, okay,” you breathe, your chest rising and falling too fast, the air catching in your throat. “Shit, this is—”

Bucky’s fingers pause, just barely, the tips of them still pressed against the slick heat of you. His gaze flicks up to yours, sharp and curious, assessing. “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head quickly, trying to gather yourself, but it’s useless when your whole body is buzzing—pulse pounding in your ears, breath hitching. “I might be the one having a meltdown,” you admit, voice unsteady.

His smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, playful, but there’s something softer behind it, something knowing. The cool weight of his vibranium hand slides up, smoothing over your thigh, grounding you. “Yeah?” His voice dips lower, warm and teasing, but there’s an edge of concern, too. “Why’s that, sweetheart?”

A breathless laugh escapes you as you shift slightly beneath him, parting your legs further, like instinct. Like an invitation. Your hand moves without thought, reaching down to wrap around his wrist, fingers curling over the strong tendons, needing something solid to hold onto. “You,” you murmur, squeezing his wrist lightly, looking up at him with something raw in your eyes, something vulnerable. “You’re—unreal. You don’t even know…”

Something flickers in his expression. His pupils blow wide, not with lust but something deeper, something unreadable yet unmistakable. And then—

“I love you,” he murmurs, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like the words belong to him the same way you do.

Your heart stutters, chest squeezing tight at the newness of it, the weight of it still fresh enough to send a flurry of butterflies through your stomach. “I love you.”

Your lips part, an overwhelmed, breathless sound escaping before you can help it. “Do you?” you mumble, swallowing against the emotion building fast in your throat. “’Cause truly, I just want you for that insane body.”

Bucky lets out a laugh, low and warm, shaking his head as he steals a smacking kiss from your lips. “You’re gonna cry, aren’t you?” he teases, voice laced with something affectionate, something utterly wrecked with fondness. “Is that why you’re trying to joke?”

“Maybe,” you pout, reaching up to hook your fingers around the back of his neck, pulling him down for another kiss. This one lingers, your lips parting against his, a gasp slipping out when his index finger glides up—circling your clit in slow, deliberate strokes before dragging back down to your entrance and dipping inside. Your eyes flutter shut, body going tight around his digits, the noise alone - wet, filthy, loud - making goosebumps rise on your skin.

Bucky watches you, taking in every reaction, every little shiver. “You gonna tell me you love me?”

“I love you,” you give in immediately, the words leaving you on instinct, overwhelmed, helpless to anything but this. “I love you. God, I really do.”

His lips brush against your cheek, and when he speaks, his voice is lower, deeper—commanding. “Look me in the eyes, sweetheart.”

You whimper, your body trembling, pleasure pressing in from all sides. “Gimme—” you gasp, barely able to get the words out. “Gimme a second.”

“Nuh uh,” Bucky nuzzles into your neck then, his nose brushing against your skin, his lips pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses over your pulse before his teeth nip, dragging a groan from deep in your throat. “I wanna see you.”

“Damn it, Buck—fuck, wait!”

Your whole body jolts when he presses two fingers inside, stretching you open, filling you with the same slow, thorough care that’s unraveling you inch by inch. Your back arches off the bed, an arm wrapping tight around his neck, clinging to him as pleasure surges up your spine, hot and dizzying.

His other hand strokes over your thigh, soothing, a steady contrast to the relentless way he works you open. “Baby,” you pant, voice a little shaky, pleading. “I’m still sore.”

Bucky stills, just for a second, a flicker of hesitation passing over his features. And then he softens, his lips pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, his nose brushing against yours. “I know,” he murmurs, his voice all honey and gravel. “I got you, sweetheart. You just tell me what you need.”

God, you love him.

“Just… be gentle?”

His lips twitch, something fond and teasing playing at the edges of his mouth, but his eyes—God, his eyes—are dark and warm, deep pools of blue that hold you still. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice softer now, roughened at the edges. “I’ll be gentle.”

The way he says it sends a shiver down your spine, because it’s not just words—it’s a promise, one that settles into your bones, warm and unshakable.

His fingers move again, slow and deliberate this time, easing deeper, stretching you open with aching patience. He watches every flicker of expression on your face, every shift in your breathing, his vibranium hand smoothing over your thigh, keeping you grounded. “This okay?” he asks, voice low, reverent.

You nod, exhaling a shaky breath. “Yeah,” you whisper, your fingers tightening around his wrist. “Yeah, it’s—”

Your words cut off in a breathy moan when he curls his fingers just right, pressing into that spot that sends heat coiling low in your belly. Your hips twitch, moving instinctively, chasing the feeling, noises pouring out of you, and Bucky makes a low, approving sound, something rough and pleased rumbling from his chest.

“There it is,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your cheek, then your jaw, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your skin. “That’s my girl.”

Your breath catches. His girl. The words send a dizzy rush through you, lighting up something tender and desperate in your chest and you feel yourself getting even wetter, easing up the glide of his fingers against your walls.

“You like that?” he teases, dragging his lips lower, down the curve of your throat, your collarbones, the swell of your breasts. His tongue darts out, teasing, and glides over your nipple, making your breath stutter. His fingers keep working you open, slow and steady, pushing in and out, spreading warmth through every inch of you. “Like bein’ mine?”

“Fuck,” you breathe, your head falling back against the pillows, your body trembling as your fingers curl into the back of his neck, your free hand gripping the chains of his dog tags. “Bucky—”

His name spills from your lips like a whispered prayer, and the sound of it sends a shiver of satisfaction through him. He groans low, the sound vibrating through his chest as he shifts closer, his bare skin scorching against yours, his cock heavy and hot against your thigh, leaking against your skin. You can feel the weight of him, the need rolling off of him, pressing into you and your walls pulse, desperate to take him.

“Wanna rub your clit for me?” he murmurs against your skin, voice thick and low with the heat of the moment. “It’ll help, sweetheart. Get you ready faster.”

You shake your head, a desperate sound escaping your throat as you grip the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging him closer. “N-no, no, please,” you manage, breathless. “You do it.”

His smirk is audible, a teasing lilt to his voice, but there’s something more underneath it—something darker, more possessive. “Kinda busy,” he says, his fingers inside you moving at a maddeningly slow pace, teasing the edges of your control, making every nerve in your body stand on end.

Your hips roll, instinctively chasing the rhythm of his fingers, but it’s not enough. You want more. You need more.

“Use the other hand,” you whisper, your voice trembling, the desperation coating every syllable. You tilt your head up, pulling him down by the chains, seeking his mouth for a kiss, but you don’t quite meet it, your lips brushing the side of his jaw instead. You can feel the heat of him radiating through his skin, all hard angles and smooth muscle, and you can’t get enough.

Bucky makes a sound deep in his chest, something rough and low that sends a bolt of heat straight through you. His forehead presses to yours for a moment, his breath warm, ragged, as if he’s barely holding himself together.

“Jesus,” he mutters, his flesh fingers still working inside you, slow and deep, stretching you open with aching patience. His metal hand, the one you just begged for, twitches where it rests on your thigh.

Your grip tightens in his hair, your lips brushing against his in a breathless, pleading kiss. “Please,” you whisper, eyes hazy with need. “I need it, Buck. Wanna cum for you. Just you, baby.”

Something dark flickers through his gaze, something possessive and molten, and then you feel it—the cool, smooth brush of vibranium tracing over your stomach, deliberate and unhurried, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, teasing, his lips brushing yours but never quite kissing. “That what my girl wants?”

A desperate little sound escapes you, your hips rolling instinctively toward his touch. “Yours,” you breathe, voice barely there. “You know I am.”

Bucky groans, and then, finally, finally, the cool pads of his thumb presses against your clit, the rest of his hand putting pressure low on your belly. He starts slow, circling with feather-light strokes that have you gasping, twitching beneath him.

“Fuck me,” he hisses, watching you unravel beneath him. 

Your eyes flutter shut as you let your words tumble out. “Oh my god–” Your pulse jumps. Your hips roll up, fingers pulling at his hair. “Fuck me, fuck me, f-fuck–”

“Look at you,” he hisses, watching you unravel beneath him. His voice is rough, strained. “You’re so fucking pretty like this.” 

Your thighs threaten to clamp shut around his wrist, but he tsks, spreading them wider, keeping you open for him. “Nah, sweetheart,” he murmurs, lips brushing along your jaw. “Let me see you.”

You whimper, overwhelmed, heat coiling tight in your belly as he works you over with devastating precision. He’s everywhere, flesh fingers curling inside you, metal fingers slick against your clit, mouth on your breasts and it’s too much.

“Bucky,” you gasp, arching into him, your whole body taut, trembling. “I—I’m gonna—”

He lifts his head then, his gaze locking onto yours, burning and unyielding. “Look at me,” he orders, his voice pure sin, low and commanding.

Your eyes flutter open, meeting his just as he presses a little harder, a little faster.You’re slick now, no resistance at all for his fingers, and he’s in to the knuckle, teasing sensations out of you that your own fingers hadn’t managed to. It’s too much, too good, your body shattering beneath his touch. Your orgasm crashes over you, white-hot and consuming, your breath hitching as you cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, his hair.

Bucky groans at the sight, vibranium thumb still rolling your clit, working you through it, drawing out every last pulse, every last tremor, until you’re gasping, crying out so loud you’re sure the room next door knows his name, overstimulated and shaking.

His lips find yours then, kissing you slow, deep, like he wants to pull every last whimper straight from your lungs. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice filled with something tender, reverent. “Always so good for me.”

You shudder, boneless beneath him, your body still humming, your mind floating in the aftermath of the intense release. Every inch of your skin seems to still vibrate with it. His touch lingers, almost too much, too soon, but you don’t want him to stop. You need him to stay close, to remind you of the fire he just ignited in you.

Your fingers trace the ridges of his neck, the taut muscles there, then slowly, lazily, drift down his back, ghosting over the sweat-dampened skin of his broad shoulders. Your other hand curves along his waist, the heat of his body still radiating off him, every inch of him solid and real beneath your touch. Finally, you let your palm rest against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart echoing your own.

“Holy shit,” you finally manage, breathless, dazed, your voice still a little ragged. The words feel foreign on your tongue, yet somehow fitting, because you have nothing else to say—nothing that could adequately describe how his touch has shattered you.

Bucky chuckles, a deep, low sound that hums in his chest, full of satisfaction. His lips brush against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “Yeah?” he drawls, his voice thick, slow, and heavy with the weight of his own pleasure. “You still with me?”

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head against the pillow, eyes fluttering as you try to keep yourself grounded. “Yeah,” you breathe out, every nerve still buzzing, still tingling. The aftershocks of your release still pulse through your veins, but the hunger in you only grows.

His smirk returns, slow and lazy, and you can see the way it stretches across his face—there’s something possessive about it, but it’s soft too, something warm and tender beneath the surface. He nudges your nose with his, and you feel the heat of his breath against your skin. His lips brush over yours, soft at first, a gentle reminder that this—this between you—is more than just physical. You lean into it, your lips parting slightly as you deepen the kiss, your heart catching in your throat. It’s unbearably sweet, making your chest ache as both of you whisper soft, barely audible ‘I love you’s’ onto each other’s lips before he breaks away.

“Think you got another one in you, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his hand already trailing down between your thighs. His fingers are still wet when he finds your sensitive clit again, teasing with a touch.

You whimper, body jerking instinctively at the contact. “Bucky—” You can barely form words, your voice tight and ragged with desire. The air around you feels thick with tension, with the need for him that you can't deny. Your hands move to him, finding his hips, gliding behind until your hands can drag over the curve of his ass. It’s ridiculous, really, how much you love his body.

His grin widens, and there’s that dark, knowing glint in his eyes—the one that makes everything inside you tighten with anticipation. “That a yes?” His words drip with teasing, but underneath is something else—as if he’s already planning how he’s going to take you apart all over again.

You bite your lip, your hand moving down and around to wrap around his cock, gingerly at first, but it doesn’t take long for you to find a rhythm, your fingers curling around him, drawing him closer. You pull him, softly, and the sound he makes—a low, guttural moan—sends a shiver racing down your spine. It makes every nerve in your body stand at attention.

“You still haven’t cum…” You tsked in disapproval. 

“I will,” he nods, his voice rasping with need. “Just checking if you’re ready for my cock.” His words are thick with lust, and even though it makes you clench, there’s a rawness to it that makes you crave it even more.

“My cock,” you correct him, the words tasting different when you say them like this—laying claim. The thought makes your pulse race, your mouth water. Your eyes lock on his, a challenge in your gaze, and without hesitation, you drag him down towards you by the neck, pulling him in.

He’s stronger, bigger, taller than you—everything about him demands attention—but when he falls into you, surrendering, it’s almost as if the roles have reversed. He lets you guide him, lets you welcome him in between your spread thighs, the weight of his body settling against you. His breath hitches as he shifts, and you feel every inch of him, pressing against you, urging you to take the next step.

“Cause you’re mine, right?” you whisper, the words thick with desire, a challenge laced with vulnerability, as you stare up at him. Your breath comes out uneven, the ache between your legs undeniable, a desperate plea for him. 

For a long moment, he just stares at you, his gaze intense, searching. The tension between you thickens, and you can almost taste the shift in the air. He smiles then, a slow smile that ignites something deep inside you. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, “I’m all yours, sweetheart.”

“Then come on,” you urge him, voice sultry, your hand lining his cock to your entrance, gliding up and down, teasing both you and him with the promise of your heat, your wetness. Your free hand finds his ass again, your nails into the supple skin. “Fill up your pussy, James. Wanna see you cum.”

“Shit.”

–

“Buck… You got your wallet?”

“Yes.” His voice was flat, but the subtle twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement.

“Jacket?”

“Yes, doll.”

“Phone?”

“On my pocket.”

“Sunglasses?”

“Your purse.”

“Gloves?”

“On my hands.”

“You know you don’t have to wear those, right?” You glanced up at him as you adjusted your purse strap over your shoulder.

He flexed his fingers, glancing down at the black leather that hugged his hands snugly. “People are weird about it.”

“Well, fuck people,” you huffed, annoyed on his behalf, rising up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips.

A faint chuckle rumbles in his chest, but he doesn’t argue. Getting him out of the hotel had already been an ordeal, requiring the kind of patience you weren’t exactly known for. He had been content to keep you locked away in bed, tangled up in his limbs, his hands exploring, grounding, claiming. Both of you had a new found love for how much you seemed to unravel around his fingers, an addiction he seemed eager to explore. But after hours of indulgence, your stomach had started growling loud enough to rival an engine, and the dull throb behind your eyes had made it clear that skipping meals wasn’t an option.

In the end, it was that—not your pleading, not your half-hearted threats, not even your puppy-dog eyes—that had finally made him relent.

So here you were, strolling down the sidewalk in the crisp morning air, Bucky keeping you anchored to his side with an unwavering grip on your hand. Never much for PDA, he seemed to make an exception today. His fingers curled securely around yours, his thumb occasionally sweeping over your knuckles like he was reassuring himself you were still there. You stole a glance up at him—his expression was relaxed, content even, though the sharp-eyed vigilance never quite left him.

You’d picked out a cute little restaurant—Martin’s Tavern. It had that old-school charm that you figured would appeal to him, the kind of place that smelled like fresh coffee, warm maple syrup, and nostalgia. When you stepped inside, the soft murmur of conversation and the clinking of silverware against plates filled the space. A waitress led you to a corner booth, and as soon as you slid in, Bucky followed, pressing against your side as if you might disappear if he let even an inch of space form between you.

His palm found its way between your crossed legs, dipping between your thighs, a firm, possessive hold that had been a constant since the moment you stepped out of bed. His thumb traces slow circles against your tights covered skin, and you feel it through the thin fabric.

You exhaled a soft, amused sigh, letting the moment settle between you before shifting slightly in your seat—just a test, just to prove a theory. And as expected, his grip tightened, a subtle yet unmistakable response.

You swallowed down the flicker of emotion that stirred in your chest, resting your cheek against his shoulder as you wrapped both hands around his bicep, feeling the solid muscle beneath his jacket. “I’m not gonna disappear, you know.”

Bucky’s fingers twitched against your thigh. His grip wasn’t painful, wasn’t desperate, but it was firm. Resolute. Like he needed to feel you there, needed the confirmation that you were real, that this wasn’t just some dream that would dissolve into nothing the moment he let go.

His voice was quiet when he finally answered, his words laced with the heaviness of someone who had spent a lifetime losing himself and the people he loved. “You could.”

It wasn’t a dramatic declaration, but rather a simple, painful truth. 

Your heart clenched, and you pulled back just enough to look at him. His expression was calm—carefully so—but his eyes betrayed him.

“I’m right here, Buck,” you murmured, your fingers squeezing his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And you felt it—the way the night before had cracked him wide open. Stripped him down to something raw, something unguarded. He wasn’t hiding it from you anymore. The love. The need. The desire. The fear. It was all there, simmering just beneath the surface, clear as day.

But that didn’t mean he was different with the rest of the world.

Outside of this little bubble the two of you existed in, he was still Bucky Barnes. Still the man who scanned every room like a soldier walking into enemy territory, still the man who tensed at loud noises, still the man who carried a century’s worth of ghosts on his shoulders.

You saw it now—his jaw tightening, his gaze flickering toward the window, his instincts kicking in even in a quiet, cozy little restaurant where the biggest threat was a waiter with a tray of mimosas.

You knew better than to push. Instead, you reached for his gloved hand with slow, deliberate care, bringing it to your lips and pressing a soft kiss against the worn leather stretched taut across his knuckles.

It worked. You felt it—the way his fingers flexed slightly beneath the material, the way his grip on you tightened, grounding himself in your presence.

“You know…” you began, voice light with gentle mischief, “this place has been here since the thirties. It’s a hundred years old.” You let the words hang for a moment, feigning innocence as you watched his brow twitch ever so slightly. Then, just as his attention finally shifted fully back to you, you smirked. “Like you.”

His reaction was immediate. He turned from the menu he had just picked up, slow and deliberate, blue eyes narrowing as he gave you a long, assessing look. The kind of look that said he was both entirely unimpressed and, at the same time, completely taken with you.

You bit your lip, failing spectacularly to smother the grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. But there was no hiding the sparkle in your eyes, the amusement dancing just beneath the surface.

Bucky exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I can’t decide if that was thoughtful or just plain rude,” he mused, his voice edged with faux-offense. But you caught it—the way his lips twitched, fighting against a smile.

You hummed, tilting your head in mock consideration. “How about both?”

His tongue flicked over his bottom lip, and you caught the way his gaze dipped to your mouth before he sighed, long and suffering. “You’re impossible.”

Leaning in, you closed the space between you, brushing your nose against his in a fleeting, playful nuzzle. He seemed to be letting you get away with so much more than he usually would. The warmth of his breath ghosted over your lips, and for a moment, everything stilled. His fingers flexed against your thigh, his hold on you tightening just slightly, and you knew—knew that if you weren’t in a public place, he wouldn’t be hesitating right now.

“I contain multitudes, you know,” you teased, letting your voice dip into a lilting whisper.

He groaned, low and deep, shaking his head. But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t let go. If anything, he only held onto you tighter, his fingers pressing into the soft skin of your thigh, his arm heavy around your shoulders.

You could see it—the war inside him. The part of him that wanted to roll his eyes, to grumble about your antics. And the other part, the one that wanted to pin you against the back of the booth and kiss you until you forgot your own name.

He sighed, but this time, it was different. Less exasperation, more surrender.

And then, suddenly, he leaned in, pressing a shockingly lingering, deliberate kiss to your cheek before murmuring against your skin, “You’re a damn minx.”

You grinned, victorious, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the way his stubble grazed against your touch. “And you love me.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his lips twitching as he finally let that smirk break free, something softer—something unguarded—lingering in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he admitted, voice rough, gaze warm. “I do.”

The words hit you like a bolt of lightning, electrifying and impossible to contain. Your breath caught, and before you could think better of it, before his own aversion to public displays of affection could catch up and stop it, your hand was on his cheek, pulling him into a kiss.

And God, it was unbearable. Addictive. The knowledge that Bucky Barnes loved you.

It burned through you, this deep, desperate need to hear it again, to feel it, to breathe it in like oxygen. You wanted to beg him to say it every second, every minute, every hour of every damn day, to brand it into your skin like something permanent.

But you knew better than to push too hard.

So instead, you settled for touching—for kissing.

The taste of him was your favorite thing, the slight burn of his stubble against your lips like a shot of adrenaline straight to your veins. There was no amount of him that could sate you, no dose that would ever be enough.

You sighed into him, fingertips curling at the nape of his neck, ready to melt further, ready to let the rest of the world slip away when—

A cough.

A single, awkward, throat-clearing cough.

“Sergeant Barnes?”

You both froze.

Bucky was the first to pull away, moving like a soldier caught off guard, instinct sharpening his gaze. But not before he flicked his eyes toward you, giving you a quick, almost reluctant once-over, like he was making sure you were okay before engaging with the unknown voice.

You swallowed hard, heart hammering, reaching up to cover your kiss-swollen lips with the tips of your fingers, heat flaring across your cheeks as you turned.

Standing just beside your table was a man—maybe mid 30s, dressed casually but with an undeniable nervous energy rolling off him in waves. His hands were wringing the life out of a battered baseball cap, twisting and untwisting the fabric with the kind of anxious reverence people reserved for childhood heroes.

His eyes flickered between you both, a little sheepish but determined nonetheless. “I’m—Jesus, I’m so sorry to interrupt,” he rushed to say. “I just—are you—you are Sergeant Barnes, right?”

Bucky’s posture shifted, his shoulders squaring up ever so slightly, that razor-sharp caution sliding into place. 

He nodded, slow, deliberate. “Yeah.” His voice was gruff, edged with wariness.

The man grinned, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Couldn’t be sure without the arm.” His gaze flickered down toward Bucky’s gloved hands before snapping back up, his expression open, earnest. “Man, I just—I wanted to say thanks. My grandpa, he was 107th. Always talked about you and Captain Rogers like you walked on water. He passed last year, but he’d have lost his mind if he knew I ran into you.”

Bucky blinked. You watched him shift in his seat, like he wasn’t sure whether to brace for impact or brush it off. But beneath it—just for a second—you saw something else. A flicker of surprise.

The man barely seemed to notice, barreling forward like he had rehearsed this in his head a hundred times. “He used to tell me a lot of war stories. Always said you were the best shot he ever saw.” His voice dipped with genuine admiration. “Said you could hit a moving target in the dark, wind kicking, rain coming down sideways—didn’t matter. Never wasted a bullet, never missed when it counted.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. His fingers flexed against your thigh.

“Was a long time ago,” he murmured.

The man nodded, like he expected that answer. “Yeah, well. He also said you weren’t just some guy with a good aim. You knew how to handle yourself. Wouldn’t go down easy, fought until you were the last one standing.” A small, knowing grin pulled at his lips. “There was this story—think it was in Italy—he swore he saw you take on two Hydra guys with nothing but a knife and a bad attitude.”

Bucky huffed out a breath, shaking his head slightly.

But the guy wasn’t finished. “He told it like you were born for the fight.”

Something flickered across Bucky’s face then. You saw it—the way his throat worked as he swallowed hard, the way his fingers tightened around yours.

You stayed still. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Just let him take it all in.

The guy’s voice softened a little. “But he always said the best thing about you wasn’t the fight.” His gaze met Bucky’s, steady and sure. “Said you were smart. That’s the part he never shut up about. You weren’t just a soldier. You were a strategist. You were one of the ones making calls, keeping people alive. Figuring out how to get in and out before the enemy even knew you were there.”

He cleared his throat, shifting his voice into something rougher, gruffer—mimicking an old man’s tone.

“‘Barnes didn’t just fight, he thought.’”

The air between you went still.

Bucky swallowed, jaw working as he exhaled slowly, glancing away like the weight of it sat heavier than he knew what to do with.

You squeezed his hand. Just once.

His grip tightened in return.

“Your grandpa sounded like a good man,” Bucky finally said, voice quieter, more careful.

The guy nodded. “Yeah. And he thought you were one, too.”

You watched the tension in Bucky’s shoulders slowly unravel, watched the way his mouth softened at the edges. His hand in yours, steady and warm, not trembling, not running.

Just here.

“You said he was 107th?” Bucky murmured. “That’s—yeah. They were good men.”

The guy’s throat bobbed, his hands twisting that poor, battered hat between his fingers like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. His voice was quieter this time, more careful, like he knew the weight of the words before he even said them.

“Yeah. He was proud to serve with you.” His eyes flicked up, searching Bucky’s face. “Said you never left a man behind.”

Bucky’s breath hitched—just barely. So small a shift that most people wouldn’t have noticed.

But you weren’t most people.

And God—the look in his eyes.

It could split your chest open.

There was something raw there, something old and aching and too much. A storm breaking just beneath the surface, quiet but powerful, stirring up ghosts of the past like they still had unfinished business with him.

He swallowed hard, lips parting like he wanted to say something—like there were a thousand things caught behind his teeth, all trying to claw their way out at once.

But in the end, he just nodded. Once.

Quiet but steady.

“Thanks for telling me that.”

The guy hesitated, shifting on his feet, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck before letting out a nervous breath.

“I don’t wanna take up your time, but—uh, could I shake your hand?”

Bucky blinked.

It was almost comical, how blindsided he looked—like the request hadn’t even been in the realm of possibility. As if of all the things he had braced himself for, this had never crossed his mind.

Like maybe—just maybe—he didn’t believe he was the kind of man people wanted to shake hands with anymore.

The air between you all felt delicate—like something sacred, something fragile, balancing on the edge of a blade.

You didn’t dare breathe. Didn’t dare move.

Until you did.

Without thinking, without hesitating, you reached for the edge of his glove.

Your fingers brushed against his wrist, slow and deliberate, peeling the leather away, like you had done it a thousand times before. Bucky didn’t stop you. Didn’t even flinch.

Just let you do it.

Let you bare his hand to the open air, to the world—to the man standing before him, offering something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

And then, with a touch so light it was almost imperceptible, your other hand skimmed his elbow. A quiet, steady anchor.

A nudge forward. A silent reassurance. A reminder. That this was real. That he was allowed to have this.

Because if anyone deserved to shake James Buchanan Barnes’ hand—

It was the grandson of a man who still believed in the good in him.

Bucky hesitated, just for a second.

Not out of reluctance. Not out of fear.

But out of something heavier. Like the weight of it all, of being remembered this way, was something he didn’t quite know how to carry.

Then, finally, he moved. His fingers flexed, curling slightly before he extended his bare hand, offering it in quiet acceptance.

The guy took it immediately, gripping firm but not forceful. A show of respect. Of gratitude.

“Thank you, Sergeant.” His voice was steady, but his expression was something softer—genuine. “For everything.”

Bucky’s throat bobbed, and you could see it—the way his jaw tightened, the way his grip lingered just a moment longer than necessary. Not because he didn’t believe it was happening. Because he needed it to be real.

His Adam’s apple bobbed, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer. That the weight of it would press too hard against his ribs, keep the words stuck in his throat.

But then, finally—softly, barely above a murmur:

“…You’re welcome.”

The guy nodded, giving Bucky’s hand one last, firm squeeze before finally stepping back, letting go. His smile was small but earnest—the kind of expression that wasn’t forced, wasn’t for show. The kind of gratitude that didn’t need to be loud to be heard. 

The guy pulled back, exhaling a little laugh, like he couldn’t believe this had actually happened. Like he had just checked something monumental off his list. 

The guy smiled, like he knew when to step back, when to leave a moment untouched, but before he turned to leave, he hesitated just once more.

“He would’ve liked to see you like this,” he said, almost as an afterthought, but his eyes flicked to you for the briefest second—just enough to make it clear what this meant. 

Bucky didn’t say anything. Just pressed his lips together, gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. You didn’t react, just let your eyes widen slightly at the stranger, brows rising the tiniest bit in acknowledgement.

And then, just like that, the guy was gone.

The space he left behind felt heavier —thicker. Charged with something unspoken.

Bucky exhaled, long and slow, his shoulders dropping just a fraction as he leaned back into the booth. You could still see it in the way he held himself—the tension, the weight of old ghosts settling deep in his bones.

His whole body was taut, tense in a way you recognized—a tension that wasn’t from anger or wariness, but disbelief. Like he didn’t know what to do with this feeling. Like he had been bracing for something bad, something heavy—but instead, he’d been given kindness.

Your heart ached for him.

For a long moment, you just watched him, time unchecked.

You watched, your heart aching in that deep, familiar way—the way it always did when you saw him like this. The part of him that still didn’t quite believe he could be seen as anything other than what he had been made into.

Watched the way his fingers flexed like he could still feel the handshake lingering. Watched the way his eyes flickered to the spot where the guy had been standing, like he was replaying the words over and over again, letting them settle in places that had been empty and hostile inside of him for far too long.

Then, gently, you reached for his hand again—his bare hand. Lacing your fingers through his, grounding him in the present, in you. His gaze flicked to you then, something soft, raw, vulnerable in those blue eyes.

You squeezed his hand. “How’s it feel?”

“How does what feel?”

“To know people like you.”

A sharp exhale—halfway between a scoff and a laugh.

“Yeah, well.” He shook his head, glancing down, rubbing a thumb absentmindedly over your knuckles. “Just one guy.”

You arched a brow, a smirk playing at the corner of your lips. “One guy whose grandpa thought you walked on water.”

He rolled his eyes, but it lacked any real irritation.

You leaned in just a little, voice softer now, more serious.

“And you never left a man behind. You’re not that different now, Buck.”

Bucky swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his grip on your hand tightening like you were the only solid thing in a world that still felt unsteady beneath his feet. His skin was warm against yours, calloused fingertips pressing into your palm like he needed proof you were real—that you meant what you were saying.

Your thumb brushed along the inside of his wrist, slow and deliberate, tracing the faint ridge of a scar that had long since healed. His pulse quickened just slightly beneath your touch, a quiet, steady reminder. Alive. Present. Yours.

His eyes flickered over your face, searching. For what, you weren’t entirely sure—reassurance, maybe? Permission to believe you? A reason to let go of the doubt curling at the edges of his mind?

A question lingered behind his gaze, wrapped in something softer, something hesitant. Do you really think that? Do you really see me like that?

“Am I not?” His voice was quiet, rough around the edges like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear the answer.

You shook your head, unwavering, holding him there with nothing but the truth. “No.”

The breath he let out was slow, like he was bracing himself, but this time, when he squeezed your hand, his grip was steadier—more certain.

A small smile tugged at the corner of your lips as you nudged him lightly, leaning into his side just enough to feel the solid warmth of him. “Pretty cool, you know?”

Bucky tilted his head, brow furrowing as he picked up the menu again, his arm coming around your shoulders, really tucking you against his side. “What is?”

You shrugged, playing it off like it wasn’t that big a deal, like your heart hadn’t just cracked wide open for him to see. “To be a war hero’s girl.”

His fingers twitched, his head turned to your, and for a second, he didn’t say anything—just looked at you, blue eyes dark and unreadable. But then Bucky’s lips twitched, a breath of a laugh escaping before he shook his head, eyes dropping back to the menu like he was pretending not to be affected. Like the weight of your words hadn’t settled somewhere deep in his chest.

But you knew better.

You felt it in the way his fingers curled just a little tighter around your shoulder, grounding himself in the warmth of your touch. You saw it in the way his jaw worked, like he was chewing over what to say, like he wasn’t used to this—being spoken about like that.

Like he wasn’t used to being someone’s hero.

“War hero, huh?” His voice was light, but you caught the thread of something deeper beneath it. Something careful.

You hummed, tilting your head playfully, hand gliding over his stomach to squeeze his waist. “Mhm. Big damn hero, actually.”

Bucky scoffed, flipping the page of the menu. “I don’t know about that.”

You nuzzled his shoulder. “Oh, c’mon. You heard the guy. You were a legend before you even hit twenty-five. The best shot in the 107th, a strategist, a fighter, an all-around badass.” You grinned. “And you didn’t even need the serum for that part.”

His brows lifted just slightly, but his expression was unreadable. “That what you think?”

You didn’t hesitate. “I know it. You forget, but I’ve read your files.”

That got him.

Bucky finally dropped the menu, his blue eyes settling on yours, unwavering. You could feel it, the weight of it—the years, the ghosts, the history that still clung to him like a second skin. But underneath all of it, there was him. The man who had never stopped fighting, even when the world had tried to make him forget who he was.

The man who had never left anyone behind.

The man who had fought for his life and found his way to you.

A comfortable silence settled between you, his body now loose, relaxed, in a way you knew wasn’t always easy for him. 

And then, because you couldn’t resist, you grinned. “Should I start calling you Sergeant Barnes in bed? I think it has a nice ring to it.”

Bucky groaned, head tilting back against the booth as if the ceiling could save him. “Don’t.”

You pressed a kiss to his cheek, smirking. “But it sounds so official,” you teased against his ear, dragging out the words just to watch the corner of his mouth twitch. “So dignified. So—”

Bucky cut you a look, unimpressed but visibly bracing for impact.

“—authoritative.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “If you do, I’m leaving.”

You gasped dramatically, hand flying to your chest as if he’d struck you. “You wouldn’t dare.”

His expression didn’t change. Not even a little. You hated when he used his poker face on you. “Wouldn’t I?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, searching for any crack in his resolve. There was none. No amusement, no indulgence, just the same flat stare he used when threatening to take an enemy’s kneecaps off.

Which meant, obviously, you had to double down.

Resting a hand on his thigh, you leaned in like you were about to whisper some dark, forbidden secret, something the rest of the restaurant couldn’t know. “You wouldn’t leave me, James,” you murmured, voice sweet, head tilting as your fingers traced lazy circles through the fabric of his sweats. “We’ve had unprotected sex, you can’t leave now.”

Bucky blinked at you, his expression a slow unraveling of exasperation and disbelief, before a choked laugh escaped him. He scrubbed a hand down his face, shaking his head as if he could physically wipe away the absurdity of this conversation.

“Jesus Christ.”

“No, but you did say I’m a miracle worker… last night,” you quipped, a lewd grin spreading over your lips. “That also makes me your military wife by default. We should get one of those tacky 'Proud Army Wife' little wall hangings for the—"

"Oh my God, shut up," Bucky interrupted, huffing out another laugh, one hand catching the back of your neck as he pulled you in, pressing his forehead against yours. “Enough of that,” he muttered, voice warm and resigned, pulling you into a kiss to shut you up.

By the time you finished your meal and asked for the check, it had already been taken care of—a gift from the 107th soldier’s grandson. The waiter handed Bucky a small note, neatly folded, the edges slightly smudged like it had been held for a while before being passed along.

"Thank you for your service—both then and now. My grandpa would’ve been honored to buy you a drink, but I figured brunch was the next best thing. Hope you two have a great day."

Bucky stared at the words, fingers gripping the edge of the receipt a little tighter than necessary. He stared down at the note like it didn’t quite make sense, like his brain was still trying to process the kindness folded neatly into a stranger’s handwriting.

You reached for his hand beneath the table, lacing your fingers through his. He let you, his grip firm but a little dazed, like he needed something solid to hold onto.

“See?” you murmured, voice softer now, letting the teasing fall away for just a second. “Told you. War hero.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, a quiet, humorless huff. “You’re never gonna let that go, are you?”

You grinned, squeezing his hand. “Not a chance in hell, baby.”

His lips twitched, but there was something else in there, something he was trying to wrap his head around still. A flicker of acceptance still trying to take root.

But you saw it.

And maybe that was enough.

He glanced at the note one more time before folding it carefully, tucking it into his jacket pocket. He didn’t throw it away. Didn’t brush it off with some self-deprecating remark.

Progress.

By the time you stepped outside, the air had shifted—lighter, easier. The early afternoon sun had burned away the morning chill, casting soft gold over the quiet street. Bucky’s arm slid around your waist without hesitation, tucking you close as you walked.

You let the moment settle for a beat before sighing dramatically. "Well, Sergeant Barnes, looks like we’ve got a theme going. First a free meal, next thing you know, people are gonna start saluting you in the street."

Bucky groaned, tipping his head back. “Don’t start.”

"Oh, I’ve only just begun." You grinned up at him, eyes bright with mischief. "Wanna go to the Smithsonian? They've got that Howling Commandos exhibit. Bet they’ve even got some of your old army uniforms on display."

His gaze snapped to you, sharp with suspicion. “What do you wanna see my old army uniform for?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think about it, but the glint in your eyes betrayed you.

"I mean…" You dragged out the word, biting back a smirk. "If I’m gonna be a sergeant’s girl, I should probably start practicing. You know… learn to follow orders, stand at attention, maybe even salute you properly."

Bucky let out a strangled cough, his whole body tensing for half a second before he stopped, eyes on yours—half amused, half warning.

"You really shouldn't say shit like that unless you mean it, sweetheart."

Your grin widened. "Who said I don’t mean it?"

Bucky exhaled through his nose, nose to nose with your, mouth hovering over yours. "You’re a menace."

You batted your lashes at him, all faux innocence. "Guess you must like it."

His lips twitched, but he said nothing. Just reached over, resting a warm, heavy hand on the back of your neck—lingering there, fingers flexing just slightly. Enough to make your breath catch, just for a second.

You swallowed, pulse kicking up a notch. "Something you wanna say, Barnes?"

His thumb brushed idly over your skin, slow and deliberate. "Just thinking you talk an awful big game."

You raised a brow, feigning offense. "Are you implying I wouldn't follow through?"

His eyes darkened just enough to make your stomach flip. "I’m saying you better be careful what you start. ‘Cause if you really wanna play soldier, I don’t half-ass my missions. Never missed a shot, remember?" His free hand tapped the note in his pocket.

Your breath stuttered. The weight of his gaze, the heat of his palm against your neck—it was enough to send a thrill down your spine.

Still, you refused to back down. Instead, you smiled, all slow and syrupy sweet. "Oh, I know. I can still feel all the shots you didn’t miss last night. And this morning."

His jaw tightened. His grip on your hair did too.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The air between you thickened, humming with something electric, something inevitable.

And then, just as you thought he might actually call your bluff—might lean in, might do something—he huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he pulled away.

"You’re real lucky we’re in public."

You let out a breath, your pulse still racing. "Wish we weren’t."

Bucky shot you a knowing look, something dangerous flickering in his eyes before he pulling into a hug, lips pressed to your ear, casual as ever.

"So do I."

[critterbitter]

I'm wheezing over Ingo and Litwick's dynamic jgjbjjxjsjwkfiisiq and TYNAMO FITTING INTO EMMET'S SCARF IS SOOO CUTE!! Love how you draw the little sbubby bois, their conductor themed outfits are soo freaking cute!!!

I have so many thoughts when it comes to them it’s insane. Glad you like the characterizations!

Here’s a quick one shot under the cut, as a treat for making it this far.

Emmet finds Tynamo three months before Ingo meets Litwick. Ingo has some thoughts.

Ingo and Emmet are part of a pair.

If Emmet is the fuck around and find out, then Ingo’s been relegated amused damage control. This has always been the case, right up until Emmet found tynamo. Then suddenly, it’s “wow emmet, you’re so responsible!” “Golly gee Emmet, what do you mean you don’t want to go exploring the cave systems after dark?” “Gee whizz, what do you mean curfew for your eel puppy?” “Why in Reshiram do you get to have a whole pokemon three months before we agreed to get starters, and i don’t?”

Ingo doesn’t say the last part. He’s a bitter world-weary twelve year old languishing about the unfairness of the pokestray distribution system, but he also loves his brother. Emmet found an injured tynamo in chargestone cave and decided to help— tynamo decided to stay. It’s every child’s film plot. Ingo being a grouchy gengar makes him objectively a terrible friend.

Oh dragons, is Ingo a bad brother?

“Ingo!”

Speak of the cold, and he shall enter. Ingo swings his whole body around to better brace for the flying tackle.

“Emmet!”

“I am emmet! You are sulking.”

Ingo clicks his mouth closed and tries not to sulk harder. He fails.

“You are not being verrrry convincing, brother dearest.”

“I do not have any idea what you are going on about,” Ingo’s traitorous mouth blurts. “Be convinced I love you and am not planning dastardly plots.”

Do not think about getting a ground typed starter. Do not think about getting a ground typed starter.

Emmet shoots him a judgemental look from under the brim of his hat. Ingo glowers back, and slowly starts leaning forward, smooshing Emmet under his weight.

“Ttttell me why you look like a crushed joltik.”

“Keep this up and you are going to be the crushed joltik.”

Anyways, Emmet is becoming more bold by the day and even actively discussing electric types with the new girl in elementary prep, Elesa. Ingo thinks she’s cool, but she flinched when he blurted a once again too loud greeting so he’s… letting that cool off. They definitely don’t have anything to talk about beyond pokemon, and Emmet and her already have pokemon. Ingo feels a bit left out.

Caught in the ennui of not having a blitzle or tynamo, Ingo slips as Emmet rolls out from under him. The two go down in an ungraceful tangle of limbs.

“Tell. Me. What’s. Wrong.” Emmet gently slaps Ingo’s face like a ripe oran berry. “You want to tell me sooo badly. Ooh.”

“Emmet- aurgh. Gerroff’”

“I don’t speak denial.”

Ingo gives up. His entire body deflates. Emmet, not expecting the sudden loss of spinal infrastructure, slides sideways and knees Ingo’s lungs.

Ingo wheezes. “I’m sulking because you were crushing my spine.”

“Tell me the truth.”

Uh oh. Ingo studies Emmet’s face. It’s the same one he looks into the mirror with, but marred with concern and self consciousness. Ingo made Emmet worry. He’s not just a bad twin. He’s the worst.

“You are Emmet.”

“I am Emmet.”

“You have Tynamo.”

“Tynamo’s charging at home.”

Smart ass! Emmet knows what Ingo means. And by Emmet’s smug grin, Emmet knows too.

Ingo struggles to explain that Emmet has Tynamo, and Elesa, and… that’s only two other individuals. He is truly the worst twin in all the land. Emmet gets two new friends and Ingo’s being an infant about it.

One day, Ingo will have his own pokemon partner and team— but right now, Ingo only gets to have Emmet.

Ingo feels this is an unfair trade equivalent, but he does not want to say it in a way that sounds rude, so he stalls.

Emmet has no such prefunctures. He squints at Ingo, who avoids eye contact and squirms. “You are… jealous?” He tilts his head in visible confusion. “What?”

Ingo covers his face with his hands, defeated.

“You arrrre jealous!” Emmet cries, bewildered. “Why??”

Ingo lets out an unintelligible wheeze. Emmet remembers he still has a knee on Ingo’s chest, and hastily sits back.

“I don’t want to be jealous,” Ingo finally bursts. “I am very happy for you Emmet! You and Tynamo are a winning combination!” His voice cracks embarrassingly. Emmet doesn’t flinch at the volume, even muffled under Ingo’s palms. “I don’t want to be a bad brother being jealous.”

“You aren’t a bad brother, Ingo.”

“I am. I am angry that you found your starter and I haven’t. I’m sad I interrupted your schedule with my inane demands. I have made you feel like you did something wrong. I apologize.”

Peeking between Ingo’s fingers, Emmet’s face falls. Ingo wants to be struck by a giga impact rather than face this. He would rather be a dusty imprint. Where is Uncle Drayden’s Haxorous when you need her?

“Ingo, Ingo listen to me.” Emmet’s hands dart forward to settle Ingo’s shoulders. The pressure is grounding. Real. This is where Emmet tells Ingo he’s being stupid.

He hears Emmet exhale.

“I’m sorry.”

Wait, that doesn’t sound right. “Pardon?”

“I wanted to train Tynamo as my conductor, and I left our two-car train unmaintained.”

“Pardon??”

Emmet looks uncomfortable and sad. It makes Ingo uncomfortable and sad. “Yesterday night. When you wanted to go to the caves. For our weekly charting. I said I’d rather help Tynamo.”

Oh. Yeah, Ingo remembers that. It had stung. “You are not obligated to say yes,” he protests. “In fact, you should say no more. You always say yes.”

“Yes.”

“What did I just say.”

“No. You’re my brother. I left you out.”

Ingo slowly puts down his hands. His face still feels warm, but he feels less scared. Now he just feels embarrassed. He can’t help but let out a meek plea slip. “Don’t go where I can’t follow, Emmet. Please.”

“I would never! We are going on our pokemon journey together, yep yep. You, me, tynamo, and whoever your starter will be!”

The two sit there on the side of the dirt road. Emmet’s declaration sounds like a dangerous promise. Ingo realizes at that moment he would do anything for his brother, who’s his best friend and confidant and world, starter or no starter. He opens his mouth to tell Emmet that.

“Wwwwwait. You are trying to go back to the caves. Ingo! Are you trying to find a starter by yourself!?”

Never mind. Emmet’s gone for his soft underbelly, and Ingo’s in pain. “Emphasis on trying,” he mutters instead. The joltik are not interested in him. The local tynamo swarm fled. A curious drilbur had sniffed him once, turned up its nose, and then trundled into the wall.

“…ah.”

Nothing had felt right for Ingo— too scared, too judgemental, or too uninterested. He’s starting to accept that maybe none of the pokemon in this town area match his truth or ideals.

Emmet was quiet for a long time. He had his thinking face on, so Ingo did not interrupt. He took the time instead to look up at the sky, watching the giant puff of clouds drift by. A plume of swabloo lazily inches their way across the horizon.

A shadow falls over Ingo. Emmet dusts himself off, and helps drag his twin to his feet. The two sway, clasping hands.

“We’ll ask Uncle Drayden,” Emmet decides, and Ingo is enthralled by the sheer truth of that statement. “He’ll let us use the subway! And you can look elsewhere, for a starter who is ideal for you. Wwwwith me and Tynamo, instead of by yourself.”

“Truly?” Uncle Drayden is a scary man.

Emmet nods. It’s easy to talk to Emmet— he just says words that Ingo would spend hours ruminating on. “I am verrrry persuasive.”

“You mean staring at him from the corner until he cracks?”

“Brother, you know me so well!”

Ingo cant help but laugh. He still feels guilty and bad for feeling envious, but a world with emmet by his side is significantly less hostile. Emmet’s hand is warm in his.“Thank you!” He cheers, startling himself with his volume. “Bravo,” he tried in a quieter tone.

“Bravo!!” Emmet replies, pointedly louder. Ingo squawks as Emmet pulls him off balance. “You are my brother! We’re going to find you a starter!”

Ingo tugs back just as fiercely. “Bravo!! We are going to harass Uncle Drayden into letting us board the train!”

Emmet leans with his whole body, dragging Ingo into the fulcrum of his centrifuge. “BRAVO! YOU ARE GOING TO HELP ME WITH TYNAMO’S TRAINING!”

Ingo digs his heels in, and then stumbles. “BRAVO, I, what?”

Emmet looked distinctly patrat-esque. “We’re in this together, Ingo. No backing out now.”

Ingo thought about it long and hard. He gets to see his brother get electrocuted. But he will, also, most likely, get electrocuted.

(Tynamo is Emmet’s starter. But maybe, it can also be Ingo’s friend.)

But brother say brother do, and Ingo’s probably obligated to run damage control if Emmet decides to, say, shove a fork into an outlet for Tynamo to snack on.

(Emmet fucks around. Ingo finds out. Even two steps apart with new people between, this is the way of their world.)

“Alright,” he crumbles. When they step this time, they step in sync. “We do this. Together.” (Enjoy this? Here's the link to the rest of my rat crimes.)

[lostintransist]

Secrets Are For Grown Ups | Part 2

Shout out to the fabulous @xbirdiex for letting me hit them up in their DM's to beta for this. 😘

CW: Limb Loss, suicide mentioned in passing, thoughts of murder, Emotions™

What does one do when confronted with their unknown sins?

Follow them home of course.

Johnny had lost his left leg at knee due to a bomb going off at a job and Simon had been discharged after repeatedly failing mental health evals. They were both given pensions and discharged with honors. Roach and Gaz had been kept together when moved to a new team and Price had been ‘gifted’ a higher position by command that left him chained to a desk.

The only confirmation they had that your leaving had been somehow their fault was the face down picture on the table. Price had called them to check on you as you had a family emergency. You had been firmly ensconced in a hard airport seat when they reached your flat. If they shared a speaking look about the photo before Johnny slid it from it’s frame and folded into his pocket, they never discussed it.

The discharges were how they finally ended up together. Simon needed something, someone, to care for to keep from eating a bullet and Johnny fighting him tooth and nail to stay alive was the right project. The physical therapists loved seeing Johnny rolled in by Simon because they knew he wouldn’t fight them on exercises today. He would snarl at his “L.T.” and actually work. They had to be careful to not let him overwork himself lest he be unable to work at the next day’s appointment.

Their first kiss had been when Johnny had been fed up with Simon’s sass about physical therapy. He had only been legless for a month and barely started trying to relearn how to balance.

Simon carried him from the car to their shared flat.

“I’m not going back.”

“Mmm, what a surprise it will be when I drag your ass to PT tomorrow then.”

Being carried bridal style rankled somewhere deep in Johnny. He wanted to take a bite of out Simon’s neck and keep ripping but that would have left him stranded in the hall with a dead body and only one working foot.

The look Simon sent him, one of cool acknowledgment and smugness had Johnny gripping both halves of Simon’s face and planting a kiss on him.

That would show the bastard.

Showed him something alright. All Simon could see the remaining few steps to the flat was the subtle shift in Johnny’s gym shorts and rising heat in his cheeks. Simon hadn’t said anything about it. Dinner had been a simple soup. Night fell. When Simon helped Johnny to bed that night, he inserted himself next to the man.

Johnny didn’t question it. Frankly he was relieved. He had flirted for years in front of the man he didn’t think he would ever catch. The press of his dry lips and light fingers had ignited the combustible fumes that swirled between them. Those fumes choked out any hope of anything healthy with anyone else.

When Johnny had ‘graduated’ from therapy and could walk with almost no limp Simon invited Johnny to move with him. They found a medium sized city in a place neither of them had been to but could reach several national parks and an airport relatively quickly. Housing costs were rising but they found an older neighborhood with a good amount of trees in the yards and a little space in the back to grow plants. They could see the mountains when they stood on the second story porch.

The previous owner had mentioned that the school pick-up and drop off point happened at their house for the junior high and the elementary schools. Kids would wait on the corner of their yard away from the cars. That is why the two owners prior had installed the stone benches that sat so close to the sidewalk. Simon had planned on taking them out until he heard that piece of information.

One day, during mid-spring where the mornings were chilled enough to need a jacket but the afternoons would leave you sweating, Johnny saw something that gave him pause. He was in the process of moving bags of clothes into the car to drop off at the shelter when the bus delivered a load of kids. He waved with the bus driver and slammed the trunk of the crossover.

The squeal particular to children had Johnny snapping his back to a pair of children who walked past his parked car.

“Don’t do that Mac!”

A glare he had only ever seen on Simon’s face painted itself across the face of a child who couldn’t be any older than seven. Johnny felt the bottom drop out of his stomach and fall into his ass.

“Don’t yell at me stupid!”

“Mom says you can’t call me stupid! Stupid!”

Stepping into the sidewalk Johnny watches the the children, one with long hair and the other short, bicker until they reached a house five doors up and disappeared behind the front door.

Stumbling into the garage Johnny attempts to call for Simon. All that escapes is a croak. After a hard shake of his head and clearing his throat it works.

“Simon!”

The shout must have had an edge of panic because Simon appears with a hand gun pointed at the floor and the his Ghost eyes staring out. Upon seeing Johnny, unharmed and alarmed Simon tucked his work face and his gun away.

“What happened? Why are you sweating? Are you sick?”

Johnny swatted away that hands that reached for his face.

“I saw a fecking child with your face Si. Kid got off the bus and was arguing with his sister. I need you to come with me.”

Simon blinked at his beloved a few times. The fuck did he say?

“Why would a child in the states have my face? You know it is possible for unrelated people to look alike right? It’s important to me that you know that.”

“Listen to me Simon!” Johnny stumbled back, prosthetic catching funny against the concrete floor. “I, never, in all my life have seen a glare that looks exactly like yours. But this kid when yelling at his sister had one of your meanest glares. I could see him in you still after he smiled. I am asking you to come with me and knock on a door to introduce ourselves to the neighbors and find out what the hell is going on.”

Simon hadn’t seen Johnny this riled up in a long time. He searched his husbands face, noting the heaving of his chest and the flex of his fingers as he fought them from curling into fists.

“Okay,” he said gently as if he were speaking to a spooked horse, “let’s go meet the neighbors.”

That is how the found themselves at your door. The waiting after the harsh knock sounded into the space beyond the frame rattled something loose in Simon. Could he have a kid? He had been no prude before settling down with Johnny but he couldn’t remember more than a few women he ever fucked raw. Everyone of them had been on birth control, at least they said they were.

Johnny crossed his arms, drawing Simon’s gaze. They were both freaked out, concerned.

When the door opens there is you. A little older, a little more solid than when you had fled England, a few new piercings, but it’s still you. Simon glances to the wall visible behind you catching sight of two children in photos who wouldn’t look out of place on the walls of his and Johnny’s home. His gaze snaps back to you as you blanch and slam the door shut.

The deadbolt slamming into place solidifies in him the answer that there is something going on here and it absolutely involves them.

Before Johnny can pound his fist into the door to demand answers Simon catches it. Placing a gentle kiss along his knuckles he coaxes him from the door.

“She won’t answer the door. You know she won’t. Let’s all take the evening and try and come back tomorrow while the kids are at school.”

“She owes us answers, Si,” Johnny’s eyes flashed as he snarled.

Simon pulled him down one more step. Once Johnny started moving they walked home, hand in hand.

“She does owe us answers, but we know where she is now and can see about getting them. Right now I suggest we recoup and see what we can find. One of the kids in the photos looked like you Johnny.”

Johnny vibrates with tension until he sees the wisdom in coming at this from another angle. His shoulders drop from his ears as tears prick at his eyes.

“Why wouldn’t she tell us Si?”

Mulling over the answer they complete the walk home.

“Why would she Johnny? You know how we are.”

That sobering statement colored the remainder of the evening. It is late when they decide to call their former captain.

Part 3

Secrets Masterlist | Masterlist

Tags:

@love-kha1 @bdbdhshhs @persephone-kore-law @vmaxis @splaterparty0-0 @momowhoo

@talia-the-gemini @redkarmakai

@beloveds-embrace @cherrycosmos392 @mxtallymarks @love-kha1

[sanjisprincesswifey]

loves embrace ⋆ sanji x reader

summary: all sanji needed was a little bit of love to open up to you

notes: this was a modified request that takes place post whole cake, i suppose, so spoilers! angsty, sad sanji (sadji) x gender neutral reader! lots of comforting! no cw warnings! around 1,300+ words!

every morning sanji had a routine. he’d wake up fifteen minutes before his alarm, making sure to turn it off so as to not wake you. spending this allotted time drowning in your smell; he tangled his long limbs within yours and held you tightly to him.

he’d depart with a few too many kisses, surely bringing you out from your slumber, neatly fixing his side of the bed, and beginning his day with a spring in his step.

today was an anomaly of days, your eyes slowly blinking open, the room swallowed by a dim light. the overcast in the sky seemed to cause you to wake later than you anticipated, the clock on your wall reading 11:37 am.

the sheets beside you, usually folded over as pristinely as sanji could make them, sat in disarray. had it been anyone else, you’d disregard the notion; perhaps he had run too far behind schedule this morning.

but it was unlike sanji, even in a time crunch, to leave a mess in his absence. he was incredibly anal with situations like these, you knew him too well to brush the idea off as forgetfulness as you approach him in the kitchen.

the creaky door that franky keeps forgetting to fix would normally signal your entrance and cue your boyfriend to fawn all over you, but he remains behind the kitchen sink, not budging an inch.

his blonde hair hangs low, hiding his expression from you as he gingerly places the wet plates on the drying rack.

“sanji?” you question, investigating his face once he notices you’re there.

your brows furrow upon further examination; his blue eyes are accompanied by dark under eye bags and his milky skin is dull, the loss of color noticeable, even for his complexion.

“oh, my swan, how’re you? you missed breakfast.” he smiles, but the way his lips loosely hug, you know it’s purely a facade so as to not draw attention from you.

though you had only been dating for a few months, you knew you had to plan out your next moves carefully and approach the situation with caution. sanji would “i’m fine” himself death had he got the chance.

“was dreaming of you, so i didn’t really want to wake up,” you tease, earning a light laugh from him.

from this point on, he’d usually take the opportunity to discuss his night and what his dreams consisted of, but silence then falls over you two.

“did you eat?” you speak up.

he pulls his hands out of the water, drying them off on a nearby dish towel. “wasn’t hungry.”

as soon as he moves around the counter, you step in front of him.

you tsk in response, blocking him from exiting the area with arms crossed over your chest. “well, i’d like for you to eat something. you didn’t eat dinner last night either,” you reply.

sanji stares down at you, a melancholy look in his eye, but he obliges, dropping two slices of bread into the toaster.

“that’s it?” you argue, a mused smile curling his lips.

“i’m really not that hungry today, my darling,” he assures, leaning against the counter.

you know better than to accept that justification, arms reaching out to cage him between the kitchen and your body. “and why is that?” you ask, pressing yourself against his chest, eyes boring right back into his.

he flicks his gaze between your eyes, then your lips, and then your eyes, once again. he knows what you’re doing, but he bites anyway, strong arms hugging you snug against him.

“i’ve been a little sad these past couple of days,” he explains, another forged grin coaxing his features. it was the one of the first signs that he was asking you to dismiss this conversation.

“sanji—“

the toast pops from the toaster, causing the both of you to release your grip as he refocuses his attention on his unwanted meal.

with his back turned to you, you take it upon yourself to latch onto him again. “i can’t help you if you don’t talk to me sanji. i’m here. i want to help,” you whisper, a shaky breath escaping your throat right after. “please, let me help.”

your eyes shut tightly as the only response you receive is silence. sanji was never one to discuss his own feelings freely, it was something he had always deemed a luxury for a reason you hated reminding yourself of.

a shaky whimper reverberates against your body and you take the cue to release your grip, turning him around so that you can see him again.

his hand grips tightly onto his face, though it proves futile as a tear streams down his cheek; then another, and another, and another. his fingers twitch as they reach out for you, desperately seeking your warmth and comfort as his body slumps into yours.

sanji’s frame is much larger than your own, his strength of his weight was much stronger when he didn’t remember to hold back.

but you’re greedy for this vulnerability, soaking in every ounce that he’d offer as you wrap your arms around his neck.

his tears slowly seep into the fabric of your shirt, while he lets out a few more choked cries before confessing. “have i ever told you about my mother?” he finally speaks.

when he pulls away you shake your head, reaching up to wipe away the tears that stain his face. your gentle expression urges, pleads, for him to continue, an act that melts his heart.

“she was so kind,” he explains, a sad smile grazing him. more tears fall before he says anything, but you allow him that grace which gives him the time to finally gather himself. “she’s the reason i wanted to be a cook.”

the burning sadness that bites at your heart leaves you speechless, unable to fathom how he could’ve kept this inside for so long.

“i know she would’ve loved you.”

now, you have to bite back your own tears, the agony that accompanies his words hangs on to each sentence that tears at your heart.

“she passed fourteen years ago today,” he admits, a shaky sigh heaving from his chest.

as you watch his lip quiver, you pull him flush against you again, unsure if it was for his benefit or that he wouldn’t see the heartbreak that washed over your face.

“i’m so sorry,” is all you can mutter before the both of you sink to the floor, sobs now emanating from the both of you. “she would be so proud of you, sanj,” you murmur, a light cry echoing throughout the room.

sanji perches himself against the closed cupboards, his head rests against the wood as he wraps an arm around you.

“i miss her,” he admits, lying his head against yours.

you nod, only able to physically act in fear a verbal response would elicit more of your tears.

he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a worn, folded up picture.

the woman on the paper is stunning; her porcelain features mirror sanji’s, the resemblance being uncanny. “she’s so pretty,” you say.

sanji chuckles, nodding along, “yeah, she was.”

the both of you stare at the image for a couple of minutes, basking in the beauty that sanji’s mother had. you can’t help but admire the curvature of her lips, the shape of nose and eyes, all qualities that your boyfriend possesses.

“you look just like her,” you comment, reaching to grab his hand.

“so i’ve been told,” he breathes, finally able to catch his breath. “thank you, by the way.”

with a puzzled expression, you glance up at him. “for what?”

sanji shrugs, squeezing your hand within his. “listening to me. feels good to talk about her,” he confesses.

the air in the room eases, it hangs lighter over the both of you; rather than an all consuming fog, it sits delicately upon the both of you like a warm blanket on a cold day.

“that’s what i’m here for,” you emphasize, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

ʕ•́ᴥ•̀ʔっ likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated !

[cy-cyborg]

How The Owl House did amputee representation right before Eda ever lost her arm - Disability in Media

[ID: A screenshot of Eda from The Owl House, an old woman with pale skin, very large, grey hair and pointed ears in a red dress. Beside the screenshot on a dark pink background is text that reads "Disability in media, How the Owl House got amputee representation right before eda ever lost her arm." /End ID]

Dana Terrace's The Owl House has some of the best disability rep I’ve seen on a Disney channel show in a long time, with Eda, the main character’s mentor, being one of many stand-out examples.

Plenty of people have discussed how Eda’s curse and the loss of her magic can work as an allegory for disability and how refreshing it is to see a story (especially one aimed at a younger audience) who’s focus is not on her “overcoming” it, but learning to accept it as a part of her and go from there. Eda’s story tackles a lot of subjects that are often mishandled in other examples of disability representation, from the subject of parents who refuse to accept, to glass siblings and much, much more, The Owl House handles all these topics beautifully.

But one thing that dawned on me during my most recent re-watch of The Owl House is how well Eda (and later Lilith) worked as amputee representation, long before Eda actually lost her arm.

One of the side effects of Eda and Lilith’s curse is that sometimes their body parts, mainly their limbs, can fall off. It doesn’t hurt them, and Eda is seen removing them intentionally at multiple times in the series, but they can always be reattached.

[ID: an image of Eda holding her sister Lilith's hand. Lilith is a pale woman with long, black hair, wearing grey clothes. She is looking at her other arm suprised, as her hand is missing. Luz, a Latina girl with short brown hair and a purple hoodie is looking on, smiling. /End ID]

While most likely unintentional, the way the show depicts this with Eda in particular is exactly what I wish more people would do with their prosthetic-using amputee characters.

Eda detaches her limbs, especially her legs, when they’re inconvenient or when she’s relaxing.

[ID: an image of Eda laying on the couch in a bathrobe, her hair in a towel. She has taken her legs off, throwing them to the other side of the seat. /End ID]

The fact that this is mostly played for laughs is actually a good thing in my opinion (though obviously, the show’s overall tone is part of that), as it shows the audience who are mostly children and teens, that in a world of weird and downright scary (from the perspective of the characters) things, this isn't one of them. It’s just a thing she and Lilith can do, and it can even be funny.

[ID: An image of Luz and Eda dressed as pirates. Eda is sitting on the ground, her legs detached and off screen somewhere. /End ID]

It does startle Luz and Lilith on a few occasions, but that’s more because they didn’t know the curse could do that, but once they’re introduced to it, it’s never really brought up as a big deal again.

I’d love to see more amputee characters who do this with their prosthetics. So often media is almost afraid to have amputees take their prosthetics off on camera or on the page. For some folks, our prosthetics are like a part of our bodies, but that doesn’t mean we never take them off. Show your leg amputee flop on the couch and throw their legs across the room. Have them go without on occasion, not because they have to, but because they just don’t feel like putting them on.

Likewise, the owl house creators never shy away from showing Eda when her limbs aren’t all attached. A lot of media, and kid’s shows in particular, will avoid having an amputee character’s stump visible if they ever do take their prosthetics off - treating that part of the character’s body the same way they treat gore or nudity. I’ve talked before how this actually does have a real impact on how kids in particular react to amputees - I’ve legitimately had kids I worked with cry when I took my prosthetics off, then immediately calm down when they see there’s nothing "scary" under my socks. As much as I love How To Train Your Dragon, it’s very guilty of this. Hiccup looses his leg at the end of the first movie, and wakes up with his prosthetic already attached. The Netflix series has a few instances where he has his prosthetic off, but the camera almost always avoids showing it until he can cover it up again, or is super zoomed-out so you wouldn’t be able to “see anything”. To their credit, they do get better with this in the last movie (though it's still always covered), but for the majority of the series, they are very reluctant to have any shots where hiccup’s leg is in view without the prosthetic (unless they’re very far away).

[ID: a screenshot of Hiccup from How To Train Your Dragon 3, a white man with short brown hair, and one leg missing, wearing armour made of black dragon scales and no prosthetic. He is holding onto toothless's head, a black dragon. /End ID]

Ironically, Eda does (permanently) loose an arm at the end of season 2, but I don’t really have much to say about her as amputee representation on that front, since she’s absent for a lot of Season 3, and when we do see her again, everything is so hectic, the story doesn’t really have any time to focus on her missing limb (which is reasonable). I will say, I do appreciate that they kept the amputation when she's in her owl-beast form in the finale, but there's honestly not much more to say about it. We do see her again in the epilogue after she’s had some time to settle into the amputation, wearing a hook prosthetic, but it’s, once again, too quick to really say anything from a representation standpoint. There's a few little nit-picky things I could bring up, like the fact they seemed to change the type on amputation she had (when she looses it, we see the split was very close to the elbow, but in the epilogue she has most of her forearm again) but those read to me more like animation mistakes or an odd prosthetic/clothing designs rather than a representation issue - and as someone who's worked in animation, given the stress the team was under for the finale, I'm not really worried about it. Like I said, it's more nit-picky than anything.

[ID: A screenshot of Eda, her hair tied back and wearing a red robe and a hook for her right hand. /End ID]

Despite all that though, I still think Eda is still good amputee representation, but mostly because of how they depict her curse’s side effects rather than her actual amputation. She’s honestly one of the only characters that I think you could refer to as “amputee coded” (outside of maybe Teen Titan’s Cyborg), and I genuinely wish more creators would treat their actual amputee characters the same way the Owl House treats Eda in that regard.

[willows-escape]

Symbolic - 1990!Erik x Reader - Part 2 (m)

Pairing - Erik (1990! Charles Dance) x (Female) Reader

Summary - the last hurdle in your relationship had finally been crossed and erik no longer felt the need to hide such a pivotal aspect of himself away from you anymore. but now all the barriers had fallen and the mask was removed, there was one last thing you craved. and erik, for some reason, was very against participating.

Warnings - erik having major moodswings, apologies and forgiveness, poor self esteem, possessiveness, accidental mask slip, erik panicking, sexual and innocent teasing, teeth rotting fluff, victorian purity culture and potentially misinformed discussions of christianity (oops), y/n knows what she wants and she wants it now, reader isn’t particularly chubby or skinny just average size, virginity loss, breast play, hand jobs (m receiving), unintentional edging, continuous position changing, penetrative sex, unprotected sex because the victorians did not vibe with condoms

Word Count - 9,668

Notes - this is the final part of this little 'twoshot.' i think this is a nice place to wrap it up and end it and move on to make even more erik content because god knows we are all starved. god bless.

feedback is appreciated :) good or bad

01 / 02 (you're here!)

You were not exaggerating when you mentioned that the statues required cleaning. Specks of dust covered every surface of the different fabrics and metals of the stolen display pieces. You couldn't remember the last time you saw Erik dusting them.

You spent a good two hours meticulously cleaning those statues, keeping yourself occupied. A wave of guilt settled deep within your chest as you reminisced about the events that had transpired before your hasty departure. It had been overwhelming for you - the emotional outpouring and the astonishment of finally seeing Erik's face had struck you hard. Not to mention when you recklessly flung yourself onto him, as if devoid of any semblance of control over your own limbs. You were overcome by a sense of foolishness. In that moment, you believed it was the only choice available to you: to fabricate an excuse and flee from his presence.

Your heart constricted as if it were tightly bound by an unforgiving rope, mercilessly pulling and yanking as you sat consumed by your ruminations. The weight of guilt intensified as you contemplated the depth of Erik's sentiments, the vulnerability he had bared before you. Desperately, you tried your best to suppress these thoughts, reminding yourself that you needed time for introspection, or you’d risk an emotional outburst. Yet deep within, you recognized that you ought to have known better, should have conducted yourself with greater propriety. If only you had summoned the courage to articulate your overwhelming emotions and request a moment of solitude, all of this could have been averted. Regret washed over you as you comprehended that you had needlessly transformed a simple circumstance into a tangled web of emotions and uncertainty.

It was quick approaching five o'clock, the time Erik would usually call out to you and say that he was off to gather things for your afternoon meal as you didn't have anywhere to hygienically store food in the little lagoon. You'd not seen him since the time you'd spent in your bedroom, so you mustered all your hope and prayed that he'd show himself to you so that you could vehemently apologise and beg for his forgiveness.

It took a little while longer than five o'clock, but your lover finally emerged from hiding. Your ears perked up, and your hair stood on end as the sound of footsteps approached from behind. They came to a halt not far from where you crouched, and you held your breath, your hands trembling as you continued to wipe down the statue. You found yourself fixated on a minuscule crevice in the metal, desperately endeavouring not to startle him away. The apprehension within you grew stronger with each passing second.

"It seems you're more infatuated with the statues than you are with me," Erik finally said from behind you.

You huffed in amusement, a smile finally reappearing on your lips. You compelled yourself to stand upright and forsake the act of tidying for the present moment, instead pivoting to confront the man standing in your wake. He stood towering and seemingly unfazed, a faint smile playing upon his lips akin to your own.

"You have my whole heart, don't play dumb," you laughed, dropping the duster to the floor.

Erik approached you, gradually closing the distance between you until his presence was palpable against your cold skin. His hands delicately clasped yours, his thumbs tenderly caressing you. You raised your gaze to meet his intense stare, entranced in the depths of his eyes.

"You have mine too," he said, "Which is why I'll forgive you for that little disappearing act. I wanted to give you some space, but as you know the evening is approaching and we need nourishment, so I'll be-"

"I'm sorry. I didn't consider your feelings before I left, and that was cruel of me. You'd bared yourself to me and I walked away because of my own feelings, and that was selfish," you whispered, your eyes slowly trailing down in shame as your head dropped.

Erik shook his head, a hand leaving yours to cup your chin and lift you back up to his eye level. "You can walk away from me a thousand times over, and as long as you return, I'll never bat an eye."

"Erik, that's not right," you replied, removing his hand from your chin to hold it instead, "You aren't expendable, you don't deserve to be left and returned to as it suits somebody else. If I hurt you, please say so."

"Relax, we were both tense and overwhelmed. It's alri-"

"I'm not just talking about that! How dare you say it's okay for me to leave you and waltz back as I please! You matter more than-"

Unlike before, this time it was Erik who sent his lips crashing down on yours. The intensity and urgency in his actions conveyed his feelings and spoke volumes without a single word being spoke. His lips pressed against yours with such intensity and fervour that you couldn't help but gasp. His hands wandered from yours, up the contours of your arms until they were tightly holding your face in his fiery grip. Your nerves set ablaze and your eyes watered as you quickly flung your hands up to entangle your fingers in his blonde hair, unaware that you were interfering with the knot keeping his mask attached to his head.

Erik was completely captivated, his senses consumed by the intensity of the moment. Unbeknownst to him, the ties securing his mask slowly slipped, gradually unravelling until they hung precariously. The only thing preventing the inevitable was the proximity of your faces, maintaining the fragile balance. Just as you pulled back slightly to catch your breath before resuming the kiss, the mask finally succumbed to gravity and fell, shattering the veil.

It happened in an instant. His cry of horror echoed through the room as he violently tore himself away from you, his hands that were once ardently wrapped around you now shielding himself once more. Panic surged through your veins as the realization of what had just occurred hit you like a dagger to the heart, shattering your world into a million jagged pieces. Without a second thought, you instinctively reached down to retrieve his fallen mask, your trembling fingers fumbling to grasp it as he seemed lost in a whirlwind of confusion and despair, unable to distinguish up from down.

You felt awful.

"Erik, it's okay. I didn't see anything, I have your mask. Take it," you instructed, holding it out while also trying to maintain some distance, trying to avoid frightening him further.

He struggled to regain his composure, his hands trembling uncontrollably and his body wracked with violent shudders. His mind raced, desperately trying to make sense of the unfolding situation. It was an absolute nightmare. Twice in a single day, he had been exposed, his mask stripped away and his face studied by a piercing gaze that seemed to penetrate his very soul. There was no hint of malice, no trace of fear in those eyes, and that's what terrified him the most. It was an unfathomable sensation, one that sent waves of sheer terror crashing through his being.

"Erik," you whispered, your voice barely audible. Uncertainty gripped your every word as you grappled with the weight of the situation. A deep sense of guilt washed over you, threatening to consume your thoughts. It was your fault, you knew it. The mask had come loose, revealing a side of Erik that he fiercely guarded. You feared he would believe that you had purposely revealed him, betraying his trust in the most vulnerable of moments. The room fell into a tense silence as you waited, your heart pounding in your chest, unsure of what would happen next.

You observed that he wasn't crying like he was earlier that day, which gave you some relief. However, it was evident that he was visibly distressed. Your heart ached as you observed him and his turmoil. After the intense series of events, you believed that he had experienced enough excitement for one day.

"Erik, I have your mask. Put it back on if you wish and go lay down, I'll deal with dinner arrangements tonight. You've been through so much today."

He frantically shook his head, his face still concealed behind his trembling hands. The urgency in his actions was palpable, as if his very soul depended on it. With bated breath, he inhaled deeply, summoning every ounce of courage within him. Slowly, almost agonizingly, he began to peel back his hands, one finger at a time. Your heart raced as the suspense hung heavy in the air.

As the seconds ticked by, the anticipation grew, enveloping the room like a thick fog. The silence was deafening, broken only by the sound of his quickened breaths. Every nerve in his body seemed to be on edge, as if a single wrong move could shatter his entire world. The tension mounted, building up to a high that seemed almost unbearable. You could practically taste the anticipation in the air, a mix of excitement and nervousness. It was as if time itself had slowed down, stretching out the suspense to its breaking point.

The first glimpse of his face emerged from behind his hands as they subsequently dropped to his sides. Your jaw hung heavy, falling open as you drunk in every little bit of his uncovered self. He stood there, unwavering and self assured, a resolute expression pointed at you. Your ears rang and your palms grew sweaty as you came to the realisation that this was the first time you'd seen his face show any emotion that wasn't gut-wrenchingly disconsolate. You were at a loss for words.

"Erik..."

"I know, a handsome gentleman, aren't I?"

You spluttered in shock, the blood rushing up to your cheeks as you stood there observing him. Simply seconds ago he had been exuberating monumental signs of upset, and now he was... cracking jokes? Not that you weren't attracted to him, but he clearly thought he wasn't handsome. Otherwise you two wouldn't be here right now.

"Well, I'll be taking that off your hands," Erik continued, politely taking his most beloved mask back from you. He quickly resecured it to his head. "I must really go and get food now, otherwise we will go hungry tonight. The kitchen closes around 6 o'clock, as you are aware."

You stood there, utterly astonished, as he placed a quick peck on the back of your hand before walking away. You remained rooted to the spot, completely taken aback by the unexpected turn of events. Oh, how the tables turn.

You remained in this state of stupor for an embarrassing amount of time. You were off in your own world throughout his disappearance- when he returned, once your evening meal had been prepared and consumed, and even now while you were tending to washing your cutlery and plates. Erik did not directly reference the elephant in the room throughout that entire sequence, and you knew you'd have to be the person to bring it up.

Now, you weren't usually the person to address things that required addressing. As you'd demonstrated countless times, you were a run away and ignore your feelings kind of person, not a stay and confront them head on kind of person. Admittedly, though, it was unfair to expect Erik to do the emotional heavy lifting the majority of the time, so you yielded. Just this once.

"Erik," you called out, busying yourself with scrubbing down the little nooks and cranny's of the fork you were holding. His footsteps didn't take long to hear.

"Yes, dear?"

"I'd like to discuss... what happened, with you?"

"Hm? What did happen?"

"Erik," you whined, squeezing the washcloth you were using extra hard as you rung out the dirty water.

"Sorry, I just couldn't believe what I heard. I thought my ears were deceiving me. You want to be the one to discuss things first? The horror."

"Erik, be serious!" you cried out, throwing the washcloth to the hard stone floor with a resounding 'splat!', "I wanted to just make sure you were okay, you switched so fast earlier I thought I'd gone crazy."

"Perhaps you did."

"Erik!"

"I'm just teasing," he smiled, coming to sit next to you. He rubbed your knee soothingly. "I'm perfect. I'm sorry for my little outburst, was just a shock is all. Nothing serious."

"Are you sure?" you asked, holding the hand that was rubbing your knee.

"More than I've ever been in my life."

Erik caught your eye, sustaining relentless eye contact upon saying those words.

"Well, I'll trust you then," you replied.

"How much do you trust me?" Erik asked.

"Way too much,” you giggled. Your smile soon fell upon seeing Erik’s serious expression.

A silence swept over. Your heart was hammering as if it's goal was to send you into a fatal cardiac arrest. Your throat felt as though it was closing up, the incessant twiddling of your fingers your only relief from the heavy air of suspense that wafted over you both like a weighted blanket. You could practically feel your heart in your throat.

"That's all I needed to know."

The hand that was resting on your knee slowly began to crawl up the length of your leg, fingertips lightly grazing your skin as it travelled up and up. You were practically hyperventilating. The sinful intentions behind his touch were palpable, and yet he seemed unashamed, as if he were waiting for you to make the next move.

Soon he reached the curvature of where your thigh met your hips, giving your leg a firm squeeze before continuing even higher up your body. The air was so thick you felt as though you could slice it with a knife and it'd split in two. His hands were so gentle and careful, as if he were afraid one wrong move would make you bolt.

"How about we get some sleep for the night, my dear? I'm quite tired after today, I feel like an early retreat to bed is in order," Erik stated, giving you a coy smile. Your head felt as though it could explode at any second.

"Oh. Alright, then. I bid you goodnight," you quickly mounted your feet, "I hope you sleep well and I shall see you in the-"

Erik quickly scooped you up into his arms, holding you tight and secure as he made his way in the opposite direction of where your bedroom resided. Your eyes widened.

"Erik? Why are we heading to your room? You said it was a bad idea for us to share," you squeaked.

"That was before you'd seen my face. Now we've gotten over that small hurdle, the matter of bedroom sharing is no longer an issue," he replied. "Now, shall we?"

Without saying a word, Erik carried you closer and closer to his resting place. His steps were steady yet quick, and he maintained a firm grip on you. During the journey, you noticed a subtle change in Erik's demeanour. The fire and intensity that once burned in his eyes had started to fade, as if he were changing his mind about something.

As you stepped into his bedroom, your eyes wandered with fascination. It was your first time setting foot inside Erik's chambers, and you were captivated by the opportunity to glimpse into his life as you observed your surroundings. His bed, adorned with little coffins on the posts and covered with neatly arranged black covers, boasted a dark brown wooden frame. It was nestled in the corner of the room, exuding an air of intimacy and comfort. Adjacent to the bed stood a wardrobe, while a meticulously organized desk, adorned with stacked papers and a fountain pen, occupied the space in front. A small bookcase resided beside the desk, completing the ensemble. Though entirely ordinary, the room exuded an atmosphere of tidiness and orderliness, prompting a smile to spread across your lips.

"If you don't have any objections, I'd like for us to share this room together from now on. Your old room can be altered to be a place for your hobbies, interests, whatever you wish it to be. Whatever makes you happy," he said.

"That would be wonderful," you replied. He gently lowered you until your feet could comfortably touch the floor below. However, he made sure to keep an arm firmly sinched around your waist, even as you stood upright.

He nodded, radiating a clear sense of joy and relief. After a final glance around, you turned to face him and met his gaze immediately.

"Forgive me if this comes across as strange, but I've kept some nightclothes for you in here since we started our relationship. Just in case," Erik gently squeezed your waist before stepping away and opening the drawers at the bottom of his wardrobe. Delicate lace and pristine white fabric peeked out from the open drawers as he continued, "Everything will be brought over from your room tomorrow, tonight just wear these."

He reached into the drawers and carefully retrieved the aforementioned night clothes, placing them on the bed beside him. With deliberate movements, he pulled open the doors of the storage unit and extracted a long night shirt. Excusing himself, he quietly stepped away to find a private space to change. As he left, you seized the opportunity that presented itself. Swiftly and silently, you exchanged your blouse and long skirt for the nightgown he had prepared for you.

He returned not long after you'd finished closing your top button, door squeaking as he slowly shut it behind him. He took a deep breath before raising his hands to untie the knot behind his head, allowing the mask to slip off. Seeing you have no reaction, he reached out, waiting for you to place your hand in his before guiding you to the side of the bed. He wrapped you in his arms before lifting you once more, pressing a quick kiss against your forehead before lowering you onto the mattress below. You sunk into the bed as if you were laying on clouds.

He busied himself with removing the blankets from beneath you, bringing them up and over to envelope your frame. He ensured that every inch of your skin was covered and unexposed to the chilly lagoon air. Reaching up, he tucked your hair behind your ear, slowly trailing his fingers down until he stopped at your neck. He gave you another quick kiss before retreating.

He blew out out the candle on his desk before he carefully crawled up onto the bed. He tucked himself away into the corner while you laid on the outside. His arm slithered underneath your neck, pulling you into him with his other. You rested your head on his chest as you turned, nuzzling into him as if he were a giant teddy bear. You thought his heart were about to leap from his chest from the rate you could hear it hammering.

"Goodnight," you said.

"Goodnight."

Many evenings were spent in such a manner. Before long, your former room was emptied and filled with new, exciting things. It had transformed into a new sanctuary, replacing your secluded spot in the verdant woods outside. Now, you possessed a haven to house your cherished items; somewhere to store your books, a cozy nook where you could recline and immerse yourself in literature for hours, and a table for you to engage in the art of crochet, a repository for yarn, and a showcase for your completed projects. It has everything you wanted, precisely as he promised.

Your sentiments for Erik were blossoming with each passing day. His comforting caress, his unwavering commitment to your happiness, his tender manner of adoration - they propelled your emotions beyond what you had deemed imaginable. As a child, you could not have fathomed that dwelling in a modest subterranean abode would be where you dreamed to be in life. Yet, now that you were settled in this lagoon, the thought of never encountering him seemed unfathomable. He personified a sense of belonging, amalgamating all that was exquisite and comforting. He was your haven, the epitome of beauty and security.

But as Erik's love and devotion enshrouded you, there existed an alluring charm concealed beneath the surface. It beckoned you irresistibly, drawing you closer, its presence palpable. You could discern its essence in his tantalizing touch, his possessive grasp, as he ensnared you with an insatiable hunger. It was as if he held you under a bewitching spell, your body a mere marionette swaying to his carnal desires. The longing in his eyes spoke of an urge that transcended innocence, a primal yearning that flouted the conventions of morality. And you, consumed by the same passionate flame, yearned for him with equal fervour, unbound by societal expectations or righteous inhibitions.

So why was he resisting?

He was your everything, your entire world consumed by his presence. You did believe yourself to be the keeper of his heart, and he, in turn, was the keeper of yours. No other soul could ever compare to the ardour you held for him. He was the very essence of your existence, the driving force that propelled you through each passing day. It was not about what he did for you or what he provided; it was simply him—the embodiment of all that you craved. You were willing to endure the depths of hell itself just to remain at his side. There were no limits to what you were willing to bestow upon him, not even your own purity.

It was truly mortifying how excessively you fixated on this minuscule detail. From the moment you had first shared a bed, weeks or even months had elapsed. The atmosphere crackled with an undeniable sexual tension and an insatiable yearning that permeated every interaction, overwhelming you to the point of metaphorical asphyxiation. If only he did not desire it, then you would accept it and never mention the subject again or indulge in surreptitious tantalizing touches. But it was evident that he did indeed want it. His body language screamed what his own lips dared not speak.

So tonight, you had a plan. Either he would relinquish his defences and claim you, as you could discern the fervent desire in his eyes, or he would quash all notions and prospects of intimacy for the indeterminate future. A straightforward affirmation or denial was all you sought, to then bring an end to your torturous overthinking.

To start your plan, you deliberately selected sleepwear that exuded desire, surpassing the usual modesty of your night clothes. It was exquisitely crafted from elegant and feather-light fabric, delicately caressing your skin in a manner that mirrored your desires for your beloved's touch. Its slender straps gracefully extended from the bodice, adorned with sheer breast cups embellished with intricate floral lace. Just below your bosom, a dainty bow served as a liaison between the upper portion of the gown and the gracefully flowing, undecorated skirt. While not lingerie per se, you believed it would at least catch his eye. Hopefully.

As per his usual routine, he entered the room once he had finished dressing for the evening. Lately, he had taken to leaving his mask aside unless he had to venture into the opera house or he was planning to receive a visit from Gerard. Hence, you had the opportunity to behold his expression in its entirety when his gaze fell upon you. His eyes widened, and his mouth fell agape, unabashedly scanning your figure as you discreetly feigned obliviousness to his direct scrutiny. In that moment, you felt acutely aware of your own immodesty, your cheeks aflame with a profound sense of embarrassment.

"I haven't seen that nightdress before," he commented, finally picking up his slack jaw. He moved closer to you, hands coming to rest on your hips as he lips edged near to your ear.

"It was at the back of my closet, I hadn't noticed it until today," you lied, knowing that you'd been very aware of it, and just had no reason to wear it. Until now.

"You look heavenly," he whispered into your ear, sending shivers ricocheting down your spine. His presence was dizzying.

You hadn't thoroughly pondered the plan it seemed. You had hoped that the execution would require minimal effort on your part, yet you had neglected to determine your response for this inevitable situation. Shaking your head, you realized the need to gather your wits. Retreat was not an option now that you had made a commitment.

"Do I?" you asked, hesitantly placing your hands upon his. You needed to act like you knew what you were doing. "You should feel the fabric, it's heavenly to touch as well."

You sensually and enticingly glided both of your hands up your torso, relishing every moment as they caressed the curve of your waist, skilfully manoeuvring them to rest seductively beneath the swell of your bosom. A startled gasp escaped his lips, his breath catching as he realized the audaciousness of your gesture. Your confidence surged with every passing second.

"Y-yes, it's quite nice. I see what you mean," he tried to remove his hands, but you clutched him tighter in response. He clearly didn't really want to remove his hands either, because he didn't put up more resistance than that.

"You touching me is quite nice, too. Although I'd prefer your hands higher."

Each breath that escaped his lips resonated loudly in your ear, his yearning becoming increasingly apparent as it ardently pressed against your backside. Instinctively, you drew your body nearer to his, eliciting a deep groan from behind.

"Or lower. I'm not fussy."

Erik felt as if he were on the verge of bursting. Every ounce of blood in his body was frenziedly surging downward, his throat parched as sweat dripped down his skin. His fingers yearned to comply with your request, but his mind vehemently protested, urging him to resist and refrain from succumbing to such feeble-mindedness. He couldn’t treat you like an object, only something he used to fulfil his devilish wants.

"My dear, I know you may not intend to have this affect on me, but I am a man and... your words stir things in me. Please allow me to remove my hands so we can retire for the night."

"What if that is my intention?" you teased.

Erik hesitated. Did you truly wish for him to treat you in such a manner? Perhaps you did not fully grasp the implications of your actions. For an unwed woman to partake in the act of intimacy was deemed the utmost disgrace, an indelible blemish that would tarnish her reputation indefinitely. Although Erik knew that their secret would remain hidden, he did not wish to lead you astray into the depths of sin. While he may not believe in a higher power, he understood that most individuals clung to faith, and you were no exception.

"I couldn't do that to you," he replied, "You are my lover, not something for me to vent my unholy desires upon. I hold too much respect for you to allow that to happen."

You sighed. "Is that why you kept running away? Because you do not wish me to be a damned woman?"

"Yes. It is already too late for me, I have done too much wrong and I have hurt too many. But you can be saved."

Carefully considering his words, you shrugged, "I can always repent."

Erik gawked at your words, eyebrows furrowing as he processed what you'd uttered. Did you not understand the severity of the situation? Were you not thinking straight at the moment? Why were-

"I may believe in God, but I also believe you aren't going to heaven. So why would I want to go there either?" you explained, tightening your grip on his hands. "If I end up changing my mind, and I regret my decisions, I shall repent and hopefully God will forgive me. But if I marry the man I had premarital sex with, is it really so bad?"

Erik found himself descending into a state of turmoil. He grew exasperated, unable to comprehend why you could not understand that he was doing this for you. He yearned for you to grasp his intentions, to comprehend that his actions were driven by a desire to shield you from sorrow and remorse. Simultaneously, a sense of bewilderment overcame him. As you expanded upon your reasoning, the fortress around his emotions began to crumble, revealing a vulnerability that he had long concealed. With each passing word, he felt his defences wane, his carnal desires surging forth, beckoning him to abandon propriety and surrender to the depths of his impure thoughts. The allure of gratification grew stronger, compelling him to yearn for the freedom to explore the depths of his desires, to caress you with an intensity that bordered on ravishment, and to claim you as his own.

"So, Erik," you spoke, "Will you take me right here and right now, or will we forget this ever happened and go to bed, as if nothing ever happened?"

Erik let out a strained sigh, feeling his composure shatter like delicate porcelain. He offered no words in return, only a meek inclination of his head, which you could discern from the proximity between you. Your heart soared with a mixture of elation and trepidation.

You spun around and launched yourself at him with an enthusiasm you never knew you possessed. Every fantasy, desire, urge, and longing surged to the surface, your lips conveying everything you had kept locked away until this moment. Oxygen ceased to matter, the world dissolving into nothingness as you clung to him with every ounce of desperation. The bed seemed impossibly distant.

With a sense of urgency, you propelled yourself forward, gently but firmly directing Erik until his knees collided with the plush mattress. Wasting no time, you pressed your delicate hands against his chest and gracefully pushed him back, momentarily breaking the connection of your lips as he tumbled onto the bed beneath. He hastily settled into a proper position, while you, with a mix of excitement and apprehension, gracefully climbed on top of him, your legs straddling his form.

Too much time had been squandered to concern yourself with trivial matters like being gentle and slow, you needed him now and you had no intention of lingering. You centre settled upon his pelvis, sensing the warmth of his length beneath his night shirt. Your hips circled around the bulge poking through the fabric, moans and whimpers escaping your lips as you took everything he was willing to give you. He definitely did not object.

Your kisses grew increasingly fervent and frenzied as time wore on, losing yourself in the sensation of his proximity and knowing that by the morning, your connection would have deepened and exceeded all of your expectations. Reflecting upon yourself a month prior, when Erik finally granted you the privilege of seeing him whole- witnessing the profound transformation that had taken place between the two of you since then was nothing short of dizzying.

The straps of your nightgown were slowly beginning to falter off of your shoulders, loosely hanging as if begging him to finish the job and strip you entirely. You’d imagined countless nights of lying beneath him, skin bare and free for him to explore and observe as you basked in the glory of his gaze. So with that thought, you took the hands that were currently clinging onto your hips for dear life and placed them on your shoulders, saying exactly what you wanted without uttering a word.

Erik appeared to understand your desires, for with trembling hands and lips that faltered, he withdrew himself to assess the situation. He gazed up at you, seeking your approval with a nervous and hesitant air, fearful of making a wrong move that would propel you away from him and back to square one. However, your reassuring nod and an intensified grinding of your hips against his spurred him into action more swiftly than a racehorse urged on by the whip. He wasted no time in discarding the delicate straps that confined your form, liberating your body from his prying gaze.

As your nightgown fell to bunch at your legs, Erik felt as though his lungs almost gave out. Your body was unlike anything he’d ever seen in the paintings he collected, every mark and curve of your skin displaying a radiance he didn’t realise was possible. With a thrust of his hips, he gestured for you to move back so he could continue diligently removing the last of your clothing.

The moment your last inch of skin emerged from the confines of the fabric, Erik gently nudged you to recline. You should have felt more shy or apprehensive about being bare and vulnerable beneath him, yet the only sensation that coursed through you was the fire that blazed within your core. You let out a soft whine about no longer being able to remain on top of him, but your grievances were swiftly silenced as his hands swept you up, swiftly manoeuvring you beneath him.

“Wait, can I see you too?” You asked, hurriedly sitting up before he had the chance to properly position himself above you. He seemed taken aback by your eagerness.

“Are you sure? I’m nothing special to look at, don’t feel-“

“Take your shirt off!” You demanded.

Erik seemed even more speechless than you thought possible. His eyes were blown wide in astonishment as if you had begun conversing in a long-forgotten, extinct tongue. While somewhat entertained by his disoriented state, you delicately extended your hand and commenced the task of unfastening the buttons of his nightshirt with the utmost precision and unwavering determination, as if you’d done this many times before. Even if that couldn’t be less inaccurate.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he reminded you, “It’s okay to go slow.”

Slow was a word that had no place in your dictionary at this present moment. However, you eased your grasp and lessened the ferocity of your actions, aiming to appear slightly less forceful in your demeanour.

After the last button popped free, you hurriedly removed the garment from him. Discarding it to the side, you reclined slowly, unable to tear your gaze away. His figure exuberated a powerful presence, every inch meticulously sculpted as if by the hand of a master artisan. Though littered with small scars and scratches, the striking juxtaposition between his celestial physique and his disfigured visage was utterly captivating, leaving you utterly intrigued.

He could feel your eyes penetrating him, and he resisted every urge screaming at him to shrink away. He was done hiding from you, he wanted to feel the warmth of you enveloping him, holding him, loving him until the day it was no longer possible. He wanted to give you all of him and never let go. He was done with thinking he didn’t deserve to be loved wholly, because you were right here offering everything he never believed he could possess. You had defied all of his meagre expectations and made him a new man.

You were so pliant and pure beneath him, the rise and fall of your chest and the slight nibble on your bottom lip betraying the hidden worry within. He wasted no time in leaning forward above you, his lips desperate as they sought to kiss away every fear and trace of hesitation you harboured. He bestowed a trail of delicate kisses down your forehead, across your cheeks, and along the graceful curve of your neck. His fervent kisses then graced your shoulders, tracing a path around your collarbones, each touch so delicate and reverent, until finally reaching the soft expanse of your chest.

His lips hovered, waiting for the right moment to strike and send you into a frenzy of pleasure and bliss. He bestowed tender kisses upon the delicate curvature of your breasts, attending closely to the sounds that escaped your parted lips. He observed the signals your body conveyed, observing the hastened rhythm of your breath and the involuntary movement of your legs, the way you were drawing them closer to create friction where you craved it. His own longing became unmistakable, his cock standing tall and achingly rigid, tantalizingly grazing against your abdomen.

His mouth was progressively nearing your nipples, delicately encircling your areola and occasionally darting out his tongue to deliver a teasing lick. Despite his inexperience, he performed with an air of seasoned confidence, as though he had engaged in such intimate encounters countless times before. He knew exactly where to lick, kiss and touch to elicit the most erotic responses from you. His lips slowly closed around your nipple, testing the waters with light sucking and flicks of his tongue before experimentally grazing it with his teeth, his cock turning red and angry from how much blood was coursing through his veins.

You cried out at the peculiar sensation, quickly calling out for him to not be too rough with his teeth. He nodded against you, his tussled hair tickling your skin as he consumed himself with teasing and playing with your breasts. It felt so scandalous and immoral the way he played with you, the way his hands caressed and pressed against you as he familiarized himself with the curves of your body.

As his fervor increased, your sensitive buds responded with heightened sensitivity. The intense and eager caresses caused your nipples to swell, becoming puffy and tender. The sensation was so overwhelming that tears threatened to well up in your eyes, the stimulation evoking a sharp, piercing ache. Eventually, you found yourself asking him to stop, and he promptly complied upon hearing you.

"Are you alright?" He was panting, saliva coating the surroundings of his mouth.

You nearly laughed, but could only manage a whimsical giggle. The sight of him so concerned yet utterly spent at the same time stirred emotions within you that you dared not confess. Your essence overflowed, moistening your inner thighs as it trickled out like a stream. The influence your lover had on you was profound, surpassing anything you had ever imagined. Even the most daring of literature that you’d read did not evoke such a powerful surge of arousal and longing within you.

"I'm perfect," you smiled, "but my breasts were beginning to hurt, and the feeling was becoming much too overwhelming. Besides, I'd like to return the favour."

You sprung up, lifting your back off the bed before he even had time to brainstorm his response. You jumped at him, twisting both of you until he was back beneath you. You gave him a sloppy kiss before pulling away, venturing down until you reached his shaft. It was longer than you expected. Your old, more outspoken friends who boasted of their premarital escapades always mentioned men's genitalia to be around four or five inches, but Erik's seemed more like six or seven. His girth seemed to align well with their descriptions, so you decided he must just be a bit more gifted in the length department. You gulped.

"What are you doing? Please, just focus on yourself. I need nothing in return."

You shook your head teasingly, rolling your eyes with a small smirk on your face. The vivid images that had danced in your mind about how on earth that was supposed to fit inside you were quickly dismissed. You gathered all the saliva you could muster in your mouth, spitting it onto your hand. You’d read about that in a book once.

Erik looked utterly astounded, captivated by the strings of saliva that cascaded from your lips. He was about to inquire about your intentions and where the destination of that saliva globule was going to be, but his curiosity was quickly satisfied when your delicate fingers enfolded around his manhood and you tentatively began stroking him up and down. Your movements lacked the refined cadence of experienced hands, occasionally faltering in rhythm and fluctuating in pressure. Yet through perseverance, you eventually established a steady and pleasurable pace, accompanied by a grip that elicited delightful sensations and heightened pleasure.

Sighs of ecstasy escaped his lips, his eyes fluttering closed as he became enveloped in the sensation of your caress. He felt a stirring deep within his abdomen, a tension coiling tighter and tighter until it would inevitably release. His skin glowed with perspiration as he tilted his head back, his moans growing louder and louder, harmonizing with the sound of your saliva squelching as your hand traversed his shaft.

He was no stranger to desire and impure thoughts, long before he had met you he still yearned and had fantasies of what it would feel like to touch and be touched by another. However, he refrained from indulging in such pleasures, deeming it a frivolous waste of his time. Little did he know that the allure and intensity of self-pleasure had eluded him. Oh, how he wished he had been more enlightened back then.

Something was building inside him. Unaware, you continued your steady pace, looking into his eyes with a sweet smile. He felt something akin to a rubber band stretching in his abdomen, reaching its snapping point, pulling further apart. Instinctively, his hand reached up to grab your free hand, squeezing with a force that you knew would cause pain the next day.

Your arm was beginning to seize up, your muscles cramping worse than you’d ever experienced before. His hand practically crushing yours didn’t help, and eventually, you had to relent and withdraw. A frustrated grunt escaped his throat, his eyes clenching shut as his hips bucked. The snapping sensation in his abdomen gradually subsided, the build-up disappearing as if it were never there to begin with.

"That was... different," he heaved.

"Good different?" You tentatively asked.

"Good different," he confirmed.

A profound stillness enveloped both of you as Erik struggled to regain his composure, his erection throbbing with a vengeance. He clenched his jaw, the distressing ache seeping into his bones, sending tingles down his limbs and leaving his mind in a dizzying haze. The rush of blood roared in his ears as he lay there, gradually returning to the realm of consciousness.

You were filled with trepidation. Had you committed a grievous error? Why did he seem so discomposed? His eyes were shut, and his chest rose and fell with alarming rapidity. He appeared to be in a state of distress. The books you read had failed to prepare you for such a sight!

"Are you alright, love?" You fussed, cupping his cheeks in your hands in concern, "Do you need anything? Water? To stop?"

"No, no, no," he instantly denied, waving his hand. His arm came to drop over his eyes. "I'm just... a little overwhelmed, I suppose."

Hearing that he wasn't about to enter sudden cardiac arrest, you threw your leg over his stomach. Your warmth pressed deliciously against his well-toned abdominal muscles, sending electrifying sensations up your bones. He appeared more at ease now, his hand that wasn't thrown across his face reaching up to caress the skin of your thigh with his fingertips. Quivers reverberated through your body, as if a gentle breeze had swept through the room, carrying with it a delightful shiver of pleasure.

You leaned forward, pressing your lips against his with utmost delicacy. His other hand joined in, but instead of gently caressing your thighs, he grasped your flesh firmly, guiding your hips in a swaying motion. Your mind turned to mush, the undulating movement causing your senses to ignite. Sparks flickered between your bodies, every touch sending pleasurable jolts through your form as he manipulated you to his desires.

Every pitiful moan and whimper was swallowed by his intoxicating mouth, every breath shared intermingling into one. He kept you restrained at a steady pace, even as you attempted to push against it and yearned for a more vigorous rhythm. One amused glance sent a rush of crimson to your cheeks, a blush of embarrassment that betrayed you.

"Can I put it in?" You whispered. You wanted to get your upper hand back and fast.

He paused for a moment, his pupils dilating and a gasp escaping his lips as he absorbed your words. His eyes turned upwards towards yours, staring deep into your soul as if attempting to decipher your thoughts. His unyielding gaze was slightly intimidating, and you found yourself questioning if you had spoken inappropriately.

"If you wish," he replied.

Sucking in your lower lip, you cautiously descended. The sensation of his tip brushing against you made you unconsciously bite down, feeling the connection of your most intimate parts. He elevated himself to a seated position, pressing his arousal even closer to your entrance. The wetness that coated his tip, combined with your own slickness, allowed for ample lubrication as it trickled down.

He gave you one final questioning look, to which you responded with a confident nod. He returned the gesture in understanding. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you slowly lowered yourself until the tip naturally found its way to your opening, gently teasing and exploring. You bit down on your lip so hard that you could taste blood, but you pressed on. His hand reached down to assist in guiding himself inside you, and both of you gasped as his bulbous tip slipped past your entrance.

The sensation was indescribable, pleasure and discomfort waging a battle as your body came to a halt. Erik pressed tender kisses along your shoulder, his hand resting on your back to ease your tension. It was unlike anything you had ever experienced, the feeling of your purity being tested by his manhood was intense and sent a fiery heat rushing through your core. Your face twisted as you summoned the strength to sink further, enduring the initial sting as best you could.

"We can stop at any time, just say the word," Erik gently reminded you, nestling his head against you as he patiently waited for you to adjust. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt for indulging in such pleasure while you were clearly in pain. He made a concentrated effort to conceal his contorted expressions and stifle his moans and grunts.

Finally, you managed to lower yourself fully into his lap. His cock was nestled deep within your intimate depths. You took deep breaths, determined to overcome the discomfort and replace it with the exhilaration you knew could await. It felt as if you were being impaled, your arms clinging to him with increasing intensity as you willed yourself to relax and surrender to the sensations that enveloped you.

You were practically restraining him, keeping him trapped inside of you to the extent that he felt unable to move even if he desired to. The tightness was approaching discomfort, his soothing and calming touches attempting to coax you into relaxing your muscles and embracing the sensation.

After a few moments of acclimation and striving to ease your muscles, you soon sensed the inferno below gradually transform into a thrilling excitement. A surge of adrenaline coursed through you as you comprehended your current location and the nature of your actions.

Testing out the waters, you gingerly lifted your hips, wincing at the sensation of your walls contracting as you raised yourself further off of him. His swollen tip caught on your entrance, prompting you to cease ascending. Erik released his grip around you, reclining back on his hands to observe the spectacle.

The eye contact was overwhelming. He dared not divert his gaze from you for a single moment, your partially closed eyes battling to remain open as you lowered yourself back down. A strangled cry threatened to escape your lips as the exquisite stretch overwhelmed your senses, your mind empty and your vision wavering. His tip was nearly grazing your cervix. Every fibre of your being was consumed by the sensation, your mind black and vision wavering.

You pushed yourself up and down a few more times, willing yourself to adjust and adapt. Gradually, you found your rhythm, moving with grace as your walls glided along his cock. The sound of your flesh meeting echoed softly in the air as you fervently rode him. He was buried deep within you, overwhelming your senses and leaving you dizzy with desire. Erik wasn’t any better off.

"Oh my god," you whined, fucking yourself on him as if you had never been more desperate for anything in your life. "I've been dreaming of this for so long."

"Me too," Erik grunted.

Your breasts undulated in perfect harmony with your motions, practically demanding Erik to divert his gaze towards them. In any other circumstance, you would have teasingly chastised him for his audacity, yet a deeper blush coloured your cheeks as you beheld him intently studying your form. He reclined further upon the bed, his weight supported by his elbows, his eyes filled with a fervent longing.

Your hands instantly found purchase on his chest, using him as leverage to move faster and rougher on top of him. He was engrossed in the way your body moved and responded to him, his hoarse moans only serving to make you even more hot and bothered. Your faltering stamina almost made you want to burst into tears, because the last thing you wanted to do was stop.

Erik soon caught on to your stuttering motions, noticing the way your hair stuck to your forehead from the copious amount of sweat.

"I love you, I love you so much," you cried, sniffling from the overload of emotions that were bubbling to the surface. The love, the infatuation, the relief, the pleasure, the euphoria- everything was rising inside of you abruptly and without warning.

"I love you too," he moaned, relinquishing his elbows to rest upon the bed. He grabbed your hips, bringing you to a pause. You sobbed. "Are you getting tired?"

"No, I'm perfectly fine," you protested, attempting to resist his hold in order to resume your agitated movements. He would've rolled his eyes at your stubbornness if he wasn't distracted by the feeling of your hole swallowing his cock.

He forcefully pulled you down, pressing your body against his chest as he exerted his dominance. With a swift motion, he flipped you over, positioning himself on top. In the process, he momentarily withdrew from your cunt, but without hesitation, he re-entered your inviting warmth. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, and your arms enveloped him as you surrendered to him, reclining in submission.

Your mouth formed a perfect 'o' as you endured his pounding, setting a fervent and punishing cadence as he plunged inside of you with all the strength he could summon. Your world spun, your lungs yearning for air as you let out moans and cries with every motion he executed.

His whispered curses and sounds of pleasure were hot against your ear, every slide in and out enhanced by how close he was pressed against you. It was intoxicating, his embrace crushing you so tight that you couldn't distinguish where your body met the mattress and where his body met yours. Everything dissolved into one.

"Does this feel good?" Erik questioned, pace merciless as he pulled away to look at you directly.

"Yes! Yes it does!" You wailed.

"Who's making you feel good?" He growled.

"You! You!"

"What's my name?"

"Erik! Oh!"

"That's right," He let out a deep and guttural groan, diverting his gaze from you for a fleeting moment. With a firm grip on your thighs, he effortlessly folded you, positioning your knees so close to your ears that it bordered on the extreme. "Who do you belong to?" he gruffly inquired, his voice laced with a hint of possessiveness.

"Ah! You, Erik! You!"

"You," thrust, "belong," thrust, "to," thrust, "me."

Ecstasy surged through your being, the sensation of being filled to the brim overwhelmed your senses. Your every nerve tingled and quivered, your body contorting and your eyes fluttering in pure pleasure. Your walls fluttered around him as you uttered his name in breathless gasps, your voice choked with desire. The tightening in your core reached a crescendo before finally giving way to an intense release.

Erik was going crazy. The feeling of you contracting and spasming around him made his body tremor as his desperate pace transitioned into aimless jerking. His resolve came undone as white ribbons shot out of him, painting your walls white. Your cunt was practically milking him.

"My god," Erik sighed, huffing as he recovered from the aftershocks of his climax.

You were in no better a state. Tears streaked down your face, and sweat had practically glued your bodies together. Erik withdrew himself from you, guiding your limp legs back onto the bed. He laid beside you, his form exhausted and his arousal gradually subsiding, as you both took a moment to regain composure.

You swallowed, surprised at how parched your throat was. "Was it good?... Was I good?"

"Better than I ever imagined," he affirmed.

It didn't take long for Erik to rise, hastily donning his nightshirt before exiting the chamber and venturing into the lagoon. In a swift manner, he reappeared, clutching a moist towel in his grasp. With delicate precision, he gently glided it over your sensitive areas, meticulously cleansing the semen that had spilled out of you, ensuring that no traces of your sin were left behind.

A damp patch had formed beneath you, causing the fabric to become stained and the bed linens quite uncomfortable to rest upon. Erik gently lifted you and settled you onto the chair positioned in front of his desk, attending to the task of replacing the soiled bedsheets so that you would not have to sleep upon the concoction of your arousal and his release.

"I'll prepare baths for us tomorrow. For now, I think it's best for you to get some sleep," Erik tapped your cheek, laughing as your droopy eyelids perked up at his touch.

You grumbled at him, your dishevelled hair and pouting lips evoking a sense of charm that made his heart soar. He scooped you up once more, cradling you in his arms with care as he escorted you back to your shared bed. With haste, you scurried beneath the fresh linen, seeking solace and warmth within the confines of the quilt that shielded your immodest frame from the chill that seemed to permeate the air. Erik casually discarded the used towel into a corner alongside the dirtied sheets, joining you on the bed and tucking himself away behind you with his back to the wall.

He drew you closer, his arm slipping beneath your neck as he nestled you against his side. You gazed up at him, a smile gracing your lips, but inside, a vexed frustration swelled as you silently cursed his attire. Why must he remain clothed while you, in this moment, were so undressed?

"If I'm naked, then you're naked," you playfully stated.

"Is that so?"

"Yes, strip right now."

He complied silently with your request, and your internal vexation turned to jubilation as his flesh made contact with yours. You resumed your former position, nestling yourself once again into his embrace as your wearied eyes finally succumbed to the burden of your fatigue.

Then it was ruined.

"Will you marry me?" Erik implored, his voice filled with anticipation and a touch of desperation. As your disapproving gaze met his, he hastily continued, "We've already consummated our love. What's the harm? We agreed on this months ago."

Snickering under your breath, you retorted, "Get me a ring first, then I'll consider."

The comforting hum of Erik's complaints and attempts at convincing you to please please marry him carried you softly and sweetly into a deep sleep.

[kckt88]

Hidden In Plain Sight II

Summary:

Taken captive and held at the Green's mercy- Jacaera remains hidden and patient- determined to survive and see her mother's blood upon the Iron Throne.

Warnings - Angst, Drama, Death of Dragon, Langauage, Captivity, Incest Uncle/Niece, Kissing, Oral Sex (F Recieving), Loss of Virginity, P in V, References to Sex, Discussion of Forced Marriage, Infidelity, Talk of Character Death, Manipulation, Scheming.

AEMOND TARGARYEN x O.C NIECE

Word Count: 10558 (Sorry).

A.N - Prequel.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated, do not copy/post to other sights without my permission.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9 @killua2dot0 @msassenach @xcharlottemikaelsonx @moonnicole @zenka69 @aemondsbabygirl @aphroditesblunt @iamtoriasworld @persephonerinyes

Jacaera soared high above the Crownlands, her violet eyes scanning the expanse below with keen precision.

The wind tangled in her dark hair as Vēzos, her sleek onyx-scaled dragon, beat her wings with thunderous might.

Her mother, Queen Rhaenyra, had given clear orders: patrol the skies, watch for any movement from the Greens, and report any suspicious activity back to Dragonstone.

Baela, had spotted Ser Criston Cole moving armed men through the countryside days ago.

Now, it was Jacaera’s turn to keep watch.

For hours, there was nothing. Just empty fields and still woods.

Jacaera was about to give the command to return to Dragonstone when Vēzos suddenly veered left with a guttural roar, just as a massive scorpion bolt sliced through the air beside them.

Jacaera’s heart leapt to her throat. She gripped the reins tighter, eyes darting as another bolt flew past—closer this time, brushing past Vēzos’s wing.

"Dokimarvose, Vēzos! Lykirī!" she shouted (Focus, be calm).

The dragon chittered anxiously but obeyed, wings straining as they climbed swiftly into the icy clouds above.

The sudden cold bit into Jacaera’s cheeks, stealing her breath. But through the grey mist, a break appeared—sunlight catching on something below. A glint of metal.

A scorpion.

She knew she should flee. She knew her duty was to report back.

But fury burned hotter than caution.

Vēzos understood before the words even left her mouth and with a triumphant roar, she tucked her wings and dove through the air like a spear from the heavens.

Another bolt surged toward them.

"Aderī, Vēzos! Paktot" (Quickly, right).

Vēzos banked sharply, the bolt screaming past them harmlessly. Then, Jacaera rose in her saddle and gave the order:

"Drakarys!" (Fire).

Vēzos opened her jaws and unleashed a torrent of fire that engulfed the scorpion and the men operating it.

They screamed as fire consumed them, armour glowing red before collapsing into ash.

"Angōs, Vēzos!" (Attack).

The dragon wheeled in the sky and descended. Her talons slashed through the ranks of fleeing soldiers, lifting them from the ground and flinging them to their doom.

"Gevī, Vēzos-” (Good).

But Jacaera’s triumph was short-lived.

Too late, she saw it. A second scorpion, hidden in the tree line, aimed directly at them.

Jacaera froze as she saw the bolt already loosed, hurtling toward her.

Without command, her dragon surged upward, twisting in midair—placing herself between Jacaera and the bolt.

The impact struck Vēzos in the neck with a thunderous, sickening crunch.

Blood, black and steaming, erupted from the wound, spattering Jacaera across her chest, her riding leathers sizzling.

Their bond flared white-hot with agony. Jacaera clutched at her head, her vision swimming with shared pain.

Vēzos’s wings faltered as they tumbled from the sky in a spiraling descent.

Wind howled around them. Jacaera couldn’t breathe. Her limbs whipped in the air, held only by the saddle straps. Vēzos tried to right herself. Her body shuddered in pain as blood gushed from her throat.

Below them, the earth rushed closer.

Still Vēzos fought. Even broken, she twisted her body mid-fall, trying to shield her rider from the worst. Her wings half-flared, just enough to slow her descent.

But she still hit the ground chest-first with a thunderous, bone-shattering impact.

The straps snapped and Jacaera was hurled from the saddle. She hit the ground hard, the wind knocked from her lungs, dirt and debris falling like rain.

“Vēzos!” she cried hoarsely.

Her legs refused to move. Desperate, she clawed at the ground, dragging herself across the grass toward her dragon.

Vēzos was still alive—barely. She shifted slightly, molten eyes locked on Jacaera, breathing in ragged, bloody gasps.

“No, no, no-”

Tears streamed down Jacaera’s cheeks. She tore off her gloves, laid her trembling hands on Vēzos’s head, and whispered:

“Sōves dāez dōna riña, kirimvose” (Fly free, sweet girl. Thank you).

Vēzos gave a final rasping trill—a sound of love, and farewell—before her body went still. Her golden eyes faded to dullness.

Jacaera pressed her forehead to her dragon’s scales and sobbed.

Then came the sound of steel behind her.

She turned, tears streaking her dirt-covered face.

Ser Criston stood above her, sword drawn, his expression impassive.

With trembling fingers, Jacaera pulled a dagger from her leathers and lunged.

Criston parried easily, knocking her weapon aside, before he backhanded her to the ground.

“Go on,” she spat, blood on her lips. “Kill me.”

Criston looked down, a cruel smile tugging at his lips.

“Your fate is not mine to decide. It belongs to his Grace, the King.” He turned to his men “Bind her. She walks behind us in chains. We ride for King’s Landing.”

And as the cold steel of shackles closed around her wrists, Jacaera looked one last time at Vēzos——and vowed, through her pain and her grief, that she would not break.

Not here. Not yet.

Jacaera stumbled as she was dragged into the throne room in chains, the iron biting into her bruised wrists.

Her legs shook beneath her—weak from exhaustion from the long march, and the grief.

Each clink of her shackles echoed in the hall, bouncing off cold stone and the gawking stares of Lords and Ladies arrayed like vultures on either side of the room.

Her head was high despite her ruin. Her dark hair had come loose from its braid, now tangled and matted with blood.

Dirt streaked her pale face, and her riding leathers were torn, scorched, and stiff with dried blood. A deep cut trailed down her cheek, half-hidden by grime.

At the end of the hall, seated atop the Iron Throne, was Aegon. The Conqueror’s crown rested precariously on his silver head.

His eyes were glazed with amusement, his mouth curled into a smirk. At his feet stood Alicent and Ser Otto, stiff and silent.

Aemond stood to the side, arms behind his back, watching like a hound leashed too tightly.

“Seven above, mother have mercy on us,” Alicent muttered under her breath, aghast at Jacaera’s filthy, dishevelled appearance.

Aegon leaned forward lazily. “Welcome back to King’s Landing.”

“I wish I could say it’s nice to be back- but I’d be lying-” Jacaera replied coldly, wiping her nose on her tattered sleeve.

“Where was she apprehended?” Aegon asked, still smirking.

“The Crownlands, Your Grace,” replied Ser Criston.

Aegon tilted his head. “And her dragon?”

Criston’s expression barely flickered. “Dead.”

Aegon feigned sorrow, placing a hand to his chest. “My deepest sympathies on your loss.”

“You can shove your sympathy right up your arse,” Jacaera spat.

A few gasps rang out among the court.

Aegon chuckled, unconcerned. “Such language. Hardly ladylike.”

“Like I care what you think,” she snapped.

“I would see you bow before your King,” Aegon said sharply, rising slightly from the Iron Throne.

“King?” Jacaera said, raising a brow and glancing theatrically around the room. “I see no King.”

Aegon’s voice thundered, “I SAID BOW TO YOUR KING!”

“I bow before no King,” Jacaera snarled. “All I see is a drunken, usurper cunt-”

The hall fell deathly silent. The air turned to ice.

Aegon shot to his feet, face red with rage. “The bastard dares speak to me in such a manner?!”

“I will speak however I please,” she hissed. “You will not silence me, you drunken wastrel.”

“Mayhaps I should teach the bastard some respect,” Aegon growled.

Jacaera laughed bitterly.

Otto cleared his throat sharply, cutting through the tension. “What does Your Grace intend to do with the girl?”

Aegon sat again, reclining with mock thoughtfulness. “We could offer her to one of the noble lords who bend the knee. A little gift for their loyalty.”

Alicent stiffened, horror creeping into her face. Otto looked ready to protest.

“We could even keep her here chained up in the throne room and they could take turns with her. How many cocks do you think she could she take before she breaks?”.” Aegon’s smile was serpent slick.

“She is still a Princess of the Realm,” Otto said firmly, barely restraining his anger.

“Give her to me��� Aemond said suddenly.

All eyes turned.

Aegon tilted his head. “And why would I do that, dear brother?”

“There is a debt owed,” Aemond said calmly. “I will take her as payment—for the eye her bastard brother carved from my skull.”

Jacaera locked eyes with him, her gaze unyielding. “Was my brother’s blood not enough, kinslayer?”

Aemond’s jaw clenched, but he did not look away.

Aegon laughed harshly. “So, her maiden head in exchange for your eye? Assuming of course that she is still a maid, after all she is the daughter of a whore

Jacaera’s mouth curled into a snarl. “The only whore I see is you”

The room gasped again.

Aegon’s face twisted. “Hold your tongue, or I will have it torn out.”

Jacaera finally fell silent, though her chin lifted in proud defiance.

Aemond stepped forward, his voice like ice. “I will take what is mine.”

“And when her maidens blood stains your cock what then?” Aegon asked, curious.

“She still has her uses,” Aemond said, his tone unreadable.

“Very well, brother,” Aegon said with a lazy wave. “She’s yours.”

“Your Grace—” Alicent interrupted, her voice trembling. “Aemond is promised to one of Lord Borros’s daughters. This would be seen as an insult—”

Aegon waved her off. “He may take his strong bastard and do whatever he likes with her. Though I suggest bathing her before you stick your cock in her-”

Jacaera stepped forward, eyes blazing, but Aemond intercepted her, placing a hand to her shoulder.

“Ser Arryk. Escort my niece to my chambers. Ensure she is thoroughly bathed” Aemond ordered,

“Yes, my Prince,” Ser Arryk said, stepping forward.

“Cunt-” Jacaera muttered venomously as she was turned away.

“Careful, my brother will soon have other uses for that mouth of yours” Aegon sneered.

Jacaera shot him one last burning glare. “Then he’ll find himself without his cock.”

And with that, the doors to the throne room groaned shut behind her.

Water splashed violently over Jacaera’s head, and she gasped, the freezing cold biting into her scalp and trickling down her spine like a thousand tiny blades.

The maids showed no care. One yanked her hair back harshly, combing her fingers through the knots with no regard for the clumps of blood and ash they were pulling at.

The other scrubbed her arms and back with a rough cloth, her strokes unrelenting, skin rubbed near raw.

Jacaera clenched her jaw, trying not to cry out as her skin stung.

The door burst open with a bang.

“What in the Seven Hells do you think you're doing?” Aemond’s voice cracked through the room like lightning.

The maids jolted. Both bowing hastily. “M-my prince—we were instructed to clean the prisoner.”

Aemond’s expression darkened into something cold and wrathful. “You were asked to clean her. Not subject her to baseless cruelty” His voice sharpened. “You’re both dismissed.”

The maids exchanged a glance, pale and trembling.

“B-but, m-my Prince—”

“I SAID GET OUT!” Aemond snarled, his voice echoing off the walls. “And do not return. I will have someone else see to my niece’s care myself from now on.”

The two women nearly tripped over themselves in their hurry to flee, slamming the door behind them.

Left alone in the quiet, Aemond’s gaze shifted to Jacaera. She sat hunched in the copper tub, arms wrapped tightly around her knees, shivering violently.

He took a step forward, frowning as he dipped his fingers into the bath. He hissed at the icy touch. “Gods, it’s freezing.”

Without hesitation, he reached for a towel and unfolded it, stepping closer and holding it out.

Jacaera eyed him suspiciously.

“I won’t look,” he said quietly, and turned his head away.

A long, tense pause followed. Then, slowly, Jacaera stood, rising from the icy water with trembling limbs. She snatched the towel and wrapped it tightly around herself.

Aemond kept his face averted, his jaw twitching with restraint.

Still turned away, he extended his hand.

Jacaera hesitated—then placed her hand in his.

He helped her step out carefully, guiding her across the cold stone floor toward the fire. Once she was settled before it, he let go and moved to retrieve a folded nightgown from the edge of the bed.

Taking a steadying breath, he turned and held it out. “Here.”

Jacaera looked at the simple cotton fabric, then up at him, eyes narrowed with suspicion. After a long moment, she snatched it from his hands and glanced around.

“There’s a screen over there,” Aemond offered, gesturing. “You can change behind it.”

She hesitated—then padded away, disappearing behind the wooden divider, after a few minutes, she emerged wrapped in the nightgown, her damp towel bundled in her hands.

“Sit,” Aemond said gently, motioning to the armchair by the fire. She obeyed, still gripping the towel like a lifeline.

He moved a stool beside her and knelt down, placing a small satchel of supplies on the ground.

“What are you doing?” she asked warily.

“The cut on your cheek needs stitching,” Aemond replied, threading a needle with practiced ease. “I’ve stitched plenty of my own wounds. Or would you prefer the Grand Maester? After all, he did such a fine job with my eye.”

Jacaera blinked. “I thought it was Maester Selkin who stitched your eye?”

“On Driftmark, yes,” Aemond said quietly. “But I’ve had other procedures since then.”

She tilted her head. “Other procedures?”

“Removal of my eyelids,” he said evenly, glancing up as she flinched back.

“I—I—” she stammered, shrinking away.

“If I wanted to hurt you,” Aemond murmured, “I would have done it already.”

“But you have,” she whispered. “You killed my brother.”

His hand froze, the needle hovering inches from her skin.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen that way,” Aemond said, voice low. “I only meant to frighten him.”

“You chased him down on that old bitch dragon of yours,” Jacaera said, wincing as the needle pierced her skin. “What did you think would happen?”

“Vhagar was defending me. Arrax attacked first.”

“Arrax was terrified. He was smaller—still a hatchling in some ways. How would you feel with something like Vhagar chasing you through a storm?”

“I tried to stop her,” Aemond muttered, pulling the thread carefully. “She wouldn’t listen.”

“Does your King know that you can’t control your own dragon?” she shot back, biting her lip as he continued stitching.

“It was a momentary lapse—”

“Your mouldy rock is obviously senile,” Jacaera cut in.

Aemond paused. He stared at her for a long second, then exhaled and returned to the stitching, refusing to take the bait.

When he finished, he wiped the cut gently and stood.

“I’ll have new maids assigned to you. Ones who know their place.”

Jacaera looked at him, brow furrowed. “Why are you being kind to me?”

Aemond cocked his head to the side. “Would you rather I be unkind?”

“It’d make things easier,” she murmured.

Aemond gave a dry laugh. “Nothing is ever easy. Not for us.”

There was a moment of stillness. Then Aemond began to undo his weapons belt, placing it on the nearby table. He tugged off his leather jerkin, revealing the fine linen shirt beneath.

Jacaera’s eyes caught the tremble in his fingers.

He noticed.

Their eyes met—and she quickly looked away.

“You may sleep in the bed,” he said curtly. “I’ll take the chaise.”

She turned to look at him and squeaked when she saw he was now shirtless. Pale and lean, his body was marked with faded scars and taut muscle.

Then his voice, dry and cool: “I should warn you—I’m a light sleeper, so don’t try anything”

“I’m not that stupid,” Jacaera muttered. “And if I was going to kill you, then you’d be awake for every single second of it.”

Aemond raised a single eyebrow. Then, unexpectedly, he smirked—just a faint curl of the mouth—as he disappeared behind the screen, leaving Jacaera sitting alone by the fire.

Aegon slammed his goblet down on the table, wine sloshing onto the map before him. His finger jabbed toward Harrenhal, the ink-stained parchment crinkling under his fury.

“I told you—we should have sent our dragons. And now look what’s happened—Daemon, of all people, has taken Harrenhal.”

He wheeled around, eyes blazing, and pointed squarely at Larys Strong.

“I gave you a job, and now you just sit there. It’s your fucking castle.”

Larys bowed his head slightly, unfazed. His voice was smooth, quiet, but laced with veiled mockery.

“That castle is more crippled than I am, Your Grace. Its walls weep with rot and ghosts. It will drive Daemon to madness trying to make use of it—which is beyond even his faculties. As for its gold-” He tilted his head, a sly smile ghosting across his lips. “I control all of it”

Aegon scoffed, waving him off with disgust. “And what of the pretender? We have her bastard.”

Otto Hightower, calm as ever, steepled his fingers. “We’ve received no word from Princess Rhaenyra.”

Aegon paced behind his chair, snarling, “Then what’s the point of having her daughter as a prisoner if she’s just going to sit on her rock across the bay and do nothing?”

Alicent exchanged a glance with Aemond before speaking gently. “Mayhaps having Jacaera is what’s staying her hand. She’s already lost one son. I daresay she won’t risk losing her daughter too.”

“I agree with the Dowager Queen,” said Jasper Wylde, nodding gravely. “The Princess will act cautiously. She cannot afford another loss.”

“But it didn’t fucking stop Daemon, did it?!” Aegon roared, slamming his palm against the table. “And now we’ve lost Harrenhal!”

Otto turned to Aemond. “Perhaps if Jacaera were to write to her mother. Urging her to surrender?”

But before Aemond could speak, Aegon cut in, voice seething.

“Surrender? No. She was complicit in the murder of my son. I don’t want her surrender—I want her head.”

Otto kept his voice even, a careful hand on the storm. “I understand your grief, Your Grace. But vengeance cannot blind us. We must play the board before us.”

Aegon scoffed bitterly. “Fighting a war with quills and ink will not win me the realm. I say we send Jacaera back to Dragonstone—one piece at a time.”

Aemond shifted in his seat, the flicker of something dangerous behind his eye. “She belongs to me,” he said darkly. “I alone will decide what happens to her.”

Aegon turned on him, face twisted. “I am the King. And her head will be on a spike if I command it.”

Alicent turned to gaze at Aemond- her expression curious at his protection of Jacaera.

Otto’s voice was tight now. “Harming her would be unwise, Your Grace. Without her, there is nothing holding Rhaenyra back. She will come—and she will bring her dragons.”

“I have dragons too!” Aegon snapped. “Except mine are bigger!”

Alicent stood then, her voice firm. “And if we loose the dragons to war, there will be no calling them back. The realm will burn. We must proceed cautiously.”

A tense silence fell.

Jasper Wylde cleared his throat. “What of the Sea Snake’s blockade of the Gullet?”

Tyland Lannister leaned forward. “If we are to break it, we must bolster both the Lannister and Hightower navies. With Ser Criston retaking castles in the Crownlands, their levies will soon swell your armies, Your Grace.”

Aegon nodded, slightly mollified. “Good. I need to be informed of these things. If I am to make informed rulings.”

Aemond exhaled slowly, “Gaoma oznehurkta mīrēbagon aō bēvules. Lo koston, qurdalbri pradagon, brōziapot aōle iderēbagon, se īlvo Dāromīsȳrto mittiri piktī ivēttegon.” (You had more pressing matters to attend to. Such as holding court, choosing your sobriquet, and naming imbecilic lickspittles to our Kingsguard).

Aegon turned slowly, brow furrowed, glaring at his brother.

Aemond met his gaze evenly, the firelight catching in his eye.“Sylvikton kȳvanon emā, dārys ñuhys? Lo iksos, aōho sytiotāpȳnto ūī vestragon avy sytilības.” (Do you have a wiser strategy, my King? If so, you should voice it to your council.)

Aegon took a long sip of wine, his jaw tight.

Aemond leaned in slightly.“Aōhon udlinon gierī jumbi.” (We all await your answer.)

Silence fell again. Every eye turned to the King.

Aegon’s fingers trembled on the goblet as he muttered “Nyke… kostagon… emagon… naejot mazverdagon iā vīlībāzma.” (I… can… must… make a war.)

Aemond hummed thoughtfully, a thin smirk curling on his lips as he tapped the table with his fingertips—

"Harrenhal is a useful morass. It will keep Daemon well occupied while we strengthen our host and weaken Rhaenyra’s support on the mainland. We will deal with it, and the Riverlands, in time."

The council absorbed his words in silence.

But Aegon’s jaw clenched. His glare fixed on Aemond, the flicker of resentment clear behind his wine-dulled eyes.

He said nothing, but his silence bristled with something unspoken—a King clearly displeased at his brother’s growing influence.

Aemond stood before the heavy oak door of his chambers, hand resting on the cold iron handle, unmoving.

He hesitated.

Since her capture, Jacaera’s moods had been as changeable as the sea—sometimes quiet and watchful, other times furious and wild.

There were days she sat silently by the fire, her lilac eyes unreadable, and others where she hurled books, vases, anything within reach, screaming until her voice gave out.

He knew he was playing a dangerous game, keeping her here. But gods help him—he couldn’t stop himself.

Ever since he was a boy, he had always liked her.

She had been the only one—the only one—who ever showed him kindness.

When Aegon mocked him for his lack of a dragon, or when her own brothers laughed at him, it had been Jacaera who offered a soft word, who sat beside him in the gardens, who defended him with a fierce glare only a child could wield.

She was his only friend. His only solace.

And then she was gone.

Sequestered away to Dragonstone by her whore of a mother. The ache of that loss stayed buried in his chest, made worse the night of Driftmark.

He had claimed Vhagar, yes—he had gained the mightiest dragon in the world. But he had lost his eye. And in the chaos, the shouting, the blood, and the accusations, it wasn’t just his mother demanding retribution for his eye it was also Jacaera’s voice, small and trembling, that also rose in his defence.

It hadn’t mattered to Viserys. The King’s blind devotion to Rhaenyra had always been clear.

But Aemond had clung to that small kindness for years. Her voice had haunted him and comforted him.

Until he saw her again.

The day of the petition for Driftmark—he’d been sparring with Ser Criston when she walked past, and his breath had caught in his throat.

She was no longer a girl.

She had grown into a woman—tall, proud, with striking lilac eyes and long, dark hair that glistened in the sun.

She had worn lavender oil in her hair, and he had found himself drifting near her, unable to stay away.

He remembered wanting to ask the King—for his blessing.

In some fragile part of him, he imagined a future where their union would heal the realm. Where she would wear his cloak and carry his children.

But instead, he had ruined it.

He insulted her. Called her a bastard. Turned on her with the same poison his family had poured into him. And she had looked at him, her eyes filled with something worse than hatred-

Disappointment.

And then she left again. Back to Dragonstone.

Then came Viserys’s death. His grandsire’s schemes and his brother’s coronation. The Iron Throne stolen in shadow and secrecy.

And still, Aemond said nothing. Did nothing. He only obeyed.

Then they sent him to Storm’s End to offer his hand in marriage to a girl he didn’t want.

Then Lucerys came.

He hadn’t meant to kill the boy.

But he did.

And with him, any hope of reclaiming Jacaera. How could she ever look at him again? How could she not hate him?

And then, by cruel fate or divine whim, she was captured—dragged in chains to the Red Keep.

He didn’t know what possessed him when he asked Aegon for her. When he claimed her as his. But Aegon had given her freely, as he did all things he did not value.

And now Jacaera was here. In his chambers. Within reach.

But Aemond would never take what was not freely given. No matter how he ached for her.

No matter how he dreamed.

He would wait. Gods help him, he would wait until her fire cooled. Until her hatred softened. Until, maybe—just maybe—she looked at him again with something other than loathing.

Aemond exhaled slowly, closing the door on his thoughts. He straightened his spine, and pushed open the door to his chambers.

The firelight spilled out into the hallway, and within, he saw the shape of her seated by the hearth—wrapped in furs, her profile bathed in flickering gold.

His heart stuttered in his chest.

And then he stepped inside.

Aemond removed his weapons belt with deliberate slowness, placing it gently on a nearby table before sitting down across from Jacaera. She didn’t look at him. Her eyes remained fixed on the fire, its dancing light flickering in her irises.

So today was one of her quiet days.

Aemond had come to recognize the patterns. The silence that cloaked her like armour. It was better than the black fury, and far better than the cold, hollow despair that sometimes overtook her.

Still, he knew that keeping her confined here was not good. But it was better than the black cells.

Here, at least, he could watch over her. Protect her. Down there in the dark, anyone could do anything, and if anything ever happened to her.

He shook the thought away before it could fully form.

“Would you like to walk the gardens?” he asked softly.

Jacaera turned to him. Her voice was calm, measured. “I would like that very much.”

Aemond’s mouth twitched into the barest hint of a smile. He stood. “Come. I shall escort you.”

She rose almost eagerly from her seat, and he reached for a cloak. As he stepped behind her to settle it over her shoulders, his hands trembled while fastening the clasp.

He could feel her eyes on him, curious and unreadable. Her nearness made the room feel too small, the air too thin.

“There is a chill in the air,” he said, clearing his throat and stepping back.

Jacaera nodded wordlessly and followed him through the corridors of the Red Keep. They ignored the stares of servants, the whispers of lords and ladies who supported Aegon’s reign. Aemond walked just ahead of her, shoulders tense, jaw set.

Once in the garden, the chill he’d warned of brushed their cheeks, but Jacaera didn’t care. She tilted her face toward the sun, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply. Her expression softened.

She wandered along the garden paths, pausing to smell the flowers, brushing her fingers over petals. Aemond trailed behind silently, observing her every move, his heart aching.

He had the absurd thought of gathering the flowers she liked and placing them in his chambers for her—but dismissed it as foolish sentiment.

Then, her voice—gentle, worried. “Oh no, poor thing-”

Aemond watched as she knelt and delicately freed a butterfly from a spider’s web. She cupped it carefully in her hands, smiling as it fluttered free.

For a moment, she laughed, watching it circle above her. Then her smile faded, though the warmth lingered in her eyes.

She remained in the garden for over an hour before Aemond finally said, “Come, we should return.”

But instead of the chambers, he led her to the library. Her eyes widened.

“Choose any that interest you,” he said.

She looked at him, hesitant. “When I finish reading them, will I be able to choose more?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

She gazed at him strangely, then turned and walked among the shelves, trailing her fingers along the spines. She picked a few—books on history, philosophy, and two written entirely in High Valyrian.

Aemond’s voice was soft. “Ao ȳdragon īlva muña ēngos?” (You speak our mother tongue?)

Jacaera turned. “Kessa, nyke ȳdragon Valyrio eglie. Gōntan ao pendagon bona nyke daor?” (Yes, I speak High Valyrian fluently. Did you think I could not?)

Aemond shook his head. “Daor. Naenie ȳdragon ziry hae sȳrī-” (No. Not many speak it as well)

Her face darkened. “Iksis ziry kesrio syt iksan daorun tolī iā kostōba nādrēsy?” (Is it because I’m nothing more than a Strong bastard?)

Aemond lowered his gaze. “Nyke dōrī emagon brōztagon ao bona-” (I should never have called you that).

“Skoro syt?” she whispered. (Why?)

Aemond drew a deep breath. “Kesrio syt konīr iksis tolī naejot ao bona-” (Because there is more to you than that).

She stared at him, those lilac eyes wide with something almost like wonder. Then, wordlessly, she turned and picked another book.

“I’m finished,” she said quietly.

Aemond took the stack from her arms and carried them back to his chambers. Once inside, she sorted through them while he stood awkwardly nearby, fidgeting.

Jacaera glanced up. “Surely usurping the throne doesn’t involve lingering around me like a fart in the wind.”

Aemond scowled. “Charming-”

Still, he swallowed his pride and stepped forward. He reached into his jerkin and extended his hand.

Jacaera’s breath caught.

Resting in his palm were three small onyx scales—familiar, iridescent.

“Vēzos” she breathed.

“I know it does not compare to the real thing,” Aemond said. “But I’m sorry. That you lost her.”

Jacaera’s eyes blazed. “I didn’t lose her. She was taken from me.”

Aemond nodded solemnly. “I thought perhaps you’d like to keep a piece of her with you.”

Jacaera’s eyes filled with tears. She took the scales, clutching them to her chest as a tear slid down her cheek.

Aemond hesitated, then stepped closer. His arms, heavy with doubt, wrapped gently around her. She tensed at first, but then—slowly—melted into his embrace.

“Is-is Vēzos still?” she whispered.

Aemond shook his head. “No. Vhagar brought her back. I had her buried in the meadow”

She looked up at him. Their eyes met. She leaned closer, her voice barely audible. “Thank you.”

Aemond’s voice cracked. “You’re welcome.”

Then he kissed her.

It was gentle—tentative, unsure. Her lips didn’t move at first, but then she responded, her hand lifting to his jaw, pulling him closer.

But as quickly as it began—it ended.

Aemond recoiled, stumbling backward.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stammered, voice raw with panic.

And then, without another word, he turned and fled from his own chambers, leaving Jacaera standing there alone, her dragon’s scales clutched in her hand.

In the days that followed their kiss, Aemond did everything he could to avoid Jacaera.

He trained harder, stayed longer in council meetings, even took meals in solitude.

Every time he crossed the threshold of his chambers and saw her by the fire — poised and silent, wrapped in that same cloak he’d fastened around her shoulders — a war raged inside him.

He wanted her. Gods, he wanted her. But he’d never once believed she would want him too — and that terrified him more than anything.

There was a war on. His mind had to be sharp. Clear. He couldn’t afford to be soft, distracted or vulnerable.

Especially not when his brother — drunk on wine and a desperate thirst for glory — had taken it upon himself to fly to Rook’s Rest in support of Ser Criston.

Aemond had tried to stop him. Aegon had laughed in his face.

And so Aegon went. And Rhaenys met him there.

The Queen Who Never Was — and her red queen, Meleys.

Aemond arrived too late. He saw his brother’s body — burned and broken — falling from the sky.

There had been no choice. Rhaenys gave the order to attack. Aemond had fought back. He survived. She did not.

And now, Aegon was broken, his body ruined. And Aemond now Prince Regent wore the weight of command on shoulders already bowed with guilt.

It was he who told Jacaera of her grandmother’s death.

She listened in silence, her only response a nod before she turned back to the fire. One tear slipped down her cheek.

He didn’t trust himself to comfort her. Didn’t trust what his hands would do if they touched her again.

So he left.

And Jacaera watched him go.

She wanted to run. To leave this cursed place. To return to her mother and her brothers.

But what good would running do? She’d be caught before she reached the city gates. No, if she tried to flee, they’d simply lock her away somewhere worse — somewhere where Aemond could no longer shield her.

Because he was her shield, whether he meant to be or not.

She’d watched him — the way he looked at her, the way his gaze lingered. She remembered how he demanded her custody. The visit to the gardens. The library and the gift of Vēzos’s scales.

She didn’t know much of men. But she knew desire when she saw it.

And she had decided.

If having him meant surviving this war — meant gaining his loyalty, perhaps even his love — then she would let him have her.

But he had retreated. Since their kiss, he’d seemed ashamed. Frightened by his own hunger, perhaps more than by her rejection — which never came.

His new duties as Prince Regent offered him an easy excuse to keep his distance. She was left alone more and more.

But time alone brought too much thought, and her mind spun endlessly — until she began to think of ways to draw him back.

Maybe, if he caught sight of her leaving the bath, or dressing for bed.

But before she could act on anything, the day came when he entered his chambers with a face like stone.

And the words he spoke shattered her world.

“Your brothers-Jacaerys and Viserys-are dead.”

The floor gave way beneath her.

Jacaera collapsed, the scream that tore from her throat echoing off the stone walls like a dragon’s cry.

Her beloved twin. Her brave, beautiful brother Jace and her little brother, sweet Viserys, gone before his life had truly begun.

Through broken sobs she demanded to know how. And Aemond told her —

How they’d been sent away for safety.

How the Gay Abandon was attacked by the Triarchy in the Gullet.

How Jace had fought to protect them. How Vermax had fallen into the sea, pierced through the eye. How Jace had tried to escape, only to be struck down by arrows. How Viserys had vanished, presumed lost, only her brother Aegon had survived clinging to the back of his dragon.

She pressed her hand to her mouth. Her breath came in gasps.

Then Aemond said, softly, painfully, “It was my fault.”

She turned to him. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated, then confessed — how Aegon, in his final reckless act, had made a secret pact with Sharako Lohar of the Triarchy, hoping to break Corlys’s blockade.

Jacaera frowned. “Then how is it your fault?”

And he told her how Larys Strong had learned of Rhaenyra’s plan to send the boys away.

Told her how he, had learned the Triarchy’s arrival and warned Jacaerys, hoping to give him a fighting chance.

“I sent the raven,” Aemond said, voice low. “I thought it would give him a chance”

Jacaera stared. Her voice was hoarse. “You warned Jace. You tried to help. Why?”

Aemond’s eye met hers. And then barely above a whisper, “For you”

Jacaera rose slowly from the floor, her eyes never leaving his, and stepped closer. Her breath shook, but she moved with purpose.

Her body pressed against his, soft and warm, and Aemond inhaled sharply — as though stabbed.

“No. This isn’t— We can’t—” His voice was strained, like a rope drawn too tight.

But her mouth hovered just above his, her breath brushing his lips. “We can.”

And she kissed him.

“I-I’ve never done it before” muttered Jacaera shyly as she pressed her face into Aemond’s chest.

“It’s ok. We don’t need to do this-” replied Aemond stroking her hair softly.

“B-But I want to. I want you to be my first” whispered Jacaera

“Only if you’re sure, I don’t want you to feel pressured into anything” said Aemond firmly.

“I’m sure Aemond. I want this-I want you” exclaimed Jacaera.

Aemond had never so nervous in his entire life, his hands shook as he slowly undressed himself.

Jacaera gently tugged off the dress she was wearing and Aemond could feel his mouth watering at the sight of her.

“I-I don’t know what to do” muttered Jacaera her cheeks tinged pink.

“It’s ok-I’ll take care of you” replied Aemond as he directed her to sit on the end if the bed.

“I trust you” replied Jacaera quietly, delighting in the way Aemond smiled as he knelt on the floor, lowering his head between her legs.

His singular gaze fixed upon her centre.

“W-What are you doing?”

Aemond paused for a moment, his nose nuzzling against her thigh.

“I want to-kiss you”

“But that’s not- Aemond-“ shrieked Jacaera her eyes rolling into the back of her head as Aemond’s tongue swept across her slick wet folds.

Jacaera bit her lip to step her from screaming as Aemond began using his long fingers to tease her entrance.

“Let me hear you” groaned Aemond.

“A-Aemond. Oh god. Please” begged Jacaera.

“Does it feel good?”

“Yes-yes, so g-good” breathed Jacaera, her fingers coiling in Aemond’s silver hair.

Aemond pressed two fingers inside her, moving them against a spot that made her entire body shake, his tongue moving against her folds, his lips wrapping around her pearl.

“I know your almost there. Let it happen my sweet. Peak for me” whispered Aemond.

Jacaera arched her back and let out a scream as her pleasure erupted.

Aemond pressed a gentle kiss to her sensitive pearl before he crawled up her body, placing gentle kisses on her soft skin as he moved higher and higher.

Jacaera blushed furiously when she saw that Aemond’s chin was shining with her slick.

“Calm yourself-” murmured Aemond.

“I-I’ve never-” mumbled Jacaera putting her hands over her face in embarrassment.

“Was that your first peak?” asked Aemond as he gently pulled away her hands and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips.

Jacaera blushed and nodded quickly.

“Don’t worry, I’ll go slow” whispered Aemond.

“O-Ok-” replied Jacaera, her heart pounding.

Aemond placed a series of kisses along her neck, his hand gently cupping her breast before he moved to suck the rosy little bud into his mouth, his tongue rolling around the stiffened peak.

“L-Let me see you” whispered Jacaera

Aemond released her nipple with a soft pop and frowned.

“It’s not a pretty sight-I wouldn’t want to frighten you” replied Aemond.

“Nothing about you could frighten me Aemond-“ breathed Jacaera.

Aemond hesitated for a moment before he pulled off his eye patch, revealing a sparkling sapphire. 

“Sīr gevie” whispered Jacaera as she took Aemond’s head in her hands and placed a kiss upon the scar (So beautiful).

“I-I’m ready now” muttered Jacaera jumping slightly when she felt Aemond’s cock against her.

Aemond smiled supporting himself above her on his forearm while his other hand guides his cock to her wet centre.

“Oooh Aemond” exclaims Jacaera.

Aemond slowly pushes the blunt head of his cock inside. Just the tip feels okay but then he’s pushing inside, and it stings, Jacaera takes a deep breath and clenches her eyes shut as Aemond keeps moving until his cock fully slides into her, his hips coming to rest against hers.

“Are you ok?” asked Aemond.

“It hurts,” cried Jacaera.

“Do you want me to stop-I can pull out” whispered Aemond raising his hand and tracing his thumb over her plump bottom lip.

“N-No g-give me a moment” whimpered Jacaera.

Aemond nods, holding himself above Jacaera, she can feel his cock throbbing and twitching inside her.

For a few silent minutes, Aemond begins to press gentle kisses all over Jacaera’s face and neck, then after the sting has faded somewhat, Jacaera gently moves her hips.

“I-I think you can move”.

Aemond exhales shakily, slowly pulling out halfway only to thrust right back in.

“You’re taking me so well-” whispers Aemond soothingly, thrusting again, harder this time.

Gradually he gets into a rhythm, his movements slow but powerful.

Jacaera slides her hands up his back towards up to his shoulders, clinging to him as his thrusts shift her up and down the bed. The wooden frame creaking slightly.

Aemond makes a strangled sort of sound and lowers himself onto Jacaera even more, kissing her passionately.

His cock still thrusting in and out.

Jacaera kisses him back, threading her fingers through his long silky hair.

Aemond breaks the kiss, breathing heavily.

Jacaera can feel herself clenching around him as his cock keeps hitting the same spot inside her.

“Ooo Aemond-f-faster. P-please”

“A-Are you sure?” asked Aemond.

“Yes. Please I want to feel you” whispered Jacaera.

Aemond groans as he begins to move faster pounding into her, their skin slapping together.

“Aemond-Aemond-”

“You’re so fucking perfect, mine all mine” growls Aemond as he reaches down and circles her pearl with his finger.

“Y-Yes, yours all yours” moans Jacaera squirming as her pleasure peaks and she explodes.

Aemond lets out a long low groan, removing his finger as his hips buck wildly. His cock twitching as he spills his seed into her.

Aemond’s hips finally stagger and stop, his cock still twitching slightly. His face buried in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent as he rests for a moment before he slowly pulls out.

Jacaera gasps as he slips from her, and Aemond looks down to see a mix of blood and his seed staining his cock.

Aemond slowly climbs out of bed and soaks a rag in the basin of warm water near the fire, he comes back to bed and gently cleans between Jacaera’s legs, careful not to hurt her.

“Is this, ok?” asked Aemond.

“I-Its fine” replied Jacaera, her cheeks tinged pink as Aemond finishes cleaning her.

He returns to the basin, wetting the rag one more time before cleaning himself and then he comes back to bed, climbing back in and wrapping his arms around Jacaera, a small smile on her face as she lays her head on his chest.

After that night, Aemond could hardly keep away from her.

Gone was the cold avoidance, the stiff control he had once wrapped himself in.

Now, he was ravenous.

He kissed her like a drowning man gasping for air. Held her like something precious he feared might vanish the moment he blinked.

And when he took her, it was always with a desperate hunger that made her ache long after he’d pulled her into sleep.

He spent as much time as he could between her thighs, worshipping her with lips and tongue and hands, murmuring half-formed prayers and endearments against her skin.

Jacaera had never expected to care for Aemond—not truly. But she began to understand him.

There was something so painfully broken within him, carved deep from a childhood spent unloved and overshadowed.

The cruelty, the cold control, the fury—it was all armour. Beneath it, he was a wounded creature, desperate to be touched.

“I’m leaving for Harrenhal,” he told her.

Hope flared in her chest for a heartbeat. Perhaps this was her chance.

But Aemond quickly killed the thought.

“I’m sending you to Duskendale. I won’t leave you here. I don’t trust the court. And I can’t bring you to Harrenhal

Despite her arguments, her pleading, he remained unmoved. His decision was final.

So, she was taken to Duskendale — to a ransacked castle manned by a skeletal garrison of green loyalists. It was cold, and empty, like being locked in a tomb.

Aemond had promised to visit — and he did, at first. But soon the war grew hotter and his visits were few.

Daemon struck at the heart of King’s Landing with Rhaenyra, seizing it through guile and dragonfire. Aemond was furious — he’d been tricked, outplayed, and he knew it.

Then came the flood of devastating news.

Helaena, dead by her own hand — jumped from the windows of Maegor’s Holdfast. Maelor, murdered by a mob.

Otto, beheaded and Alicent and Jaehaera imprisoned.

And then the blow that shattered Jacaera.

A raven arrived, the message was about her mother.

After the riots in Kings Landing and the storming of the Dragon pit, her mother had fled the capitol with Aegon the Younger.

But now she was dead, and so was her brother.

Both of them burned alive by Sunfyre at Aegon’s command after walking into a trap on Dragonstone.

When Aemond arrived at Duskendale, Jacaera screamed until her voice broke. She threw everything she could reach—

“I hate you!” she cried.

But even as the words left her mouth, she knew they were only half-true. She hated herself more.

For staying. For surviving.

She should have found a way back. Should have escaped. Should have tried harder.

But she hadn’t. And now they were gone.

And all she had left was him.

She wept until her throat was raw and her limbs weak. And Aemond stayed beside her through it all — silent and unflinching.

Her grief became her forge. And from it, she rose tempered.

She would not let her family’s memory die.

As the greens slowly devoured themselves from within, Jacaera stood by Aemond.

She played her part well —She gave him strength — and in return, he gave her trust.

When he returned triumphant from the battle above the God’s Eye — Daemon dead and Vhagar bloodied but alive — he brought her back to King’s Landing.

The people greeted him as King—as Aegon had died in suspicious circumstances not long after the collapse of his reign.

Whispers followed. But none dared speak too loudly.

The council, full of velvet tongued vipers, moved quickly to secure their influence.

They reminded him of his promise—to marry Floris Baratheon, as agreed before the war.

But Aemond refused. “I will marry Jacaera,” his voice cold and final.

That did not please his mother. Nor the lords who’d bled and schemed for his claim.

The realm could not afford another quarrel, they argued. The Baratheons would not be insulted.

The stability of the realm required the match and even Kings must yield when surrounded.

Jacaera sat in the chambers Aemond had granted her, alone.

They were beautiful, she supposed — far more than a prisoner, even a treasured one, should expect.

The balcony overlooked the city, the wind off Blackwater Bay carrying the scent of salt and smoke.

There was a bathing room of marble and tile, a canopied bed draped in green and gold, and a carved desk where she now sat, her fingers streaked with charcoal.

The guards stationed outside the door might as well have been bars.

She had been granted access to the library and the gardens. Her freedom, such as it was. And yet she remained confined — not by walls, but by circumstance.

There was no one left to run to. Dragonstone was lost. Her family was gone.

And now the bells rang.

She stilled, fingers hovering over the drawing of her mother’s face.

The wedding was done. Aemond was married.

She had told herself Aemond was just a means to survive. A sword she could wield, a protector she could manipulate, that it didn’t bother her.

But it did bother her.

It bothered her more than she dared admit — even to herself. Was it because she had hoped to become Queen? Too see that her mother’s blood, would sit the Iron Throne again?

Or was it something worse? Something softer? Had she come to love him?

No. No. She would never say it. Not even under torture.

The night before, Aemond spent hours fucking her, he was like a man possessed, the way he devoured her cunt, making her peak on his tongue then sheathing his cock inside her and making her scream his name.

She knew he loved to hear her, that what he was doing to her felt good. He liked to hear his name upon her lips, hear her praise him and beg him for more.

His hands had trembled. He had clung to her like a man trying to etch her into memory.

And now she was alone.

She tried to fill the silence — bathing, braiding her hair, reading dusty tomes with faded spines.

Her meal went untouched. Even the roasted quail and sugared dates Aemond had ordered for her — her favourites — sat cold on the tray.

Only drawing brought her peace. Her hands blackened with charcoal, she sketched and re-sketched the faces of her mother and brothers.

She feared forgetting them — the line of Rhaenyra’s jaw, Jace’s warm smile, Luke’s crooked little finger, Aegon’s round face and little Viserys’s wide eyes.

They were not perfect likenesses, but they were hers, and she tucked them away beneath the floorboards like sacred relics.

That night, as music drifted up from the city and laughter echoed in the distance, Jacaera curled into herself, the ache blooming again in her chest.

She didn’t care, she told herself. She didn’t care.

At some point, sleep took her.

She awoke to the creak of the mattress — someone sitting at the edge of the bed.

In a flash, her hand was beneath the pillow, fingers closing around the dagger Aemond had given her.

She lunged.

And then stopped — her breath catching in her throat as she saw his face.

“Aemond,” she gasped.

He looked wrecked. Unkempt. Reeking of wine. His silver hair mussed, his eye rimmed red.

“I did it,” he whispered.

Jacaera’s stomach turned. “D-Did what?”

“I consummated the marriage.”

The words hung there, like ash after fire.

Her lip trembled.

Aemond didn’t meet her gaze.

“I tried,” he said, voice cracking. “I tried everything to get out of it. But there was a bedding ceremony there were witnesses. I had no choice-”

When he reached for her she slapped his hands away. Fury bloomed, raw and bitter.

“Leave.”

Aemond froze. “Jacaera—”

“Leave-”

He stood slowly. Paused at the door. Looked back at her with more regret than she could bear.

“I love you,” he said softly.

And then he was gone.

For days, she refused to see him.

She ignored the guards when they announced his presence. Burned the letters he sent without reading them.

Gifts arrived — silk dresses in her favourite colours, a necklace of emeralds and sapphires, a ring that had belonged to Visenya.  She refused them all.

Even fresh flowers — from the royal gardens — were returned without a word.

But Aemond did not relent.

And Jacaera began to understand something: he was desperate.

So desperate for her affection, for her touch, that the more she withheld it, the more he pined for her.

She realized then — there was power in this.

Aemond was a dragon on the battlefield, and a terror in the skies — but in her hands, he was malleable.

A man ruled not by his crown, but by her.

It was late into the evening when Jacaera sat by the window, watching the flicker of lanterns in the streets below.

Somewhere beyond the walls of the Red Keep, the city still celebrated the new Queen. Floris Baratheon.

Jacaera’s jaw clenched at the name.

She was not blind to the political necessity of the match, nor to the threat Floris posed.

So long as she wore the Queen’s crown and bore the realm's favour, Jacaera remained a shadow — a hidden lover, a whisper in Aemond’s bed.

But shadows could grow teeth. And Jacaera had never been one to stay in the dark for long.

She didn’t have the power to kill Floris outright. That would be too obvious. Too risky.

But she didn’t need to. There were subtler ways to unmake a Queen.

If Floris failed to provide Aemond with an heir, the marriage could be declared void. Barren, they would call her.

A poor choice. The marriage annulled — a political misstep corrected.

Of course, Jacaera could not risk another noble girl replacing her. She needed something more.

Something to bind Aemond to her in a way no council could unravel.

She needed to give him a child.

The problem, however, lay in Aemond's insistence on the moontea he made her drink after every night they spent together. A precaution he was strict about, almost obsessive.

But she knew he was weakening. He hadn’t been permitted to touch her since the wedding. He ached for her.

So tonight, she would give him what he wanted.

She rose from her chair and opened the door.

"Tell the King I wish to see him," she said to the nearest guard, her voice measured, soft with just enough tremble to stir concern. The man blinked at her, surprised, then nodded and left at once.

It didn’t take long.

Aemond came barrelling through the door like a storm let loose.

He didn’t speak. He simply took — kissed her with a ferocity that bordered on madness, hands trembling as they explored skin he had long been denied.

That night, he worshipped her, begged forgiveness in whispers between kisses, clutched at her like a man drowning.

He took her again and again — and when at last he lay spent beside her, his face buried against her neck, his breath warm on her skin, Jacaera struck.

"Did you mean what you said?” she asked, voice quiet. “That you’d do whatever it takes to be rid of her?"

Aemond stirred. "Yes,” he murmured, "I don’t want her. It’s always been you. Only you."

Jacaera turned slightly to face him. Her eyes searched his. “What if you could have the marriage annulled?”

Aemond’s brow furrowed. “But it was consummated. In front of witnesses”

Jealousy twisted in her gut like a blade, but she swallowed it down. “Yes, but if she fails to give you an heir, she can be declared barren.”

Aemond pushed himself up on one elbow, considering. The thought had crossed his mind before — of course it had — but hearing it aloud gave it weight.

"And if I gave you a child?” Jacaera whispered.

“A bastard,” Aemond said carefully, though not unkindly.

Jacaera frowned but pressed on. “At first, yes. But if I had your child, it would prove you fertile. And if your wife cannot give you one—”

“-It would be easier to set her aside” Aemond finished.

Jacaera nodded. She let her voice soften, turning to honey. “I miss my mother. My brothers. I am alone, Aemond. I long for something, someone that is mine.”

“M-My sweet” muttered Aemond.

She took his hand and placed it gently on her belly. “Imagine your seed taking root, your child growing within me. Your legacy-”

Aemond stared down at her, jaw tense, but his eye glittered with something primal — a longing, a need.

He nodded. “But-” he hesitated. “Floris. I have to-with her. Sometimes. I—”

“I don’t want to know when,” Jacaera cut him off coldly. “But perhaps she could be made to drink moontea.”

“She’d never take it willingly.”

“Can’t you Just ensure it’s in what she drinks”

Aemond sighed. “I’d have to linger in her presence for that. And in truth, I cannot stand her.”

“What about the witch?” Jacaera asked, brushing her fingers over his shoulder. “The one at Harrenhal, the one who helped you. You said she had certain-talents.”

“Alys?” Aemond’s expression darkened slightly, but he nodded. “She does. She could brew something stronger than moontea. Something tasteless-”

“Then go to her,” Jacaera said. “Slip it into Floris’s cup. Let the world believe she simply cannot bear children.”

Aemond looked thoughtful — calculating. “I shall fly to Harrenhal. Likely Alys will already know I’m coming. She sees much and more in the flames.”

Then Jacaera asked, her voice careful, “Is it true? That she has a silver-haired child?”

Aemond’s head turned to her sharply. “I know what you think,” he said. “But I never lay with her. She offered. But I refused. She became an ally. Nothing more.”

“And the child?”

“A cousin,” Aemond said after a pause.

Jacaera’s gaze narrowed. “Daemon’s. Why am I not surprised.”

Aemond looked at her then, something unspoken hanging between them.

“Sometimes,” he said, “we do what we must in order to survive.”

Jacaera met his gaze and gave a faint smile — “Yes,” she said. “We do.”

Aemond never requested moontea for Jacaera again. Not that night. Not any night after.

Since they had hatched their plan, he became insatiable — a man possessed by purpose and lust in equal measure.

Any moment they could steal together, he took her: bent over furniture, pressed against cold stone, in the depths of night and even in the pale light of dawn.

He seemed to believe that the more he spilled his seed into her, the faster their future would come to fruition.

And Jacaera let him —each time, knowing the power that grew with every breathless encounter.

He had flown to Harrenhal within days.

As he had predicted, Alys was waiting for him. The strange woman with her green eyes and knowing smile had already brewed the potion before he even landed Vhagar.

All she asked for in return was Harrenhal.

Aemond had not hesitated. He stripped Larys Strong of his titles and holdings with a royal decree and gave the crumbling fortress to the witch who had aided him once again.

Naturally, it only fed the fire of rumours — that Alys was Aemond’s lover, and her silver-haired child his bastard. He was ready to deny it, but it was Jacaera who convinced him otherwise.

“Let them talk,” she had said coolly. “Let them see more proof of your virility. The more children you are said to have, the harder it becomes for them to deny your wife's failure.”

For with the frequency in which Aemond spilled his seed inside Jacaera, it didn’t take long for her to whisper the words that he’d been desperate to hear — she was with child.

Aemond had dropped to his knees and pressed his ear to her stomach as though he could already hear the child within. She ran her fingers through his hair, pretending she didn’t notice how his hands trembled.

But even as their union grew stronger in the shadows, Floris remained a thorn in her side.

Despite Aemond's growing revulsion, duty compelled him to return to her bed occasionally — out of obligation more than desire.

But those nights, rare though they were, sent Jacaera into spiralling rages.

If she belonged to him, then he damn well belonged to her.

Aemond only watched.

Sometimes, he looked at her in those fits with the same hunger he did when they were alone.

As if her rage thrilled him. She would scream, curse, demand he never touch Floris again. And when her fury reached its peak, he’d silence her the only way he knew how — slamming her against the cold stone walls and taking her with a violence born of mutual madness.

Sometimes she bit him. Once, hard enough to draw blood. After that, he asked her to. And she was always happy to oblige.

As her belly swelled word of her pregnancy reached Alicent first, then the council. Whispers began in darkened corners — of Floris’s failure, of the witch’s child at Harrenhal, and now a bastard soon to born in the Red Keep.

But Aemond played his part masterfully. He sowed doubt, quietly, like seeds in spring. “It is strange, is it not?” he murmured to his Master of Laws, to the Septon, even to the steward. “I am a healthy man, proven fertile, and yet no child from my lawful wife?”

And then Jacaera gave him not one, but two sons.

Twins. Rhaegar and Aerys. Silver-haired, violet-eyed, and perfect.

From the first moment Aemond held them, they were his entire world. He carried them openly through the Red Keep, his pride eclipsing all sense of discretion.

Alicent was livid.

Floris was worse.

Jacaera had caught the other woman’s gaze more than once — lingering, bitter and full of venom.

But it didn’t matter. Nothing she did could change what had already taken root.

By the time the boys had grown to toddling, their resemblance to Aemond was undeniable — but Jacaera saw her mother in them, too.

In Rhaegar’s mouth when he scowled and in Aerys’ eyes when he laughed. They were hers, and she loved them fiercely.

And soon, she was pregnant again.

This time, she didn’t wait.

The plan to rid herself of Floris accelerated. The assassination attempt was bold, perhaps reckless — but effective.

The hired killers were brutes more suited to tavern brawls than royal halls, and Jacaera made quick work of them— her mother would have been proud.

The third man was captured, and with him came the name of the one who had pulled the strings.

Larys Strong.

He had arranged it. At her urging. All it took was the promise of a seat on the council — and a whispered lie that Aemond would make it so.

When Floris accused him, Aemond beheaded him without hesitation.

Floris was banished from King’s Landing and their marriage annulled.

Aemond quickly wed Jacaera and she was crowned Queen.

There was a moment — a brief, flickering thought — when she considered getting rid of Aemond too. He was volatile. Dangerous. And she could rule alone.

But she dismissed it.

He had his flaws. His temper. His scars, within and without. But she had grown to accept him. To love him. In the twisted, brutal way that love sometimes took root in darkness.

Now, she stood in her private solar, watching as Aemond played with their sons — his eyepatch discarded, his long hair pulled back as Rhaegar climbed over his shoulders, laughing. Aerys clutched a toy sword and declared war on the curtains.

Jacaera's heart swelled, with pride and satisfaction and something darker still — ambition. She reached for Aemond and kissed his scarred cheek.

Then, with a smile, she took his hand and placed it on the great swell of her stomach.

“Any day now,” she murmured. “I hope it’s a girl-”

Aemond looked at her, softer than usual. “Would that please you?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Perhaps we could name her Rhaenyra.”

He didn’t object.

Her thoughts then drifted then, to her mother — to the ashes of the true Queen, to the brothers she'd lost. She hoped they could see her now.

She had survived. She had endured. And now, her children — Rhaenyra’s blood — played in the halls of the Red Keep.

She hoped her mother would be proud. Proud of the blood that endured. Proud that her daughter had survived, triumphed, and planted her legacy at the heart of the Iron Throne.

One day, Jacaera thought as she reached over to rest a hand on Rhaegar’s head, he will be King.

FIN.

[letsgobarbs]

The Wedding (Acacius Marries His Priestess)

Summary: This is part of the His Priestess universe but can be read as a stand-alone. Acacius marries his Anaticula.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Former Vestal!Reader (No use of y/n, terms of endearment are used.)

A/N: Anaticula means little duckie/duckling. Vestals were initiated at ages 5~7ish and served the temple for 30 years before they were permitted to marry, and Acacius is described to be a decade older than the Reader in the original story. I had meant for this to be a nice, fluffy wedding. But then I got my period in the middle of writing this and this grew progressively hornier... so it's a wedding and the wedding night.

Warnings: PDA, loss of virginity, oral sex (both receiving), eating ass (f!receiving), cum eating, unprotected p in v sex, discussions of having children, food play.

“You must cry.” The Vestal begged.

“Why must I cry? I happen to be very happy today, the tears are not forthcoming.” His anaticula sounded almost petulant, this was not the first time they were having this discussion. Acacius gently stroked his thumb over the side of her finger; their right hands were bound together by wool ribbons, fingers interlocked. 

“The bride has to cry during the wedding procession, show some reluctance and modesty—”

“I am so joyous, I would skip to my husband’s home if I could.” Acacius snorted into his cup of wine, spilling some of the liquid over its edges. He made no effort to suppress his chuckle as he placed the wine down to wipe at his mouth. His lips were still curled into a grin, he found he hadn’t been able to restrain it since he awoke this morning. He cannot decide which sound is sweeter, his name on her lips or her address of him as husband. 

“—it is Roman tradition.” Her friend insisted. 

“I don’t believe I would like to invoke the Roman tradition of kidnapping women for marriage.” Oh, but Acacius had wanted to invoke it several times a day leading up to their wedding. They had been reduced to chaste kisses and clasped hands, always chaperoned by a hawk-eyed matron who would squint at the most gentle caress he dared to share with his betrothed. Now his wife. Her father and brother had insisted it was for his own safety, so their anaticula didn’t attack him again as she had in her office— forcing an honourable man to wed her, they had teased. 

Acacius felt they were having far too much fun at his expense. Because all this honourable man wanted to do was haul her over his shoulders and carry her off to the nearest cave. He wanted to hide her somewhere, not even share her shadow with the world; keep her trapped underneath him until all she could see was him. Alas, he had to settle for buying a domus near her father’s home. He has ensured nobody would interrupt them for the next few days so he could take her over every surface, wall and square foot of the floor before letting her up. Let their pleasure and love strengthen the pillars of their home.   

He had spent over a decade with only his hand for company, but now the few meagre weeks of abstinence riddled his brain with insistent need. His skin buzzed with excitement, a current working its way up his limbs, as it would before a battle, at the very thought of having his Priestess to himself tonight. He had thought up so many ways to unleash that tigress he had encountered in her office.

“You know it is not just about that… The lares will be upset. Your household deities have guarded you for so long, they will be upset to see you spurn their protection for the gods of your husband’s home. You must cry to let them know you do not leave them willingly.” Acacius paused at the words, he had no lares; there were no spirits of ancestors or deceased family to call upon. 

He had been orphaned young, his whole family was lost to illness and he hardly remembered them. He had long lost faith in the deities and gods. But perhaps marriage was making him sentimental, even if ineffective and symbolic, he did not want his Priestess to go without protection. The shrine in his new home was fashioned with a single wooden statue of Vesta he had carved, it bore a distinct likeness to his Priestess, along with rose-scented incense— reminiscent of her scent. However, he couldn’t invoke her own spirit to protect her now could he— that was for his protection.          

Acacius had given up his previous tools of protection. All his equipment had been military commissioned; as a General, he did not believe in using a weapon that his soldiers could not afford; sometimes well-made weaponry was the difference between life and death, and his life was not more valuable than any of theirs. His gladius was the only weapon he had owned— the very one he had used to defend himself in the Colosseum.

Acacius had melted the sword to make two identical daggers— one of which he had gifted to his Priestess as a betrothal gift, the other he had kept for himself. An engagement ring had also been made from the same metal, which she now wore on the third finger of her left hand where it would connect to her heart. It had felt right to slide that ring onto her finger; it was only fitting that the woman who had rescued and protected him had a piece of the blade that had guarded him. He had vowed to never fight another war. After all the victories and bloodshed across the world, he had returned home to submit at her merciful feet. And there had never been a defeat sweeter than losing himself in her, especially not when he had won her too.   

There had been enough metal left over to form a thin betrothal medallion, engraved with their visages sharing a kiss along with two clasped hands on its back. He knew his Priestess wore the medallion around her neck, a gold chain could be seen disappearing into her tunic, the disk surely nestled between her bosom. Acacius wondered if he should convince her to place the token in their shrine. After all, their love had protected and sustained them both through difficult times. He knew it would guide and watch over any children or descendants they might have.

“Did you want me to cry, Acacius?” She asks him as she draws closer, resting their bound hands on his thigh, easing the stretch of the muscles of his arms and shoulders. He really should unbind their hands, they were sitting beside each other, so he had to stretch his arm across his torso to grasp her hand. But judging by how tightly she held him, she did not want to let go either.

He shook his head no, he did not believe he could stomach seeing her reluctance to marry him even if it was feigned. He had even offered for them to stay with her family if she was unwilling to part with them since she had lived apart from them for the last three decades. 

“Are you sure? I could shed some false ones… maybe get closer to the smoke so it would make my eyes water”—Acacius kissed the irresistible little moue off her lips—“If I don’t cry then everyone will say you have married a disobedient wife who will tyrannically dominate your home.” She continued her exaggerated words anyway. She didn’t know that he planned to acquiesce to all her commands and requests, he could swim across oceans blazing with fire just to see her smile— he had done worse for much less. 

Acacius watched the sway of her earrings, the metal catching the light from the setting sun behind her. He hadn’t been able to look away from her since he had lifted her flammeum for their wedding ceremony. The flame-coloured veil glittered around her, casting a warm golden glow upon her skin. His priestess was not one for dull colours, but she looked radiant in her white tunic and stola. 

He pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, then trailed gentle pecks all the way to her ear where he nibbled on the soft, petal-like skin of her ear lobe before he widened his jaw, tongue reaching out to capture her earring into his mouth. Acacius savoured the coolness of it in the warmth of his mouth as he gently suckled on the jewellery, relishing the shiver that went down her spine. He nuzzled the loose coil of hair behind her ear, knowing she enjoyed the scrape of his beard on her skin— he heard the hitch in her breath. He released the earring in his mouth, letting its wetness streak across her neck.       

“You can cry for me… later when it is just the two of us.” He whispered to her. But his words did not have the intended effect on her. He watched her eyes waver before skittishly looking over his shoulder, her own shoulders tensed and curled away from him. Acacius retreated and saw the nervousness painting her face, her lips pursed and brows slightly furrowed. 

He playfully nudged her nose with his, “What is it, anaticula?” 

He heard the harsh gulp of her throat, her eyes frantically looking around for the right words. When she looked at him again, her gaze was hesitant and embarrassed. His Priestess cupped his jaw with her free hand, her fingers pinched his earlobe in retaliation before her thumb softly stroked under his eyes. Acacius melted into her loving touch, his eyes drooping shut. 

“You woke so early today…” She smelled of her gardens— flowers, herbs and fresh earth. 

He had awakened well before dawn, but he felt rested and replenished. Usually, the bride and her mother would collect flowers from their garden to weave a wreath on the day of the wedding. But his anaticula’s mother had already passed away. He knew the other matrons of her family would gladly help her, but Acacius had wanted to weave her wedding crown himself. He had decided so when he saw her wear a wreath the day she was to be unjustly punished for unchastity.  

He had sneaked into her room, woken her up with cakes collected from the kitchen before stealing her away to the gardens so they could make her wreath. He had chosen marjoram for honour, love and joy; rosemary for fidelity and loyalty; lavender for devotion; sage for long life; verbena, basil and mint along with roses, lilies and violets. The crown had ended up a bit too heavy but she wore it with grace. 

“And you also went hunting with my father and brother.” An animal had to be sacrificed for the wedding. Acacius had decided to hunt a wild boar himself. The entrails of the animal were read by the auspex for omens and the approval of the Gods. It would not have mattered what the auspices prophesied, he would have hunted every animal in the city until the omens were read in his favour. But the first boar had been enough, the omens had signified a joyous and lasting marriage. After the offerings had been made to the gods, the animal was cooked for their wedding feast. 

“Then you cooked in the kitchens as well.” He hadn’t cooked, he had made the bread needed for their wedding ceremony. It was not supposed to be made by the groom. But in the absence of his Priestess, during the months he had believed her to be dead, Acacius had perfected making bread in the kitchens she used to feed the poor. He had wanted that bread to be offered to the gods, he had wanted that bread to be fed to his bride. It was another token of his devotion. 

“The ceremonies were so long.” She was right, Acacius thought the Pontifex Maximus would never stop talking and praying and chanting. He suspected the man dragged out the wedding ceremony solely out of spite that his Priestess had lied about her death. But he had not heard a single word of the chief high priest, his Priestess had stood before him and he was lost in her adoring, twinkling eyes.

He had always believed her eyes to be wondrous, always bright with mirth and mischief, they found joy in the smallest pleasures of life. A single gaze from her could fall on him like a soothing salve as well as disturb his constitution— make him restless with need and desire. His heart always trembled when she looked up at him through those full lashes. But today her eyes had looked so captivating with the kohl lining them that Acacius had almost stumbled in an effort to get to her. He had blindly signed their marriage contract, unwilling to take his eyes off her for too long.

The only time he had lost sight of her today was when he had cried during her consent of their marriage, his own tears blurring his vision. Theirs was a union of equals, he would never make demands on her wealth and personhood, and she was free to keep the name her parents had graced her; all Acacius had wanted was a chance to spend his remaining life by her side, and the privilege of belonging to her. So he had been dumbfounded and overwhelmed when she had forgone the blessed and auspicious name Gaius to lovingly and proudly take his name during her vows. 

Ubi tu Acacius, ego Acacia. Where you are Acacius, there I am Acacia.

He had not deserved the honour, the name meant very little. It was not what his parents had called him; neither was it a name that held any high esteem in terms of legacy and social standing, nor was it the name bestowed upon him by the people. Acacius was always preceded by General and it was a name tainted with the blood of the innocent. But she had taken that piece of himself he was most ashamed of for herself. And in doing so, she had breathed a new life into it— she was what gave his name honour and worth.

And he was proud to be her Acacius. Ubi tu Acacia, ego Acacius. Where you are Acacia, there I am Acacius.

He had broken the bread he had made over her head, careful not to drop crumbs in her hair, before handing over half as an offering to the Gods. Acacius had fed her that bread, her teeth gently grazing his fingertips, affectionately nipping at them, before she had taken the same piece to feed him. And the bread was sweeter where she had bitten into it. But far sweeter was her mouth when he had sealed their marriage with a kiss. 

There was a rightness, a sense of tranquillity, that had settled about him at the conclusion of the ceremony as their hands were being tied. For the first time, Acacius had been content and at peace. His mind was serene, devoid of the usual demons that haunted him; his heart could taste the rising joy within him, and he could pluck the excitement from the air.  

“So you must be very tired tonight…” Her words had tapered into mumbling, which was so unlike the woman he knew. Acacius figured she was hoping to avoid their wedding night which was a surprise since she was so receptive to his advances. 

“One of the women gifted me this… salve. Some ointment they got from a trader.” He knew he wouldn’t need to pry for answers, she would work her way to telling him her concerns eventually. 

“And all the other matrons have been looking at me with these faintly pitying looks. At first, I just thought it was because I did not have a mother… but they sat me down last night for the most interesting conversation.” Her hand left his face to pick a grape before offering it at his lips. Acacius obediently accepted the fruit in his mouth. 

“They said my wifely duties would be very difficult.” She looked at him, as if awaiting a reaction.

“Why? I plan to be the most amenable of husbands, dulcissima.” He dropped an affectionate kiss on her palm. 

“Because of your size, Acacius. They said you would be very big, like a bull”— Acacius choked on the second grape she had shoved into his mouth, a strange sound between a strangled laugh and a cough escaped his mouth—“And it would hurt me very much but I should just lay back and endure. I do not want to endure…” 

Acacius took a moment to appreciate her aggrieved face, “Anaticula, did you not enjoy our play in your office—”

“Yes, about that. It is most uncommon I am told. But that bodes well for our marriage—” he huffed a laugh at the sagely nod she gave, he would have loved to hear her explain to an elderly matron how he had kissed her between her legs. Was that why he had been receiving odd and appreciative glances all day? He felt a flush climb up his neck, how many women had she told?

“I did enjoy it… but do men do it to compensate for the pain after they have taken their pleasure?” He blinked at her, it wasn’t an unreasonable conclusion based on what she knew.

“I assume… it should not be too difficult, right?” She said, almost as if convincing herself, “I’m told it is quite nice sometimes…”

“I swear to not do anything that doesn’t please you tonight, dulcissima.” 

“Everything you do pleases me.” She gifted him a soft smile. 

“Even when you believe it will hurt you?” He couldn’t help but tease her. 

“I know you won’t mean to.” And she sounded so certain that he felt a tender spot in his heart give away. He could still taste her essence on his lips. If all she allowed him tonight was to drink from her nectar, he would happily pass away on his knees with his head still buried between her thighs.

“Carissima, I will enjoy our nights together, and I expect you will find your pleasure as well. I will ensure it, because it brings me more joy and gratification than you can imagine—” 

“Can the newlyweds please be mindful that the guests are trying to eat their meals?”

His wife reared back with a soft gasp before turning to face her brother. Acacius was pleased to know he held the same effect on her as she had on him. Because he had been heedless of their wedding party all day. Their guests had been raucous, tittering and chatter filled the air; the wine flowed freely and the food was plentiful. Many people had come up to speak to them, but the conversations never extended beyond pleasantries and congratulations. 

After all, he was no longer an important political force and the highest echelons of society still didn’t know of his Priestess’ influence amongst the people. It was baffling how disconnected the aristocrats could be from those they considered lowly. Moreover, their guests were too busy ingratiating themselves with their young Emperor who was in attendance with his mother.

His wife had pointed out no less than three women who had thrown themselves at Lucius, quietly snickering to him when they were rejected. According to her, a prospective paramour had tough competition in both Fortuna and Ravi— who shared a very interesting history. His anaticula loved gossip, it was the most endearing thing about her. And she had informed him with great relish how both Macrinus and Ravi had been lovers once who chose to lead very different lives after earning their freedom. Macrinus had been different then, but he had slowly rotted and corroded just as his owners had. Ravi would go out of his way to help those Macrinus owned, Lucius and Fortuna included— grieving for the man he used to be. She believed the Emperor would be sharing his lovers. Acacius didn’t care as long as none of them came to disturb him and his wife. 

Acacius pulled his wife to stand, urging the wedding to its final ritual. He unbound their hands, so she could pray to the lares of her father’s home and bid them goodbye. He wordlessly assured their household gods that he would take care of her and keep her happy while leaving an offering of food and coins at their shrine. He watched as his wife’s eyes glazed over with tears, helplessly his hand found her arm offering her warmth and comfort. 

“If the lares are unwilling to part with you, tell them they can find you in my home.” He whispered to her. The words pulled a teary huff of laughter from her. 

“I miss my mother.” She quietly confessed. And Acacius felt his heart break for her. He gently wiped at the tears on her cheek, his nose stinging with his own tears as she leaned into his touch.

“She would have been the happiest at this match”—Her father told her, as he handed his wife a clay mask resembling her mother’s face—“take her with you to your new home. Let her guide and protect your family.” Acacius was grateful for another addition to their shrine.

He could think of no better protector than her mother. Acacius had been young and barely literate when he had arrived in Rome and the woman had shown him enough grace and favour to educate him along with her children. It was at her behest that her husband had trained him as a soldier. As a General, he had learned that diplomacy and negotiation prevented unnecessary bloodshed. While he was no politician, these were skills he had learned as a youth when he had watched the woman run her household and business. He remembered anaticula’s mother to be remarkable, shrewd and protective— qualities that he was grateful ran to her daughter as well.        

She lit a torch from their hearth and passed it to the matron of honour before her father and brother tearfully embraced her to say their goodbyes. As he had no family of his own, this man— his mentor— had served the role of his father in all the wedding rituals while his wife’s brother had served as her guardian. There was an uncertainty in the air, even as the guests had begun the wedding chants and songs. As a groom, he was supposed to put on a show of forcefully ripping his bride from the arms of her family. But he knew his wife did not agree with this particular tradition so he waited for her lead. 

She reached out for him and he pulled her closer by the hand, kissing her knuckles as she stood by his side. But instead of walking together, Acacius stooped to carry her, his arm coming under her hips to offer her a perch, another arm supporting her knees. He shouldered past the curtains and flower garlands on the archway of their door to walk out onto the street.

The entire city seemed to have shown up to see her married; in addition to the passers-by, those who used the charitable services she offered had shown to throw honeyed almonds and walnuts at the newlyweds— shouting their blessings and good wishes for her. Her arms found purchase on his shoulders as she looked over them to wave at someone in the crowd. His wife, overwhelmed and astounded at the love people had for her, buried her face in the crook of his neck, and his skin burned with the tears she shed there. Acacius soothingly rubbed her hip and placed a chaste kiss on her arm. He couldn’t help but feel so proud of the woman he loved. 

She sniffled and collected herself as they neared the neighbourhood crossroads, “Acacius put me down, we have to worship the shrine at the crossroads.” He heaved her higher in his arms to readjust his hold on her and bring her closer to the shrine at the crossroads. She placed a ceremonial coin to the protective gods of the shrine along with some food a boy had carried for her. 

Her friend Aquilia, another former vestal, served as the matron of honour and led their group to his home. While her marriage was not as long as was required for the role, her husband’s love for her had persevered through the three decades of her duties in the Temple. Acacius liked the man, he had vowed to take no other woman in his life and had kept his word. Although, he was still upset that all of the Vestals had suspected his anaticula was alive when he had believed her to be dead, but they had not thought to inform him. 

“Surely you don’t intend to carry me all the way home.” She spoke into the curve of his shoulder. He most certainly will carry her to their home.

“I’m too heavy, you’ll tire yourself.” He didn’t grace that with a response. He had carried men heavier than her; in the heat of the battle he had lifted drawbridges and ship towers. She should know better than to question her husband’s strength, he hadn’t earned his physique without the heavy labour. 

She gave a resigned sigh, he felt her warm breath down the back of his neck. She nuzzled behind his ear, and took a deep breath before her tongue lapped at the sensitive skin. Acacius shivered and his knees weakened, his grip instinctually tightened on her so she would not fall. 

“Carissima, wait… we are on the street.” He hissed through his teeth while she quietly laughed. She could not have tasted anything other than the light sheen of sweat he had worked up in the warm evening. His anaticula picked a honeyed almond stuck in the folds of his toga and apologetically offered it to his mouth, Acacius did not forget to kiss her fingertips for the gift. She took another sweet treat for herself that had been trapped in a crevice between them. 

Acacius finally set her down when they approached the new domus, allowing the Pontifex Maximus to utter some more prayers while his wife smeared the fat of the boar to honour Ceres, and the fat of a wolf to honour Rome on their doorposts. She tied the wool strings that had bound their hands to the handle of the door. He felt the first stirrings of impatience, to be so close to their home and not have her to himself was making his hands twitch. 

The guests clamoured to warn her to not step on the threshold as she entered her new home— doing so would insult Vesta and bring bad omen. But Acacius simply lifted her again, with an arm under her waist and knees so that her feet were as far from the threshold as they could be and carried her into their home. 

Only their family followed them inside and watched her light the hearth of her new home with the fire from her father’s home. Acacius extinguished the torch and threw the wood at the audience gathered at their door who rushed to catch it. 

It seems his wife was becoming impatient as well because she had begun the prayer and offerings at their shrine without him. Acacius bent to unlace her sandals, removing the single coin she had stashed in her footwear and placing it at the feet of the wooden Vesta in the shrine.

“Does that statue… look a bit like me?” She murmured. She had yet to discover the depths of his devotion. 

Acacius offered her a lamp and a bowl full of water, “I give you fire and water”—she touched both items—“You are the Domina of this household and master over everything that resides within its walls, including your husband, Carissima.” 

He kissed his wife before turning to his guests, resolutely ushering them out of his home and unceremoniously closing the doors on their teasing and obscene jeers.

You stared at the nuptial bed. It was small— too small. It would barely fit just Acacius, and that too only in width, because one end of the bed lifted into a curve they would have to rest their back against so their feet didn’t hang off the other end. Or perhaps this wasn’t the nuptial bed because it was here, out in the open courtyard, rather than in your husband’s sleeping quarters. But the bed was finely made, with sturdy wood and soft cushions decorated with roses and crocus petals— a current tingled in your belly at the sight of the aphrodisiac flower. That won’t be needed.

Acacius returned in a huff after seeing off your guests, plopping down on the chaise— because really this can’t be called a bed. You looked down at him, resplendent under the glittering moonlight; it made the grey hairs in his curls glimmer silvery. The torches around the atrium cast playful gold shadows across his face. Instead of a white toga as was the custom, he had chosen to drape the red cloak you had made for him all those years ago, its gold embroidery gleamed against his tanned skin. 

But it was his eyes, that made your heart flutter with the verses of love you didn’t have words to express. Acacius managed to make even the cold, luminous moon burn bright and hot in his eyes. Sometimes the way he looked at you still made your heart feel raw and vulnerable. You had waited thirty very long years for him to simply look at you— to recognise you. While you had loved him for as long as you could remember, never once had you hoped for his love too. Your younger self would be in disbelief had you told them one day he would be your husband.     

“Are you hungry?” He asked while stretching out his hand for you. 

You hurriedly shook your head, your insides were suffused with enough love and awe to sustain you for a lifetime. He pulled you to sit on his lap, his thigh felt strong and firm under your bottom. 

Acacius stroked your back, his hand was large and warm as it reached up to cradle your neck; his fingers calloused and firm as they massaged away any tension. Your head lulled back over his hand, a soft sigh escaping your mouth. He leaned forward, another hand coming over your waist pulling you closer into the heat of his chest. You gasped as Acacius kissed along your exposed neck, his beard deliciously scraping against your sensitive skin as his lips lingered over your beating pulse before reaching your upturned chin. He playfully bit your chin. 

You turned in his arms until both your legs framed his waist and you had straddled his lap. You pulled at the wool of his toga, removing it from his shoulders so it lay spread beneath him before your hand slid into his hair; the curls wrapping around your fingers as you claimed his lips with yours. The force of the kiss pushed him down until his head was leaning over the backrest of the chaise.

What you lacked in experience you made up for with need and desperation. There was a groan from his chest and his arms wrapped around your waist to haul you closer to him— something hard was prodding at your thigh. You reverently traced the shape of his lips, feather-soft kisses to the plump cushion of them, light licks over the swooping edges. But you craved more, more, more. You needed to feel his tongue against yours, you needed to be closer somehow. 

Your hand wrapped around his throat, fingers barely reaching the sides of the thick muscles. His heartbeat thundered on your fingers and then onto your palms as you slid your hand up to cup his wide, square jaw. You dug your fingers into his jaw to pry his mouth open. Acacius parted his lips to allow you to explore his mouth, you stroked and delved deeper in the chase for his tongue. He closed his lips around your tongue and suckled. His tongue met yours now, teasing and confident before he released you, placing a gentle kiss to the tip of your tongue and then on your closed lips.

“How do you want me, dulcissima?” He purred against your lips. 

You did not know what he asked of you, “Desperate.” You answered honestly. 

Acacius laughed. A loud, free sound that made your heart race. 

“For you? Always.” He promised as he guided your hips to sit directly on that hard, throbbing part of him. He did feel large.

“I will not do anything you do not wish me to, anaticula. Tell me, what do you want from me tonight?” His tone was breathy as if words were difficult for him. 

“Everything.” You didn’t want to waste another second. It didn’t matter how much it would hurt, but you needed a part of Acacius within you, physically and in every other way you could possibly consume him. 

“Are you sure?” He confirmed even as his hands had already unpinned your veil allowing it to fall behind you. But he waited, for permission, for something as small as a nod while he fingered the Hercules knot tied at your waist— a sign of your chastity.  

“Yes.” Your voice barely about a whisper. Acacius pulls the wool at your waist, both hands fisting your girdle around the knot, and breaks it with apparent ease instead of untying it. He then pushed your stola down over your shoulders until it pooled at your waist. Anticipation curled in your belly as he slowly pulled at the tiny bows that ran down your shoulders and along the sleeve of your tunic. Each tug of string was a sensual display of possessiveness and desire— his eyes were raptured on the swathe of skin as more of you was exposed to him. The tunic too fell at your waist, pooling over his lap and yours; only a plain binding lay between him and your breasts. And instead of unwrapping you, slowly as all his other actions had been. Acacius swiftly and impatiently tugged the fabric down. 

You both gasped at the movement, the cloth dragged across your sensitive nipples causing them to stiffen and bloom towards Acacius. The winds were blowing colder in the night than they were during the day. A shiver ran down your spine as you sat bare on his lap, he made no moves. Acacius just stared with intoxicating eyes; they roved over your body, studying your face, the slope of your neck, the expanse of your chest, the curve of your shoulder, the length of your arms and the swell of your belly until finally, they settled on the betrothal medallion that hung in the valley of your breasts. 

Even as you held still for him, allowing him to look his fill, the experience of being displayed thus was new and uncomfortable— no man had seen you this way. But it was not unwelcome. He looked breathless and awed, his hand faintly trembling as he brushed your nipples with the back of his fingers. The touch was so light, lighter than a feather, but it incinerated you, it sent a fiery current down to your womb which contracted; there was an insistent throb between your legs. 

But whatever sensation you felt seemed dwarfed by his reaction. Acacius shuddered. His eyes were wide and glassy. You placed a hand over his heart, its pace wild and erratic. Abruptly, he dug his fingers into your waist, lifting you off his lap and stood with you. Your clothes fell to your feet, and you fisted his tunic to guide it over his head. You regretted that he chose to wear the tunic that fell to his calf, the longer fabric took a few scant moments longer to be pulled over his head but the wait was torturous. His underwear swiftly followed yours on the floor. 

Acacius was better than anything you could have ever imagined. Better than those marble statues of gods and heroes, better than art and most certainly better than those erotic drawings you bought on the streets. He looked unworldly, bathed in both the cool of the moon and the warmth of the hearth. He had been stripped to his basest form now both hardened warrior and wild beast with the eyes of a man in love. Your husband. 

You laughed then, wide and happy, “You are divine, Acacius.” 

He answered with a chuckle, light flickering over the dimple on his cheek, “You do not see yourself, carissima.”

He held nothing of himself back as he allowed you to touch him; he sighed as you caressed his scars as if you relieved him of the pain, his breath hitched as your fingernails raked over the hair on his chest, he gasped as you scraped over his nipples. The planes and hills of his body leaned into your palm as you explored all the ways he was different from you.   

He did not stay still under your ministrations for too long and his lips fell on yours without reserve, his hands cupped your ass using it to pull you closer towards him. Your arms wrapped around his neck like a garland of love, a hand buried in his hair in a silent command for him to never stop kissing you, another hand exploring his broad shoulders, the stretch of his back and the bulk of his arms. You decided Acacius had to be naked until the sun rose tomorrow so you could study every freckle and spot on his body.

His kiss was raw, elemental— there were no gentle explorations and tentative touches. Acacius claimed and conquered, his lips on yours were hard and insistent while his hands on your body were rough and restless. He touched where no decent man would linger, using your delighted and shocked gasp to enter deeper into your mouth; you clung to his shoulders to keep up with his pace and only his hands held you upright. 

A calloused thumb grazed your nipple before he pinched and pulled at the sensitive flesh. You bit into his lip, giving it a sharp nip in response and Acacius groaned into your mouth. He kneaded the flesh of your hips, but his fingers slipped as they moved to the inside of your thighs. You were dewy and wet for him, the hairs and skin surrounding your sex were covered in slick moisture. 

He lazily explored your folds, his fingers parting and squeezing as they pleased until he bought his tips right against the bundle of nerves at the apex of your slit. You ground your hips against his curled fingers when he stilled his motions, desperate for the friction as your pleasure built, steadily climbing up your spine while he nipped under your jaw before receding to watch the sway of your hips to and fro, to and fro over his hand, smearing it with more of your sticky fluid. 

“Please…” You begged him. And Acacius moved his fingers then, in dizzyingly tight circles on your nub, his calloused finers offering just the right roughness needed for your muscles to seize. Warm currents coursed through your veins as you trembled and shuddered through your release in his arms— your skin overheated against the cold air. The hair on his chest dragged against your erect nipples causing more of your limbs to twitch; he held you close through your pleasure, his fingers unrelenting until the little bud was oversensitive to touch.

You rested your weight against him, your legs feeling too soft under you and took his flat nipple in your mouth wanting to give him the same pleasure he gave you. You gazed up through your lashes as he brought the hand that had been between your legs close to his mouth and groaned as he licked a wide strip from the side of his wrist to the centre of his palm. Your tongue lapped over his nipple to mimic the movement before encircling the little peak, you toyed it between your teeth and Acacius greedily shoved three fingers into his mouth to taste you— a soft breathy moan escaped him. 

He pulled you off his nipple, your lips making a soft pop sound as they left his flesh slightly red. His hand curled into your braids as he pulled you by the head, “Taste yourself on my tongue, anaticula. Sweeter than honey…” 

Your tongues met again in a dance of their own before you suckled his tongue as he had yours, drinking him in. You weren’t particularly sweet, but something about your taste mixed with the spit of his mouth sent a heady thrill through your body which made your toes curl. His hands roamed your body again, finding the spots and places that were sensitive, he lingered there with light touches and tender caresses— surprising you entirely when he sharply pinched your waist. You pushed deeper into the strength and heat of his body as your waist rolled with his unruly touch. Acacius swallowed the surprised moan from your mouth. 

He had always been so… staid, controlled and solemn that you had expected Acacius to be such in his intimate moments as well— respectful and gentlemanly. There had been a wild, unpredictable demon that had come out to play in your office all those weeks ago but you had attributed his actions then to the high tensions and unresolved conflicts. But he was here now, lurking in the dark gaze of his desire, the tremble of his lips and the urgent grasp of your body. He could barely contain himself. 

And it made you realise just how much of him you had yet to learn. Like the rest of the world, you had seen the dignified General. You knew the reluctant conqueror and the grieving soldier. You had met the loyal friend, the protective family, the kind elder in him. But you were unacquainted with this man before you— unrefined and almost savage under the influence and vulnerability of his own wants and impulses.   

It filled you with a childish, stupid sort of rage to know that others had seen him as such. He had lovers before you, while you were trapped in a temple. He was so familiar with the female body, while you had to flounder for answers. It made you all the more resolved to erase all those previous embraces and lovers from his mind. You clutched him closer still, his cock insistently pressing into your belly, the tip leaking and smearing a wet patch across your skin. 

From this day forward, there will be no other for either of you. It had been an entirely new discovery to know you were a jealous, shrewish sort of wife who could not even bear that her husband thought about another lover even in passing. Should your husband ever tire of this marriage, he will have to squeeze the life out of you himself to be free of you. And this realisation was entirely unsurprising, that you would be content with such a death. You only had one life and one heart but if you had more, those too you would gift to Acacius.   

You guided him to sit on the chaise again, and despite his forceful and desperate advances, he went obligingly— never once pulling his mouth away from yours, pulling you to sit on his lap. But you evaded his embrace and knelt between his feet the only way you knew how; like a devout priestess kneeling at the altar of her deity— like a lover submitting at the pulpit of her beloved. 

Your eyes trained on his phallus, you had seen the male form before on statues, art and even in ceremonial rites to ward off evil; but you had never seen one quite as wide or large as his— your fingers barely touched as you wrapped your hand around him. He hissed as you gripped him and stroked to its base, pulling some of the skin and exposing the angry bulbous head that was leaking clear beads of liquid. You moved to taste him as he had tasted you, but his hands framed your face, halting it in its descent. 

“What are you doing, anaticula? That is not for wives to do.” Of course, it wasn’t. It hadn’t been the old matrons who taught you how to suck a man’s cock. No husband from a respectable household would expect this from his wife. But you wanted this. And before shame could eat away at your courage you confessed to your husband. 

“But… I want to.” Ever since you had felt his tongue between your legs, there was very little you had thought of. You couldn’t bear the idea of never sharing this intimacy with him.

“You can explore all you like later. I can’t— I won’t last if you toy with me now…” His thumb caressed the apple of your cheek, his torso hulking and leaning over your knelt form.

“But we have all the time in the world, Acacius.” You struggled against the hold he had on your face, and stretched your tongue out of the confines of your mouth when he wouldn’t allow you closer to him. You barely tasted that small drop on the weeping slit of his cock on the tip of your tongue with a short cat-like lick. Acacius shivered.

He spread his legs wider and gave you a chaste kiss on your lips before lowering your mouth to his cock. The tip of it nestled against the curved roof of your mouth, the flared head pressing against the wrinkled ridges behind your teeth and it already felt so full. It was ticklish if not altogether strange sensation and you took him deeper until he was touching the more sensitive and softer part in the back of your mouth, your hand coming up to stroke the rest of his length that was left outside. 

You realised you could do this forever as your eyes closed shut. Your tongue was pressed to the vein that ran along the underside of his cock which thrummed with his heartbeat. It was like you were holding his beating pulse, his very heart, in your mouth. You felt his thigh quiver under your hand, and you chanced a curious glance up at your husband to behold the sight of him trembling, his teeth clenched and jaw twitching with the effort to remain perfectly still. And yes, you realised, you could do this forever— just hold him in your mouth until he lost his composure and grew desperate enough to fuck into your mouth. 

Acacius frowned at you, he looked dark and forbidding, “I know that look in your eyes, put away whatever idea you just came up with, wife.” He spoke through gritted teeth and his chest racked with the effort to breathe. 

You started moving your head, slowly at first as Acacius guided your hand to stroke over his length as he liked— tightening your grip and twisting your wrist. You hollowed your cheeks to envelop his cock tighter and suck him deeper inside your mouth, relaxing your throat to adjust to the fullness in your mouth. Perhaps, your husband was to be cursed with the most selfish sort of wife because you stopped looking for his reactions, his cock was in your mouth for your pleasure alone and whatever he might glean from it was secondary in your mind. 

He smelled of musk, sweat, the floral powder used to scent his clothes and something so addictingly Acacius. You rubbed your thighs together, the arousal had pooled from between your thighs to coat your ankles and feet under your folded legs. You hated to feel him receding from your mouth, sucking him as your head moved up, swirling your tongue around him to taste him before coaxing him deeper into your mouth again. Experimentally, you brought a hand to the sac hanging heavily under his cock, testing its weight and the hairy texture of the skin, gingerly massaging it until it drew tight in your palm. 

His cock jumped in your mouth as his hands entangled in your braids to pull you off him. But you suckled him with a petulant whine, refusing to be wrested off him. A warm, salty and slightly bitter taste filled your mouth while he wrenched your head off him, the rest of his spend falling in spurts across your face and neck. What a waste…

Acacius glowered down at you, mouth agape and panting, “You are going to be the death of me… One of these days you will kill me.” His eyes were focused on your tongue as you licked the side of your lips to taste more of him. And he watched as some of his cum glittered on your skin as it trickled down until it was halted in its path by the gold chain hanging from your neck. He lapped at your skin, collecting his cum from the chain and depositing it into your mouth with what could barely be considered a kiss, his tongue surged into your mouth until you had cleaned his thick release off it.

You felt a smug satisfaction as you noticed that he was still shaking, a bit unsteady on his feet as he stood and lifted you onto the chaise. You thought you could consummate your marriage now, but to your confusion he knelt before you— his cock looking much flatter, softer. You felt your lower lip wobble as Acacius guided you to lean back. Was it supposed to do that?

“What did you think was going to happen?” He chastised you. 

“I had no reason to believe he would just go soft like that… can’t you make him go up again?” You whispered, a bit uncertain of the male anatomy. Would you not be able to consummate your marriage tonight?

Acacius leaned over to kiss your pouting lips, “It comes back faster when you’re younger.” 

You adoringly caress his bearded cheek as he smiles down at you, an uncertain vulnerability curved about that smile. You struggled to think of what to say to him, he could be old and decrepit and you would still be glad to have him as your husband. You had still wanted him a few short hours ago when you had been expecting pain and shame on your marriage bed, and you wanted him more now that he had shown you pleasure and wonder instead. You loved him not because of his prowess in bed but because of the simple fact that he was Acacius— steadfast, loyal, protective, kind, and loving, oh so loving.

But complex sentences evaded your mind as his lips closed around your nipple, he lingered there with his teeth and tongue before moving just a bit below to bite under your areola. He insistently sucked the flesh of your bosom into his mouth until it came away with a small bruise. His lips traversed down your body in a sensual dance of kisses, nips and almost painful bites. He spread your legs and groaned at the sight of your arousal smearing large patches of your limbs. 

“So wet for me, anaticula.” His voice was breathless.

“You’re perfect.” You settled for simpler words that were just as true. He was perfect. Acacius huffed a warm burst of laughter. 

“I’m glad you think so, wife.” He chimed even as his gaze seemingly searched for the sincerity in your eyes.

“I love you.” You offered him another nugget of truth. 

You watched as the colour rose from his chest to his neck, Acacius shyly smiled before obscenely licking at your arousal and suckling another bruise on the inside of your thigh. He was marking you.   

You squirmed with anticipation, feeling his hot breath on your cunt as he spoke, “Don’t worry, he’ll be back just as we have prepared you some more.” 

“Here, hold these for me.” He spread your thighs and pushed them towards you, your hands came under your knees to hold yourself open for him as he had commanded. 

His mouth on your cunt was a reunion like no other. Acacius remembered every sensitive spot and fold of your sex. But the swooping in your womb had more to do with the sight of him rather than the pleasurable feeling of his tongue on your slit— his mouth attached to your cunt, eyes glazed over with a half-awake and half-asleep look in his eyes, lashes gracefully fluttering as he tasted you, a patch of his cheekbone shimmering under the lamp light where the slick from your thighs had smeared across his face.                

Gone was the urgency with which he had devoured you previously in your office, he was instead languid and slow. But there was a fervour in his grip and his fingers painfully dug into the flesh of your hips. He toyed with one of the lips covering your opening, sucking it into his mouth and nipping it with his teeth before doing the same with the over. His tongue roved over your sex sometimes just the tip, lightly and ticklishly grazing over a sensitive spot, and other times he was insistent, tongue flat against your folds as he roughly lapped up your essence. 

You grew desperate as he purposely avoided that crest right at the apex of your sex that would ensure you would see stars behind your eyes again. And you grind your hips against his face, hoping to catch the needy spot against his nose, or his lips or even his chin— the lightest of touch there could set you off, you were so close, the tension curled so tightly inside you. There was a resounding smack in the air, it didn’t occur to you that Acacius would hit you until there was a tingling on the side of your ass, the impact making you gush into his mouth.

“Of course, you would enjoy something like this,” He murmured. And he laughed. He had the audacity to laugh as his lips closed around the exposed little bud, the vibrations of his amusement travelling straight into your nerves. You came undone with a shout, your eyes unseeing while your veins felt alit with delicious flames coursing through them followed by warm currents that doused your body in a dreamy languor. You lost your grip under your knees, letting your legs fall apart in the most inelegant fashion but still spread so wide for your husband. Acacius moved away with a teasingly tutting at you, and you whimpered at the loss.

“Hold them for me again,” He said. And you obediently took your position, hands under your knees, lifting your trembling legs so you were entirely exposed for him. 

Acacius took your clitoris in his mouth again, his tongue encircling the oversensitive bud. You felt his thumb gather some of your slick before going down to the ring of muscles far below your cunt. You gasped his name in surprise as his digit followed the same dizzying circles around the ridged fig-like skin surrounding that opening. 

“Is this alright? Do you trust me?” You gave a hasty wordless nod for both questions. 

Acacius pressed two fingers into your cunt and suddenly it was all a bit too much. His tongue flicked the bundle of nerves, the intrusion of his fingers felt foreign and the thumb circling your other hole was sending waves of pleasure to muscles you hadn’t realised could be used for such a purpose. He watched you restlessly whimper and whine with half-lidded eyes as you squirmed at his touch. He released the nub of flesh from his mouth, making soothing sounds as he comforted you. 

“Relax for me, let it happen, my love, do not fight it.” He said as he curled his fingers inside you catching some dormant set of nerves which threw you into another release. You came with a gasp, still shaking and quivering as he pressed soft kisses to the inside of your thigh. You hadn’t yet descended from the heights of your pleasure, your muscles feeling fuzzy and boneless when he flipped you over. Your head rested sideways over the backrest of the chaise as Acacius guided your own hands to your ass. 

“Spread yourself for me, wife.” His tone clipped and terse. You had thought yourself past surprise and shame but were still so unprepared for the feel of his tongue against your anus. His tongue burned hot against the ring of muscle as he held it in place while his fingers found their way inside your cunt again, three this time instead of the two before. And this time he lets you grind yourself on his face. You are mindless and hazy with pleasure, there is no real pace or rhythm to your hips.

His hand curved around your waist so he could curl his fingers into your clit, providing delicious friction as you swayed your hips. His fingers lazily dragged in and out of you, his beard scraped against your sensitive skin, and his tongue pressing hot and wet against the opening of your ass, burrowing inside despite your haphazard movements. Acacius gives you a deep hum of approval the more desperate and determined you grow in pursuit of another release. 

It crept up on you, steadily climbed your spine, long and drawn out rendering you utterly silent as your body gripped and convulsed barely being able to hold itself up. For several moments you were lost to the world, Acacius circled and patted the erect bud of nerves until you stopped twitching while another had soothingly stroked and petted over your shivering skin. He turned to lay you on the chaise, pressing an affectionate kiss to your parted lips and covered you with his own body, whispering soft praise and encouraging words as his legs entangled with yours— you gasped at the feel of his weight, another throb coursing down your sated sex, you clenched around the tip of his cock as he bullied his way inside.

As he had promised, it did not hurt. But you felt full, and far too relaxed and pliant to be overwhelmed even with the slight burn of the stretch. Dazed, you noticed the wet patch on the backrest where his hand gripped— you had drooled. It was worse, your release had coated his cloak underneath you, it glistened against his face and it dripped down his chin, his neck, his chest. 

“Dulcissima, you have to let me in, please— you’re strangling me. Breathe—” Acacius was tense, speaking through gritted teeth, his words breaking from his effort to breathe. And your body complied with his request, you could never deny him. And you felt complete once he had nestled inside you, filling not only your cunt but your heart and your soul. Your gaze was wondrous and awed as you held him inside you, you clenched around him trying to pull him impossibly closer still. 

He gasped before kissing you again, trying to hold most of his weight off you. You stay that way, connected in more ways than just the physical, locked together in both love and ecstasy— your hands exploring his warm skin and the strong contours of his body. A surprising laugh bubbled up your throat when you realised Acacius had broken into goosebumps, his hair raised alert and small bumps ran along his arms. 

His forehead pressed against yours and you nudged his nose with yours gazing into the eyes of your beloved seeing the love and adoration reflected there. He softly caressed your cheek and your temple, “I haven’t done this in years,” he confesses. Years?

“Good.” 

He chuckles at your response, “Good? It means I won’t last long…”

“You don’t have to. It is done, is it not? The consummation.” 

He pecks your nose, “We aren’t done until you come all over my cock, anaticula.” 

And then he moves, in sufficiently long and deep strokes that have your eyes rolling back, grinding his hips so the hair above his cock rubs against the erect nub above your opening. Your nails dig into his back, the coil of pleasure winding tighter at your core. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the skin of your neck. 

“It doesn’t hurt.” You told him as your hips rolled to meet his thrusts.

“I’ve done you a disservice—” Why was he talking? Did he expect you to hold a conversation? All you could manage was a broken keen when he rubbed the most perfect spot on the inside. 

“You’ve been trapped in a temple for thirty years, you deserved to see the world, take a few lovers, but I have trapped you instead.” 

“No—” He couldn’t possibly be saying these things while his arm wrapped under you to massage your anus. 

“You can roam the world, freely conduct your business— take over Rome if you want to— I’ll follow you… anywhere. I’ll go.” He wiped the tears that slipped out of your eyes before continuing, “But this is what you will do at the end of every day, anaticula.”

“You will go about your dreams and ambitions and then you’ll come home every night into my arms, my bed, with my cock buried deep in your cunt. Do you understand?” He brutally snapped his hips into you while you responded with some sound between a sob and a laugh. 

“Say it, say it to me. Tell me you’re mine.” He commanded, his eyes overcome with a zealous light. His fingers dipped into the tight ring of your ass. You could feel his cock all the way in your throat.

“We’ll have to train this hole of yours open if you do not want children, carissima. This is where I will fuck you next. But you’ll take me, like a perfectly biddable wife— into your heart, into your body. It is my home, and you will not cast me out—”

“I want them— I want children, everything you give me— please please please— Acacius.” You begged. 

“I’m yours. Your wife, your lover, your whore— please, Acacius—” You weren’t sure what you were asking of him. But your husband, ever the provider, brushed his fingers against your clit and you shattered under him with a distorted scream. You convulsed and shook underneath him with no effect as his weight pressed down on you. And your husband followed soon after, shivering and groaning as he painted the inside of your cunt with his warm seed; your walls fluttered around him to milk every last drop of it. 

“Daughters… wife. Give me daughters, ones who take after their mother in both looks and heart.” He prayed to you. Acacius stayed that way for several long moments, reverently kissing your warm and sweaty skin while you felt him softening inside you. You clenched around him in distress, hating the inevitable loss as he slipped out of you.

You had watched with great interest as he had stumbled away from you, admiring the sight of his ass, wishing you can sink your teeth into it. And with even more interest, you stared at his cock as he returned with a wet cloth to clean you both along with a tray of food he had prepared. The both of you had ravenously polished off the feast of olives, cheese, fruits, stuffed dates, spiced cookies, bread and sausages. Your husband had plied you with more wine before dipping his strawberries in your cunt to eat them; they tasted sweeter that way he had claimed and you hadn’t believed him until you had cleaned up honey from his cock which had tasted impossibly sweeter to you.

You lay on him, sleep still evading you because you knew you had to address his words when he had been inside you. Your back leaned against his chest, and Acacius had parted his legs to make room for your bottom between them. Another reason sleep was not possible, this chaise was too small for both of you— you told your husband as much. 

“You should have seen the one they brought before, it was much smaller… So I built this one.” He chuckled.

“You built this bed yourself?” You whispered, appreciating the work and polish under new light. You thought he only worked on smaller projects.

He hummed in response, “And the bed in our chambers. Don’t worry, I made that one palatial.”

“So why aren’t we there?” You laughingly demanded. 

“Because I wanted the heavens to witness our consummation, dulcissima.” And your heart fluttered again. 

“I still quite like this one, despite how small it is… It’s our marriage bed and I’ll be fucking you on it as often as I can.” Despite, how sated and spent you felt, heat still curled in your belly at his promise. 

“You know, Acacius”—you turned in his arms to face him, chin resting against the swell of his stomach, you gazed up at him with imploring eyes—“You have done me no disservice. I wanted to marry you.”

You couldn’t hold in the words any longer, “You can never imagine yourself as some chain around my feet… you make me brave. You bolster me, make me feel safe— like I will always have someone on my side.” 

He sweetly caressed your spine, “I’ll never give you cause to be disappointed in our marriage, anaticula.” 

“You couldn’t disappoint me if you tried, Acacius.” You struggled against the insecurities in his mind, before realising that only time will reassure him. 

“I love you,” Acacius said, not as a confession or a desperate sigh, but in the same steady way he would voice a fact. 

“I love you, too,” You whispered against his chest. 

“Are you sore?” He gently asked. 

You were, not just between your legs but also in your heart— you shook your head in denial. Just a little white lie because you knew that having him close, having him inside you could cure all ails. 

Acacius watched the sun rise, as he would on most days of his marriage— casting his wife in an ethereal glow, the rays shining down on all the marks he had left on her body while she languorously rode his cock to their shared bliss. 

[tsuma-senju]

Free me, Please - Tobirama Senju

Pairing Tobirama x Reader.fem

Summary You and Tobirama were a couple before the Konoha was formed, then everything changes and you are revived by EdoTensei

The golden afternoon sun stretched across the Senju clan's training ground, tinging the sky with shades of orange and gold. You were panting, your hands resting on your knees, feeling the sweat running down your face after the last sequence of blows you had exchanged with Tobirama. He, on the other hand, maintained his impeccable posture, his red eyes shining in the reflection of the twilight.

“You're getting slow.” He teased, twirling the kunai between his fingers.

You laughed, recovering quickly, and took up combat position again.

“I'd say you're just becoming more predictable.” Your voice carried an amused but also defiant tone.

Tobirama raised an eyebrow. This was a constant competition between you. Not just a training session, but a perfectly synchronized dance between two shinobi who knew each other's moves like no one else. The blows exchanged were too fast for an ordinary spectator to follow. Every dodge, every block, every counterattack was as sharp as the blade of a well-wrought katana.

Between intense training sessions, you always shared knowledge, exploring the limits of your abilities together. Edo Tensei was one of the jutsus you both developed side by side, discussing its principles, studying its mechanics and weighing up the risks. Neither of you ever imagined that this technique would one day separate you.

That day, after training, you lay on the grass, watching the sky slowly darken.

"Do you believe that this war will end one day?" you asked, turning to face him.

Tobirama was silent for a moment, his eyes locked on the stars that were beginning to appear. Then he answered with rare seriousness:

"If it does end, it will be with many losses. And I only hope…" He hesitated. "I hope you won't be one of them."

You smiled, touching his hand lightly.

"We won't lose each other, Tobirama. We'll always be together."

If only I'd known how wrong I was.

The smell of blood and ash dominated the battlefield. You and your squad were surrounded. There were too many. Too many. And no matter how hard you fought, your fate was already sealed.

The enemy blade pierced your chest, and you felt your body go weak. The pain was intense, but even worse was the cold that spread through your limbs. Your vision began to blur and, in the midst of the chaos, your mind searched for only one thing: Tobirama.

The last image that appeared in her mind before everything went dark was his face, his penetrating gaze, the firm touch of his hands. You tried to call out to him, but his lips made no sound.

Then came the darkness.

The Fourth Ninja War was at its height. The Hokages had been revived by the Edo Tensei, now gathered to answer Sasuke Uchiha's questions. As Hashirama spoke, explaining the events of the past, Tobirama remained silent, his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

Then he felt it.

His chakra.

Tobirama's heart raced, but his expression remained impassive. He slowly turned to Hashirama, who was already looking at him with a worried expression.

“Hashirama…” his voice was low, controlled, but his older brother noticed the slight tremor in his hands. “Do you feel that?”

Hashirama closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the chakra in the air. When he reopened them, his countenance became gloomy.

“That chakra…” He frowned. “It's… hers.”

Tobirama's world seemed to freeze for an instant. He didn't need confirmation. He knew. You were there. You had been revived.

And not for a good reason.

The fight was in full swing. Your body moved with murderous precision, but inside your mind, you were screaming, fighting to regain control. You saw the faces of the Leaf ninjas, you saw the fear and determination in their eyes, and you hated every blow you were forced to deliver against them.

But there was still something you could do.

"Attack my legs…!" His voice escaped through his lips without the enemy noticing. A whisper mixed with the sound of battle.

One of the ninjas hesitated. Did he understand?

"Cut off my chakra circulation…!" You forced the words out in the middle of an attack, hoping that someone would get the message.

And then Tobirama appeared.

The shock on his face was imperceptible to the others, but you knew that look. He understood. He saw you there, trapped inside yourself, and he knew he had to put an end to it.

With shadow clones, Tobirama drove away the wounded ninjas, leaving just the two of you on the battlefield.

"Tobirama…" Your voice shook between attacks.

"I'm here." He replied, his voice laden with something he hadn't allowed to show for years: pain.

You fought. The blows were violent, fast, but there was a different weight to this fight. You were fighting to die. He was fighting to accept the inevitable.

"I… never stopped loving you." He murmured, each word a confession torn from his soul. "I've never forgotten us…"

Tobirama hesitated for a second. A second that cost him a gap in his defense. But instead of taking advantage, you smiled.

"Please… stop this. I can't stop. I kill every second I breathe." Your gaze met his, and finally you begged, "Let me go."

Tobirama closed his eyes for a moment, but when he opened them again, they were filled with cruel resolve.

“And I've never been able to look at another woman after you.” He admitted. “I never accepted your loss.”

You smiled, feeling tears welling up. Finally, he said aloud.

“Then let me go.” You whispered.

With one last breath, Tobirama advanced, the chakra blade piercing your chest.

You felt pain. But above all, you felt relief. Your consciousness began to dissipate along with the jutsu. You raised your hand and touched his face one last time.

"Thank you… Darling…"

And then you disappeared.

Tobirama stood there, motionless, staring at the empty space where you had been. Hashirama put his hand on his shoulder, but he didn't react.

His heart, already broken once, was now just ashes blown away by the wind.

And this time, he knew he would never see her again.

[thesilmarillionblog]

𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭: 𝟐

Click here to read the first part.

Summary: You and Soldier Boy want to create a family and move on from everything, even the Vought, but you also know that he has to face Homelander one last time to keep his vow to Butcher. However, nothing turns out as you had hoped.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader

Warnings: Heavy angst, hurt, memory loss, Soldier Boy gets hurt, reader gets hurt, established relationship, trust issues, reader is manipulated, everyone is a liar, suspense

Word Count: 4107

A/N: English is not my first language.

Butcher hidden what had transpired months prior from the other members of the team while he waited for you to fully heal in the same room, guaranteeing that Kimiko and Frenchie would never discuss your abortion ever again. Butcher had told them nothing about you other than that you had amnesia.

He did not want to listen to other people discuss something they did not completely understand. He knew there was no other way for you to live your life without putting yourself in danger, even though he wasn't particularly fond of making such a brutal decision about your body. In the end, it was him who first made you inject Temp-V into yourself. Thank goodness you didn't die at that time. Furthermore, considering your circumstances with Temp-V, it would be impossible for you to continue a pregnancy while carrying a supe fetus.

That was for the better.

After the operation, three months had gone by, and Butcher had told the physicians to get you as much sleep as possible to avoid showing any obvious scars and to avoid raising any suspicions. He also erased anything that was online about you, including your videos, images, and anything else that may have been obtained by cameras, all with CIA assistance. He was aware that the game he was playing was risky.

You were so exhausted that you wanted to close your eyes again and grimace at the sight of a white light shining straight into them. 

When you saw him playing with his phone on the chair next to your bed, you said, “Butcher?” 

“Hey,” he said as soon as he touched you gently and slipped his phone into his pockets. “All right, darling, let me talk to the doctor. Try not to get up or do anything.” 

You groaned in agony as Butcher exited the room, attempting to make sense of what was happening. There was a great void in your mind, even if you forced yourself to recall the things that had happened to you. All you could recall was that you, Butcher, and Hughie were in some filthy room trying to talk to Translucent. 

When the female doctor began to examine your eyes and everything else, you opened them again. “You appear to be in good health. How do you feel?” she inquired softly. 

You muttered, “I actually don't know. How long have I been sleeping?”

She smiled and added, “It's okay; you just need some more rest, and it's been three months.”

You mumbled, “What?” amazed at how much time you spend sleeping. Butcher nodded at you when you looked at him to see how he responded. “What happened to me?”

The doctor opened her mouth to speak, then gave Butcher an odd look as if she was having trouble coming up with the right phrase. 

“What's the last thing you remember, doll?” Butcher asked while closely inspecting you. 

You muttered, trying to force yourself to remember something, but all it did was give you a terrible headache. “I...Translucent is all that I remember from that time. I had been trying to talk to him with Hughie.”

Butcher took a deep breath and gave the doctor another look. 

You inquired, perplexed, “Did something very bad happen to me? Is Hughie okay?” 

“Of course, nothing horrible happened,” Butcher said with a smile. “You just gave yourself a really hard head hit on the table. Very hard one. You'll feel well very soon, right, doctor?”

“Yes,” she responded quickly. “You just need to rest a little bit more.”

You said, “Can I leave though? Would you let me, please? I believe I can walk, and I don't think I can feel my limbs here anymore if I continue to sleep. I'd better not spend any more time in this place.” 

“Of course. I was about to say that. You are allowed to go,” she said, maintaining her grin and turning to face Butcher after she had carefully placed some clothing from the wardrobe on your bed. 

Butcher said, “Okay, you change your clothes while I talk to her, right?”

Nodding to him, you watched them as they left the room.

Carefully closing the door, Butcher said, “You think her memory loss is temporary?” in a low voice to make sure he wasn't being heard.

“There is no certainty when it comes to medical issues. Especially, not when it’s about brain.”

“That's not my kind of conversation, doc. Just advise me on what not to do, and she will remain that way.”

“Make sure there is nothing—not a photo, document, or anything else—that would prompt her to recall someone or something you don't want her to. That's the best advice I can give you; otherwise, you can push her to constantly recall other fake memories, which will give her a headache and possibly worsen her trauma as she tries to recall. I'm not promising you anything, though; she might not even need them to remember someday. Even something small, unimportant can trigger her memories.”

Butcher sighed and replied, “Well, that's enough. Is there anything more I should know?”

“Butcher, you have to understand that you are powerless to stop what is about to come. If she ever finds out, she is going to hate you. I'm not even going to question which Supe got her pregnant. I don't want to know. This is a pretty dangerous game that you are playing in a very messed-up setting.”

“I paid you good, didn't I?” Angered by her words, Butcher spoke up. “I completed the tasks at hand, and moving forward, everything will be OK. All I'm asking is that you simply never discuss what happened here with anyone, as you are told.”

“I would never,” was her quick reply. “I hope to never have to deal with anything similar again, and I hope you will stay away from me for a very long time.”

Butcher winked meaningfully at her and said, “Okay, call me when you're needy or high, love.”

When Butcher knocked on your door and you told him to come in, he asked, “Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah.” 

He informed you that there were new members of your team in the car when he noticed you were deep in thought. “In three months, a lot can happen, you know. We still had to work about Vought and the Seven.”

“Oh,” you replied, unsure of how to reply appropriately. “Are they reliable?” 

“They are, of course. However, there is one new thing that may surprise you. One of them is a member of the Seven.”

You exclaimed, “No way,” sounding both shocked and thrilled. “I thought our purpose was to kill them all.”

“Well, not every one of them is a total asshole who loves to be bitchy around. Starlight is an excellent and smart young lady.”

“Oh my god,” you said in a whisper. “It seems like I may have missed the whole episode. However, how did she learn about your team and decide to join so quickly?”

“A lot of things change every day. She's fucking Hughie. Love wins at the end of the day, doesn't it? She claimed that before joining the Seven, she was ignorant of Vought's true face.”

You just said, “I understand.”

“What happened to Translucent, by the way?”

“He's in the grave.”

“Oh my god!” you exclaimed, shocked, putting your palms to your lips while Butcher continued to stare at the road. “And how did you even manage to do it?”

“When you passed out, Hughie blew up his invisible cunt. That's it. Don't you think you have way too many questions? Nothing further significant occurred. That was all.”

“All I want is to stay up with the team. I've been asleep for so long that I cannot remember anything at all.”

You said, “I feel like I disappointed you and Hughie,” while he remained silent and kept staring at the road. “I'm sorry.”

Butcher touched your shoulder and said, “Hey, don't you talk like that silly again. I am myself a big failure and a mess in fact.”

He went on without letting you say anything. “You're doing well. I'm happy to see you back at The Boys, and be sure, there's still much to do. Please, don't

worry about anything.” He gave one of his sly smiles. “Everything's going to be alright.”

Everyone was staring at you when you hesitantly went inside the house. You felt awkward trying to decide what to say. Soon after, Butcher was the center of attention for everyone, which simultaneously made you feel foolish and embarrassed.

When at last you succeeded in saying “Hello,” you said, “Butcher told me about you. Since you're all new here, I suppose it would be best if we introduced ourselves right away.”

You gave Butcher an odd look after introducing yourself, and then you cautiously sat down on the couch because you were still feeling a little lightheaded. The worst was the headache. An uneasy tension filled the air.

Ignoring the accusing looks from Frenchie and Kimiko, Butcher began to sip whiskey and tried to forget about the incident, similar to you, but voluntarily. 

“Yeah, I mean, she's Kimiko, and I'm Frenchie.”

You were taken aback when Kimiko came down next to you and gave you a strong hug before you could respond, but you soon went back to give her a hug. 

Annie looked at Butcher and continued, “I suppose you're familiar with me already. I am Starlight. However, feel free to call me Annie.”

“Yeah, he told me you and Hughie are a thing, right?”

Annie nodded to you and smiled.

You felt a little better because everyone appeared friendly and welcoming. You were worried that during the months you were asleep, you had missed a lot. To feel like you have a place, it would be a good idea to make connections with new people. 

Butcher stated, “Well, I have to leave for the time being. Let's give everyone a little rest. Unfortunately, even your lazy ass cheeks deserve a vacation.” He then turned to face you and said, “And you can rest a bit more, doll.”

As if you haven't had enough sleep. You didn't reject him, though.

You said you wanted a little more sleep when Butcher left the house and got up. The way everyone looked at you was weird and strange somehow, but you didn't give it much thought. Soon, you would grow accustomed to one another. 

Though your footsteps led you as if they had their own memory, you were unable to recall which room you had been sleeping in when you took the stairs. 

You shut the door and turned on the lights. You pushed your memory to recall even a single, insignificant detail, but it was blank. But when you took in your surroundings, a feeling of sadness and regret overcame you, as though you were recalling this place. You were unable to comprehend the misery in your heart as you listened to the room's silence. 

Although it seemed like you had been in this room for months, you could sense the presence of another person. It was difficult to define. 

You touched each piece of furniture as you moved around the space in the hopes that something, no matter how small or pointless, would remain in your memory. You looked through the closet, but nothing was there. Everything seemed intentionally empty. 

With a heavy heart, you sit on the bed and run your fingertips over the soft sheet. The inside of your head was hurting like crazy the harder you tried to remember. You gave up and laid on the bed after making a few more attempts. As you inhaled, the comforting scent of the cushion beneath your head slightly eased your discomfort. 

You had the impression that you belonged here, and vice versa. 

In your heart, you sensed that something was missing. You simply couldn't tell if it had to do with something in the room, a sensation, or something else entirely. Whatever it was, your heart and feelings understood it, even though it was hazy and no longer in your recollection. You were yearning for something that was beyond your memory. 

You hugged the pillow under your head and wept uncontrollably as you curled into the bed even deeper with a heavy heart. Your heart squeezed in pain as you continued to cry, and you did not even know why. 

Someone patted your arm and said, “Hey, want to have dinner? You fell asleep here hours ago. You must be starving.”

“Frenchie?” you asked in a sleepy voice. 

“Yes, it's me. Are you hungry?” 

You rubbed your head and nodded to him. Your head ached from weeping so much. 

“Well, I suppose,” you muttered. “Frenchie, who is staying in this room, by the way?”

Just as he was ready to add anything, Frenchie abruptly stopped talking, as though he were trying to think it through. “Not in particular. I mean, everyone. What happened?”

You said, “I don't know,” as your gaze wandered the room. “Just a feeling.” 

“It's just an empty room,” Frenchie simply said, assisting you in standing up. “Nothing else.”

Annie called your name three times in a row; you were unaware that you had not even touched your meal. 

You apologized. “Sorry, I couldn't catch you.”

"Hey," she muttered in a worried tone. “You know, it's best not to overthink things. Everything will work out. We are with you. You only spent three months there. You didn't miss too much. Actually, thanks to you, we didn't have to put in as much effort because Butcher watched for you till you healed.” 

“I'm not sure,” you simply said, giving her a ghostly smile. “I sense that something is off. I'm not really sure what it means, but it seems like I lost something.”

Your face turned red with guilt as she remained silent. “I apologize; I didn't want to give you a negative first impression. I know I sound weird right now.” 

Kimiko, who was seated next to you, comforted you by resting her chin on your shoulder and smiling sympathetically. She was somewhat serious and genuine, which put you at ease, and she was communicating with you using sign language. In fact, you needed to speak with someone like her. 

“No way,” Frenchie grumbled, continuing to eat the pasta rapidly. “You don't leave a negative impression or anything; we work as a team. You are at least more civilized than MM and Butcher's nasty asses. That's good enough.” 

The way Frenchie talked badly of Butcher made you all laugh. 

He winked at you and pointed a finger at your face, saying, “I think there is a way to solve your situation, Y/N.”

“What is it?” you inquired immediately. 

“I honestly believe that after the past few months of exhausting work, we all deserve to relax and enjoy ourselves. It wouldn't harm the CIA's ass to take a little vacation. Ladies, what do you say?”

Kimiko grinned and gave him the thumbs up, and you agreed. Perhaps engaging in some pleasant activities might help relieve the oppressive sensation that has been troubling you since you got up. 

“And after that,” Frenchie continued. “I've got to work on this virus a little bit more.”

“What virus?” you said, startled. There was too much to catch on to. 

“A virus capable of causing the murder Homelander. It's a supe killer.” 

Annie and Kimiko looked at one another worriedly. 

You said, “Oh my god,” looking shocked. “Is that even possible?”

“If I can figure out how to generate the virus, then it should be possible. Homelander cannot be killed by a simple virus. It's difficult to construct anything so strong because that motherfucking is just too powerful to kill, but hope is the last thing that dies in this world.”

As you watched Hughie give Annie a sad face, you couldn't help but wonder, “What if Annie is infected with this virus as well? If in the wrong hands, it would be genocide.”

“We'll simply kill Homelander and the remaining members of his team. Not Kimiko or Annie, of course. We already have enough blood on our hands. This must finish quickly.”

“Let's avoid talking about such things today,” Annie said, appearing visibly uncomfortable. It made sense. 

Annie wanted you to dance at the club instead of spending the entire evening sitting down, but you told her you weren't feeling well enough to be active and all that. You were fine physically; you just didn't want to at that particular time. 

You smiled at Hughie and Annie as you watched them dance. There was no denying their obvious chemistry. It pleased you that Hughie could choose to move on. No matter how harsh and cruel life is, it always continues because every day brings with it a fresh start. 

Perhaps that was how they had each other's backs throughout the worst. You wanted to have something so strong and intimate as well. 

Kimiko touched you on the shoulder, and her expression changed to one of concern, as if she wanted to know how you were doing. 

You said, sipping the whiskey, “I'm okay.” You didn't want to drink since you thought it would worsen your situation. Still, a glass or two wouldn't harm you. “I just can't get over this headache. Perhaps I'm pushing myself too much.”

Kimiko communicated with you via her phone because you were completely unfamiliar with her unique sign language. However, you made a self-promise to learn it as soon as possible.

“Avoid pushing yourself. You have to maintain patience. You'll be fine soon enough, I'm sure.”

You also brushed Kimiko's shoulder and said, “I hope so. Thank you. I'm not sure why, but I just can't get over the sadness that I feel. It makes me want to cry. What if something terrible happened and no one was telling me? God, please don't think I'm some sort of paranoid person. Butcher isn't here, and I simply needed to talk.”

“What makes you feel sad?”

“When I went into the upstairs room today, I felt really bad about it. Do you know someone who stays there? Perhaps I was staying there, and my memory is not helping.”

Kimiko nibbled on her bottom lip and briefly looked around. then displayed her phone to you. 

“Yes, you were staying there sometimes.”

You were about to speak, but you changed your mind and decided not to share what Frenchie had told you. 

Kimiko again held up her phone and said, “I just want you to be okay,” as she noticed you lost in thought. “Perhaps it would be best not to push yourself to bring back memories. If those memories are strong enough, they will find a way to get back to you. No matter what”

“That felt better, Kimiko. I appreciate you listening to me. You're right. There's no need to worry if they are unimportant; in that case, it's preferable not to remember.”

Kimiko smiled a little and offered you a hug. She looked at you, and you gave her a nod as soon as she noticed that Frenchie was grinning at her. As if the team was made up entirely of romantics. 

Just as you were all about to head back home, Frenchie pulled over, and you all gathered around the large screen to see something. Based on the large Vought symbol that was displayed on the screen beforehand, you could presume that it must be about the Seven. 

“What's happening?” Annie questioned, perplexed. 

Everyone on the street had been glued to the large TVs. 

Frenchie muttered, “I guess there is some latest news. I wonder what Homelander did this time.”

As you left Frenchie's van and joined the other people on the street, you glanced at one of the screens. 

The Vice President claims that Homelander himself ordered the release of Soldier Boy, who was found not guilty hours ago. Homelander discovered that the CIA had attempted to use Soldier Boy to bring down the president and Vought. We've been informed that the release of Soldier Boy will bring Americans together once more during these days of change. The public will soon get further information. 

You stared at the massive image of Soldier Boy on television as the reporter filled you in on the latest events. 

“Oh, no, no,” Frenchie mumbled to himself. Annie gave him a scared expression. 

“What is going on” You uttered, “I thought Soldier Boy died a long time ago,” not fully grasping the gravity of the situation.

“I suppose we should give Butcher a call. Now,” Annie spoke harshly.

You gasped when Frenchie pushed you to go and get in the van before you could say anything, but you continued to stare at the image of Soldier Boy.

“Hey, what's happening?” As they exchanged glances, you repeated the question, speaking louder. “Why have you all turned pale?”

Annie opened her lips to say, “I-,” but she suddenly changed her mind. “Let's speak with Butcher first; he can guide us on what to do. Butcher just sent us a new address, Frenchie. Let's go there.”

“Alright.”

You followed up with more questions, but when you realized they wouldn't discuss them, you closed your mouth and lost yourself in your own thoughts until you reached the location Butcher had instructed you to go to. 

Butcher was smoking when you walked in, and he had his eyes fixated on the wall.

You patted his shoulder and said, “Butcher,” to get his attention. “What's going on?”

He said, simply, “We're staying here from now on.”

“And it's about Soldier Boy,” you asserted firmly. “How about him? I assumed he was long gone. What are all of your concerns? I guarantee I'm well now and I got enough sleep, even though I know you don't want to push me or anything. So, will you kindly simply give me the details? Did something occur when I wasn't present?”

Butcher inhaled deeply and got to his feet. “Well, I suppose we must begin someplace. A few months ago, Soldier Boy was released. We were the ones who did this. Eventually, he promised us to help kill Homelander.”

You responded, “So he wasn't dead,” and he nodded in agreement. “And?” 

“It came out that Soldier Boy had betrayed us, and Homelander is his son. With the assistance of the CIA, we were able to cover his face with a mask and send him back to sleep. With the help of his father, Soldier Boy, it appears that Homelander is eager to work with him from now on and will be undefeated.”

“Oh, my god,” you muttered. “We can't even kill Homelander; how are we even supposed to deal with both him and Soldier Boy? Why the fuck you even released Soldier Boy?” 

"I fucking don't know," Butcher exclaimed as he became angrier. "But we'll be cautious and stay here. Frenchie will work on the virus, and together we'll develop an efficient method of killing them both." 

You said, “Maybe we can try to talk to Soldier Boy. He is our nation's first superhero. He is undoubtedly beloved by the public, but perhaps he will reconsider if we can persuade him that Homelander committed atrocious crimes, like mass murder. Don't you think?”

“Stop being naive,” Butcher sharply remarked. “You are mistaken if you believe Soldier Boy is innocent and not like Homelander; they are a father and son. He killed a lot of people in New York on the day we let him go. He just knows how to kill, betray, and deceive. Soldier Boy must die.”

Next Chapter

⋆⋅☆⋆☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────⋆⋅☆⋆☆⋅⋆

A/N: Comments are very much appreciated. I’d like to know what you think about this one. ♡

Taglist: @smexydilflover @deebris @coolrobloxkid28 @endrfairy @libby99hb @raynamorono23 @cwutesygrl @ladysparkles78 @seokjinluvb0t    @deangirl96 @whendiditendalthoughenjoyment @mostlymarvelgirl @dilfsandmartinis @deans-spinster-witch @mayafatimakhan @riah1606 @ilovecooperhoward @unleashthelion @cnmcgee @ahoytothestorm @hells-dragon @bitchykittenconnoisseur @peachhiz

[gelu-the-babosa-multiversal]

At this point, I still question how bad Energon is for human health... like, there is a clear inconsistency for every new TF interaction but even in the aligned continuity the idea is bounced like a ball to all directions...

In TF Unicron Trilogy: Energon, Kick was sent countless times in search of Energon by his stupid father only because the kid had the special power to detect Energon... and then use the Energon to give Kick a power armor or something like that IDK.

In TFA it is shown how the mere presence of the All Spark can kill human cells and literally rot a human... but also reverse the process????

On TFP it is said that Energon is lethal, and it was shown with Raf after Megatron shut him with his Dark Energon canon. But then they have to sue pure Energon to save Raf and there are not other consequences after that...

In TFRB Blurr and Slavage gave a caveman a small Energon Crystal so he survived the current disaster that was destroying his home. IT. LITERALLY. KEEP. A. HUMAN. ALIVE! I keep the guy like a frozen fruit in the fridge kjahkajfhLSF

In TFES... IDK I don't remember well, but Mandroid was decaying in life. We could see his whole body rotting as the season passed. With Robby happened the same but at a much faster alarming rate...

And then there's the thing with the Botbots. I'm surprised no one has sued the store because the exposure to their products is causing limb loss, skin rotting, blood loss, sickness, and IDK what else jhdakjefhakf

I think that I might be forgetting more specific scenes and extra info, so feel free to discuss.

[strawberrystepmom]

gojo x f!reader. very self ship coded. fluffy, a little hurt comfort-y. cw for light misogyny from higher ups. wc 1.5k

divider thanks to @/cafekitsune like usual

“Anything in those bags for me?”

You snort, bare feet padding across the shiny wooden floors of Satoru’s apartment that is also technically your apartment despite the fact you keep your apartment across town in case he’s really on your nerves, dropping them on the floor in front of you. He looks over the edge of the sofa, one arm slung over the back carelessly, and you can’t help but smile at him looking so relaxed despite the fact you lack the same ease.

“Nah, these are for me,” you retort, not mentioning the small box with the delicately wrapped lingerie at the bottom of the largest bag. He’ll have to wait until later to find out about that one. You leave the bags behind and walk toward the couch, leaning over the edge to give him a kiss.

“What’s the occasion then?”

Reaching down to wipe your gloss from his bottom lip, he nips at the tip of your thumb and you smile. He’s good at disarming you, something both of you have learned over the years spent side by side, and you climb over the edge of the couch and plop down on top of him.

“Higher ups.”

He hums, the sound laced with disbelief.

“I don’t think you’ve ever broken a rule in your life. What do they want?”

Giggling, you roll your eyes. Sometimes he behaves as if he forgets you’re milder now than you used to be, the fury of your youth something that became unimportant entering into your twenties.

“You know very well I’ve broken many rules in my life, especially theirs.”

“That still doesn’t answer my question.”

Sighing, you snuggle into his chest and press your cheek to the area right above his heart, the steady beating comforting your anxious nature. He wraps one arm around your back and traces lazy circles over the back of your arm.

“They think I’ve given my students too much freedom, Maki especially. It’s a scolding.”

Admitting your anger aloud would feel like a loss so you simply sigh, pressing your face against Satoru’s chest and closing your eyes. He continues rubbing circles into your skin, watching the tension slowly melt out of your limbs, but now he is wound up.

How dare they question your methods? None of them have any clue what it’s like to be in the role the two of you both are, strength removed from the equation, and it feels like yet another overreach of their power.

“They’ve been on my ass for months, this is just the latest thing they’re mad about.”

Satoru scoffs, shifting and sitting up. He pulls you with him, keeping you pressed to his torso while getting comfortable. His face gives away every ounce of his concern, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed.

“What do you mean months? How often have you been seeing them?”

Your face doesn’t hide your surprise that he has somehow missed out on the last five times you’ve been summoned to address what would otherwise be very routine issues to be handled between yourself and your immediate supervisor Yaga.

“This is like the sixth time they’ve asked me in to talk…” you trail off and he reaches up to cup your cheek.

“There’s more you want to say.”

You nod and half shrug.

“Feels kind of pointless to say it though.”

He pinches your cheek and you smile, trying to shake him off of you but giving up and after a moment, giving in.

“They’re mad at me because we’re together. This is a punishment for distracting you and everyone else I’ve mentioned the situation to agrees with me.”

Despite being a tiny bit annoyed you’ve seemed to discuss these meetings with everyone but him, he understands. The mythical heads of the sorcerer community have always tried to keep his leash just loose enough to let him roam but tight enough to keep him controlled and now that is extending to you in the form of bureaucracy and bullshit.

Gojo Satoru, head of the Gojo clan and the strongest sorcerer, won’t allow it.

“What have the other meetings been about?”

A serious Satoru is a beautiful and terrifying sight, his jaw ticking and his face set in a hard glare. It isn’t often he gets this fired up and you’ve intentionally kept the situation quiet to avoid giving him something else to worry about. Selfishly, it makes your heart beat faster knowing that he’s so willing to jump to your defense.

“First one was about my technique and the logs I’ve been keeping of exorcisms performed in my domain, three of them were about my students, the most recent one was about, well, you.”

He frowns and you know he’s asking you to elaborate although you’re embarrassed to even be discussing the most recent meeting. You cried the moment you left the meeting, tucking into a corner long enough to compose yourself to keep Nitta from worrying about you the drive back to the campus.

“They reminded me we aren’t allowed to go on missions together.”

A humorless chuckle is all he can manage. The gall of these people shouldn’t surprise him the way that it does after all these years yet they still manage to pull one over every now and then.

“What exactly was said?”

He sees the shift in your face and knows immediately their words must have been full of bluster and cruelty disguised as tradition. Of course they aimed them at his partner, his girlfriend, rather than the man they have so many issues with. Satoru softens, pulling your head toward his lips and pressing them against your forehead.

“They said they won’t pay for us to go on “little lover’s vacations” just because we are unprofessional.”

The mocking serious tone you use to mimic these powerful men makes him laugh and he kisses your forehead again. He knows you well enough to know that you are still holding back everything that was said to you but he understands why.

“Well, fuck them.”

Laughing and shaking your head, you lean into Satoru’s big body with a contented sigh.

“We’ll see how tomorrow goes. Maybe I’ll tell them just that.”

You both know that you would never but he laughs at you anyway.

“If you don’t I will.”

You were happy to let the conversation die there, instead mentioning that there may be one thing in your shopping bags for your spoiled boyfriend. It served as distraction enough that you didn’t have to discuss the heavy stuff and the evening was spent focusing on more pressing matters.

This morning, though, Satoru isn’t willing to focus on other matters.

Riding the elevator to the bottom floor where these meetings take place, you straighten out your new blouse and ensure your skirt is acceptably pressed above the knee. Anxiety runs wild through your body but you breathe through it, sweaty palms clutching the handle of your purse.

The elevator doors slide open and you step out, jumping and shrieking in terror at the sight of a blindfolded Gojo standing in front of you.

“Holy shit, what are you doing here?”

He grins and you swear it lights up the dim surroundings.

“I’m not going to let them treat you that way.”

The support means the world but the notion of him saving you makes you uncomfortable, shifting your weight from foot to foot where you stand.

“You don’t have to stand up for me, Satoru…”

He shakes his head and puts one hand on your shoulder, burying the other in his pocket nonchalantly.

“Oh I’m only going to be supporting you from the outside. I know you’re more than capable of telling them to stick their old man opinions up their asses, isn’t that what got you in trouble your third year?”

Smiling at the memory, you nod. That was indeed what got seventeen year old you in enough trouble you were off missions and in detention for a month.

Yaga let you watch TV and tap away on your handheld game device the entire time in lieu of actual punishment.

Satoru’s grin softens into something sweeter and just for you.

“Don’t forget who you are. You aren’t just my girlfriend.”

His emphasis and both just and my make you laugh but you quickly compose yourself, straightening your shoulders and spine and letting Satoru pluck a bit of lint off of your top. He claps your shoulder and shakes you just enough that you strangely feel steadier, ready to face whatever opposition lies down the flight of stairs a few feet away.

“Thank you, Satoru.”

He shrugs.

“I’m just looking forward to listening to someone else handling you while you’re mad.”

Another nod is exchanged between the two of you and he squeezes your shoulder one last time before turning you in the direction of the staircase. He pats your ass once and you slap at his hand but confidence is all you feel heading down lower.

Gojo has never been more certain he picked the right one in his life.

[mistyresolve]

Hello🥰 do you write fics? Would you mind taking one of my request? I was thinking maybe reader was recently out of depression because of an event that happened and she meets tf141. They help her through it because they’re sacred that she’ll get back into it but they realize she’s ok and she’s on a good road. Later on in the fic reader finds Simon in the corner with tears in his eyes and all you can smell in the air is fart (Simon has farted)

Word count - 1.2K

Summary - For the last two months, Task Force 141 had grown increasingly concerned about the mental well-being and safety of Sergeant L/N. Who had become so withdrawn and stone-faced that it was nearly impossible to make them laugh, let alone crack a smile.

Tags/Warnings - Blood and Injury, Depictions of war and violence, Explicit Language, Character Death (kinda, it's an animal), Limb loss, Mentions of mental health.

A/N - i refuse to acknowledge the second half of the request

Masterlist  ❤︎ 

You went to every rehab and therapy session, but that didn’t change the fact that where there was once a furry friend with his tail wagging who was now missing. It sure as hell didn’t change the fact that the K-9 was dead. There wasn’t a body for you to bury. Not that you would have had the time. When you were medevacked out, you had lost so much blood you weren’t conscious enough to tell them about your dog still left at the crash site.   

You were bedridden for two weeks after the explosion, stuck in a state of shock for half that. You had visitors the entire duration of your hospital stay but couldn’t remember who was all there.  

It all went wrong because of a single misstep. In a matter of milliseconds, your life was changed forever. A life was lost. 

Like clockwork, your ears began to ring and fill with the sounds of metal scraping along the concrete, the sound of broken glass and settling rubble. The crackle of an engine giving up. The sounds of your screams, as you tried your best to get your leg unstuck from between the wall and an LTV. The tinny reverb of your fist slamming down on the side of the LTV in frustration. Somewhere among the wreck was your K-9, Lily. You called her her name over and over again; until your voice was raw.

She didn’t so much as whimper. 

It took you forever just to relearn how to walk. Even today, you sometimes struggle to find and maintain balance. You have yet to get used to your new life.    

“I still don’t feel very good. And I’ve been wanting to hide away a lot more,” you toe your boot at the edge of the carpet, tracing its pattern with your eyes. You were finding it increasingly difficult to look people in the eyes, afraid that they would see through your fragile exterior if you did. 

Dr.Greene leaned back in her chair, quickly jotting down the admission. Her tawny hair caught in the light of the singular lamp she had on. The room smelled like lavender; you can imagine it was a calming environment for some people. Yet, your leg twitched to get out of here. 

“Listen, I don’t think this is what I need. I don’t need months of R and R. Let me back onto the field. " You rested your elbows on your thighs, but you already knew the answer she was going to give you—the same one she gave you last week and the week before. 

“Once I tick off a few more boxes on your file, I will do just that.”

You stood up from the cushioned chair, swaying ever so slightly, and dipped your chin at her, “Thank you. I think we end things here.”

“There’s a lot we still need to unpack and discuss,” she started, levelling you with a disapproving look, “This session is going so well for you.” 

“Then we can leave it to next week’s session,” you snipped. 

Price was sitting in the lobby waiting for you, engrossed in one of the pamphlets that were left on the coffee table. The members of the 141 took turns taking you to your appointments, mostly because of your newfound fear of vehicles, which sent you into a crazed panic. 

“Done already?” he stood up, his knees crackling as he did so. 

“Get me out of here before I start screaming.” 

You leaned your weight on the railing, letting the steam from the coffee heat your face. Behind you, the door squeaked open, and if the lack of footsteps meant anything, it meant that Ghost was coming out to keep you company.

Ghost was the only one you felt like he didn’t coddle you. He didn’t try to stop you from doing the things you used to do; he didn’t try to pretend to know how you felt. 

But he was getting scared for you. 

You were standing right in front of him, and he still felt like he was seeing a ghost.  

You could see his arm resting on the banister from your peripherals, his hands clasped together. You couldn’t find the energy within you to greet him. 

“Wh’s on your mind?” he asked, picking a piece of the peeling paint off the railing and flicking it away. 

You shrugged, your vision unfocusing. 

He knocked his elbow against yours, grabbing your attention, “Whatever it is, it ain’t helping you.”  

“I wasn’t even going to bring her on the mission,” you respond, your head ducking, “I just felt so bad that I’d left her behind for the last three,” you sucked in a shuttering breath, “It’s my fault. She didn’t need to be there,” It was an admission you hadn’t voiced before, not even in your own head. 

It was all you could do to put the mug onto the railing before you collapsed, your feet sliding out from under you. The heart-wrenching sob that tore through you was devastating to Ghost. 

He knelt beside you, one hand reaching for under your arm, “Let’s get you inside. We’ve got an audience out here.” 

He ushered you back into the coffee room, guiding you to the couch. He let you cry for what seemed like hours. He didn’t say a word; he just gave you the chance to let it out. He made sure no one else came into the room and handed you a glass of water for hydration and that was all you needed. He already knew you didn’t want to hear all the sap like “She’s in a better place” or “How could you have known that was going to happen?”

It was the first time since the accident that you had cried. 

Three Months Later

Aside from Mactavish, whom you had already given a very important job, you had sat everyone down in the commons room.  

You cleared your throat about to give a big announcement, “As you guys may know, I have been allowed to rejoin the K-9 unit, “ As an instructor, given the fact that since you lost your left leg, you were unfit for combat. There was a collection of smiles around the room. “It has been a long, tiresome journey. I owe a lot of my recovery to you guys. So I thank all of you for your support and patience.”

Slowly, you backed up until you reached the front door, “Now we all know that being a part of a K-9 unit requires one thing. I would like you guys to be the first to be introduced to our newest member, Callahan,” You swung the door open. Soap knelt on the other side of the door and let go of the dog's collar, who immediately took advantage of the freedom and booked it into the room. 

He was still a juvenile and still hadn’t completely gotten rid of his puppy coat. He was still energetic and friendly when he wasn’t at work. His left ear flopped around as he hopped from person to person, too excited and overwhelmed to decide who he wanted to sniff out first. 

Callahan wasn’t like the normal K-9s. He couldn't sniff out mines and wasn’t trained to attack an assailant. He is a support animal. No, he specifically trained and curated to your needs.   

Masterlist  ❤︎