#fic: daughters lament | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fuckyeahdindjarin · 1 year

Text

Butter

Joel Miller x F!Reader

{ Main Masterlist }

Rating: None

Summary: What if Joel doesn't forget to buy himself a cake for his birthday? But by the time he remembers, all the bakeries in his neighbourhood are closed - except yours.

Warnings: No outbreak AU, pure fluff, mentions of baking and food, meet cute, some sexual tension but very mild stuff compared to my other fics, single dad!Joel being a sexy menace, reader has a nickname related to her job, reader has an accent similar to Joel, very lightly edited, not my best work, but I'm in my writing for fun era 💁🏻‍♀️

Word count: 3.6k

Notes: It's here! This was an exercise in speed writing, and just putting words to paper without overthinking anything. I really enjoyed writing this sweet little piece, this is dedicated to @psychedelic-ink who has been the biggest cheerleader for this idea since day one. Happy birthday to our favourite single dad who never lived through a cordyceps outbreak ❤️

September 26, 2003 was supposed to be a good day.

It’s Friday, after all. Not that the weekend is relevant to you anymore, with Saturdays and Sundays being the busiest days for business. But you have a date for once tonight, and you’re determined to enjoy it.

If you can get the goddamn security shutter to close, that is.

Standing on your tiptoes, you pull futilely at the bottom of the metal shutter with both hands, but it refuses to budge. You lament the sweat seeping through the fabric of the nice dress you changed into, the hem reaching almost indecent heights on the back of your thighs where it’s climbed up. And you don’t have to look at your reflection to know that stress has already smudged the edges of the eyeliner you hurriedly painted on as soon as you got the last customer out the door.

You can be forgiven for not noticing the wash of yellow headlights over the windows of the shop front and the sound of rolling tyres as a truck pulls up on the curb outside the bakery, until a gravelly voice pipes up behind you alongside hurried footsteps.

‘Ma’am, please tell me you’re still open.’

You tap on the ‘Closed’ sign through the window without turning around, determined to wrangle the shutter into submission. ‘Bad luck buddy, come back tomorrow. We open at nine sharp.’

‘No I can’t, I’m so sorry, but I need a cake now.’

Curiosity turns your head, and over your shoulder, you find a broad-shouldered man in a dark tshirt and casual jeans standing a respectful four paces away. Under eyebrows sloping downwards in a pleading angle that matches the slant of his moustache, his warm and imploring eyes are on you.

‘I’m sorry, sir, but I really need to go,’ you say. ‘Can you give me a hand?’

‘Look, I’ll do you one better. I’ll fix the shutter for you for free - if you sell me a cake.’

You purse your lips, the prospect of saving on what looks like an inevitable repair bill tempting. ‘You can fix it?’

‘I’m a contractor,’ he replies, reaching into his back pocket to pull out a battered looking wallet. ‘Here’s my card, if you think I’m bluffin’.’

Miller & Associates is printed in bold across the top, and underneath, is presumably his name and cell number. Glancing up at him, you say, ‘Look, Mr. Miller, I really want to help, but I’m late for a date, and I’m all sold out of cakes today -’

‘I’ll take anything you got. Cupcakes, cookies, whatever you have left,’ he cuts in, then apologises in quick succession, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I’m sorry to be so pushy - I’m not, usually - but I promised my daughter I’d bring something home, and by the time I remembered, this is the only place I could think of. Please.’

You feel the exact moment your resolve crack, and then fold like a goddamn lawn chair. What can you say, this contractor really knows how to work those puppy eyes, and you can never say no to a man who refuses to let their kid down.

Especially when the man looks like this.

Shooting off a text to your date to push back your dinner plans, you nod towards the door. ‘Alright. C’mon in, Mr. Miller.’

‘Nice place you got here,’ he remarks politely, hovering by the entrance as the fluorescent lights flicker on, his manners impeccably southern.

‘You don’t have to flatter me, I’ve already let you in,’ you joke, lips quirking at the way he flusters. ‘But I appreciate it. You been here before?’

When he smiles, you notice the corners of his eyes crinkle charmingly. ‘No, but I know I’ll be comin’ back.’

‘I wasn’t lying when I said I was out of ready-made cakes,’ you tell him, holding the door open to the kitchen so he can come in after you. ‘But I have some cake layers in the fridge so I can put together something fairly quickly.’

He ducks his head in a manner that tells you he’s not used to demanding things, and protests, ‘I don’t want to put you out. I meant it, if you just have some cupcakes or somethin’ -’

‘Listen, you promised your daughter a cake, didn’t you?’ you interrupt.

He shrugs. ‘Well, yeah I did -’

‘I’m guessin’ it’s for a birthday?’

He nods sheepishly. ‘It is.’

‘Well, as a baker, ‘mfraid I can’t let a cakeless birthday happen on my watch, Mr. Miller,’ you insist, opening the fridge door with a flourish. ‘Let’s see what we have here. Cake for three, I assume?’

‘Two, actually.’

Hopefully you’re as discreet as you think you are when your eyes drop to his left hand - his fourth finger is conspicuously ringless.

Interesting.

You hum, considering the mismatched options in your inventory. ‘It’s gonna be a bit of a Frankenstein’s monster of a cake, if you don’t mind. How does chocolate and vanilla layers with cookies and cream frosting sound?’

‘Sounds perfect,’ he answers without skipping a beat. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

You shake your head, hands full of cake rounds wrapped in cling film as you nudge the fridge close. ‘Please, call me Bri, Mr. Miller.’

‘And you can call me Joel,’ he says in return. ‘Is Bri short for somethin’?’

Laying the cakes on the work surface, you reply, ‘Yeah, Bri for brioche, like the bread. It's a silly nickname.’

The single dad surprises you with a low whistle. ‘Can’t say I saw that comin’.’

You grin. ‘You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, Joel.’

You don’t often have an audience while baking, and you find yourself talking Joel through the steps while you prep everything for assembly.

Swirling a spatula through the tub of buttercream you made earlier that day, you explain, ‘I just need to whip up some of this frosting so that it’s nice and soft for putting the cake together. You wanna help me break up some Oreos so we can make it cookies and cream?’

‘I’m all yours, chef,’ he says, one corner of his mouth curling into a teasing smile that has no business warming the apples of your cheek as it does. ‘Just tell me what to do.’

While your Kitchenaid whirrs to life, whipping air into the buttercream, Joel wields a rolling pin, smashing a generous helping of Oreos into crumbs in a Ziplock bag. The almost exaggerated care with which he moves speaks to inexperience in the kitchen, and you muse that either his kid makes up for it in that department, or they live off takeout.

Eventually, he picks up the bag and looks at you in a question. ‘I think I’m done?’

You smile and tap the lip of the mixing bowl. ‘That’s perfect. Why don’t you tip in the crumbs straight in here?’

Before you can step back to allow him space, Joel’s taken two strides towards you, and his arm brushes your shoulder when he lifts the bag and tilts the contents into the frosting. He’s warm and solid, and damnit, he smells good - like sawdust and sweat.

The thought comes to you unbidden - what a man.

There’s a lull, and only when you feel the weight of eyes on you do you realise that you missed his question.

‘Did you say somethin'?’ you squeak, embarrassed.

‘I said, is this ok?’ he repeats, nodding at the mixing bowl.

You nearly stumble over your words. ‘Yes, yes it’s perfect.’

He watches you closely, a touch of concern in his brown eyes. ‘You ok there, honey?’

‘Yup,’ you chirp, far too cheerfully. ‘Just need to mix it all up now -’

If you had your wits about you, you would stir in the crumbs first and set the machine on low. But this man somehow stole said wits by sheer proximity to you, and you accidentally start the Kitchenaid on high, an indignant yelp escaping you when Oreo dust flies aggressively out of the bowl along with a splatter of white buttercream that lands squarely on the front of your dark knit dress.

‘Oh shit!’ you cry out, frantically turning off the mixer. ‘Shit shit shit!’

Over your panicked mantra, Joel is calmness itself. ‘Hang on, honey, I gotcha.’

He makes a beeline towards the sink, grabbing a tea towel and wets it under the tap with a bit of dishwashing liquid. It all screams competent single dad, and you find yourself staring at his unfairly large hand, mapped with thick veins, holding out the damp towel for you to take.

‘Thanks,’ you stutter self-consciously, the tips of your ears hot while swiping at the stain. ‘That was a rookie mistake. I promise I’m actually a good baker.’

He gives you a wink to put you at ease. ‘Don’t worry, I believe you.’

Starting over, the mixer hums as it gently incorporates the Oreos until the buttercream is a speckled grey and doubled in volume. ‘Looks like it’s ready. You wanna taste, Joel?’

‘Sure,’ he says. ‘D’ya have a spoon or somethin’ for me?’

‘You can use your fingers,’ you reply, and it's too late to take it back.

You feel the back of your neck heating up when he shoots you a meaningful look, just a touch of mischief in the tilt of his lips.

‘Can I, now?’ he teases.

You try a nonchalant shrug that probably comes off as painfully awkward. ‘This batch is just for you, I won’t tell the health inspector if you don’t.’

Joel chuckles, his strong shoulders quaking. And so you watch, shamelessly, as he raises his right hand, index and middle fingers at the ready, before diving into the metal bowl, scooping up a generous dollop of buttercream. There’s a peek of his pink tongue when his plush lips part, and then he sucks his fingers into his mouth with a gratuitously loud moan, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

When he turns to you with a pained expression on his face, maintaining eye contact all the while licking an errant streak of frosting off the side of his middle finger, you gape at him for a whole five seconds before you manage to unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth.

‘Good?’ you barely manage to squeak.

‘You betcha, honey,’ he declares, then adds, ‘Mind if I double dip?’

He doesn’t mean anything by it, you know it, but a hot flush runs through your body and you swallow thickly. ‘You can do whatever you want, cowboy.’

You don’t think you’re imagining the wicked glint in his answering stare - you’re getting yourself into trouble, and don’t you know it.

Clearing your throat, you attempt to thwart your mind's dangerous descent into the gutter by changing the subject. ‘So, I can do somethin’ really snazzy that I think your daughter would like - do you know what a piñata cake is?’

He shakes his head. ‘Sounds dangerous.’

‘Hardly,’ you chuckle. ‘It’s a cake filled with sprinkles, so when you cut into it, it’s a sprinkles surprise!’

He lets out a playful sigh of relief. ‘As long as there’s no whackin’ involved, it’s good by me.’

You gesture at him to follow you across the room. ‘And here’s the fun part - you get to choose the sprinkles.’

Joel whistles at the reveal of your compulsively organised sprinkles cabinet, each shelf sorted by colour, shape and size. He quips, ‘Is this what the inside of your brain looks like, honey?’

You grin. ‘Pretty much. What’s your daughter’s name?’

‘Sarah.’

‘What colour does Sarah like?’

‘Any and all shades of pink.’

‘I can work with that.’

Now that everything is ready and waiting on the work surface, you pull out a lazy Susan and plonk a cake board on top of it, dusting your hands dramatically. ‘Alright, Joel. Ready for the magic to happen?’

Making himself comfortable next to you, he leans on his elbows, and your eyes are immediately drawn to the way his tshirt stretches and strains over his back. ‘Go ahead, I’m ready to be impressed, honey.’

Filling a piping bag full of the cookies and cream buttercream, you ask, ‘You wanna get your hands dirty?’

He raises his palms in surrender. ‘I’ll leave it to you, I don’t want to make you any more late for your date.’

You’re used to working with much bigger cakes, so this one doesn’t take you long. With a cookie cutter, you carve out a small circle from each cake round, then you stack and fill the layers with buttercream. After loading the shaft in the middle with all manner of pink sprinkles, you stopper the top with the cake cut-outs.

‘How old is Sarah turning today?’ you ask conversationally while you spin the cake around, smoothing on the crumb coat.

Joel looks up, surprised. ‘Oh, it’s my birthday today, not hers. ‘

‘Wait, what?’ you cry, throwing your hands up. ‘I made this cake with Sarah in mind - it will literally be vomiting pink sprinkles!’

‘I’m a girl dad. I like pink,’ shrugs Joel easily.

You huff, using an icing smoother to make sure the buttercream is even all over the cake. ‘I would pop the cake into the freezer to firm up before adding a final layer of frosting if I had the time, but this will have to do.’

‘It looks great,’ Joel assures you as you put the finishing touches to the cake, with buttercream swirls all around the top and a final baptism of sprinkles.

‘There, all done. Lemme box it up for you and this bad boy is ready to go.’

‘Amazin’, thank you so much,’ he grins. ‘Please, lemme do the washin’ up while you’re at it.’

‘Oh, Joel, you can’t,’ you protest, but he’s already grabbed the mixing bowl and all the bits and bobs stained with buttercream. ‘You’re the birthday boy!’

‘Least I can do,’ he shoots back over his shoulder, already halfway to the sink.

‘Well no, you promised to fix the security shutter for me, remember?’ you call after him.

‘Damn, I was hopin’ you’d forgotten about that.’

Joel cleans up with a practised air, humming under his breath as he waits for the water to heat up and the soap to lather. You watch him from the corner of your eye while you secure the cake inside the box, throwing in a birthday candle for good measure. You’ve just tied a nice ribbon around the cardboard box when he puts away everything in the drying rack and wipes his hands dry.

‘Didn’t expect you to be good at that,’ you tease, moving towards the door.

‘Sexist much?’ he jokes, no real bite in his retort. Then by way of explanation, he tells you, ‘I work late, so Sarah usually cooks and I wash up afterwards.’

‘Sounds like you guys make a good team.’

Joel helps with the lights and locks the door, and you stand to one side when he grabs the security shutter and forces it into submission by brute force. You can’t help but stare when the bottom of his tshirt rides up, revealing a soft sliver of belly underneath, his biceps bulging and back rippling as the shutter is finally forced shut in a metallic ripple.

You give him a smile. ‘Well, happy birthday, Joel.’

‘Thanks again for the cake.’ He looks around, as if looking for your car, but the sidewalk is empty except for his truck. ‘How are you gettin’ to your date?’

‘I was just gonna call a taxi.’

‘No, you ain’t,’ he nods towards his ride. ‘C’mon, I’ll give you a lift.’

‘Oh, no, it’s late, and you should be getting back to Sarah -’

‘I spoiled your date, so please, let me,’ he insists, holding the door open on the passenger side. Hop in.’

Joel takes the cake off your hands and puts it in the backseat carefully, putting the seat belt over it while you climb in. Glancing over your shoulder, you see toolboxes and newspapers on the floor, and it smells like paint and wood dust.

‘Sorry it’s a bit messy, occupational hazard,’ he apologises as he straps himself in. ‘So, where are we goin’?’

‘Do you know the steakhouse on Third Street?’

‘Vaguely,’ he replies, pulling smoothly away from the curb. ‘It sounds fancy.’

‘You been?’

‘Nope, I barely have time to go anywhere nowadays. It seems like I’m only ever in bed, or at work, or in my truck.’

You turn to smile at him, admiring the way his his thick fingers around the top of the steering wheel, making it look so small. ‘I feel you. Small business owner, am I right?’

‘I hear ya,’ he shoots you a smile. ‘So - what’s the deal with tonight? First date?’

‘Fourth, actually.’

He wriggles his eyebrows suggestively. ‘Fourth date? You know what happens on a fourth date, honey.’

‘I don’t, actually. Tell me, what happens on a fourth date?’

He blows out his cheeks, and admits, ‘Honestly, I can’t tell ya. I haven’t been on a fourth date since 1991.’

You burst into laughter at his unexpected answer. ‘You’re such a dork, Joel Miller.’

When the truck rumbles to a stop outside the steakhouse ten minutes later, he looks at his watch and announces, ‘Here we are, only fifteen minutes late.’ Squinting through the windshield, he points at a man smoking outside, an impatient frown on his face. ‘That him?’

‘Yeah, that’s him,’ you nod, but you stay put in your seat, in no hurry to make a move.

Joel nods, tapping his tidily trimmed nails on the steering wheel. ‘So I’ll swing ‘round tomorrow after work with my toolbelt? ‘Round six thirty?’

‘A toolbelt? What a sight to look forward to,’ you rib, slowly reaching for the seatbelt and unbuckling it.

‘Hell yeah, it’s got a special clip for my Nokia and all,’ he adds mischievously.

'You must fend off the ladies by the dozen,' you tease.

'Daily,' he answers without skipping a beat.

You probably shouldn’t have, especially not with the guy who you’re supposed to be on a date with glaring daggers at you through the windshield. But there’s something cackling in the air between you and this man you just met not an hour ago, and the way the streetlight filters through the window, backlighting his messy curls and scraggly beard, that has you throwing caution to the proverbial wind.

Impulsively, you lean across the gear shift, your left hand finding purchase on his knee before pressing your lips to the side of his whiskered jaw, your kiss fitting right into that little heart-shaped patch on his beard.

You’re not sure who’s more taken aback, but you don’t have time to find out.

‘Happy birthday, Joel Miller.’

He smiles after you as you hop out of his truck.

You’ve just sold your last cupcake of the day when the bell over the bakery door rings. And sure enough, it’s Joel Miller crossing the threshold, right on the dot at six thirty.

‘Hey, Bri,’ he waves, hovering half-in and half-out of the shop, a slight awkwardness having set in overnight.

But it's ok, you're happy to pick up where you left off. Putting your hands on your waist and a cheeky grin, you quip, ‘Wow, you weren’t kidding about that toolbelt, huh?’

Your chest swells as you watch him thaw with an easy smile, and he banters back, ‘I’m a man of my word, honey. You ok with me gettin’ to work now?’

‘Yes, thank you. I’ll be cleanin’ up back in the kitchen, I’ll join you when I’m done.’

Joel shoots you a thumbs up. ‘Great. I’ll grab the ladder and get right to it.’

When you emerge fifteen minutes later, he’s on the fourth rung of the ladder, tinkering the rolling mechanism with a screwdriver and a studious frown on his brow. He looks like he’s wearing the same thing as yesterday - you can believe that he’s a man who buys the same tshirt in bulk - and he smiles at you when you duck out of the shop.

‘Did Sarah like the cake?’ you ask in casual conversation.

‘She went nuts over the piñata surprise,’ he replies. ‘And the cake was delicious, there were hardly any crumbs left when we were done with it. She says we’re definitely ordering a cake from you for her birthday.’

‘I like the sound of that.’

‘How was your evening?’ he asks, glancing down at you from his perch. ‘Did you find out what happens on a fourth date?’

You let out a dry laugh. ‘Yeah, I did, actually. He dumped me.’

Joel freezes, a scowl darkening his countenance. ‘Oh shit, what? Why?’

You shrug, leaning your weight on the ladder as you look at the ground. ‘I mean, I did show up an hour late in some other guy’s truck. And I guess probably shouldn’t have kissed you on the cheek right in front of him.’

You startle when Joel’s fingers slip under your chin, tilting your head up towards him. ‘It’s all my fault. I’m so sorry.’

‘Honestly, you don’t look that sorry, Joel Miller,’ you joke.

He cocks his head to one side. ‘Well, I can't lie, I think you deserve better than him.’

‘Do you now?’ you prompt. ‘Who do you have in mind?’

Joel peers at you from under long lashes with a half-smile that's almost shy. He dodges your question, and says instead, ‘I didn't mean to ruin your night, let me make it up to you, honey.’

‘How?’

Deftly, he climbs down the ladder, landing squarely on two booted feet, his presence comforting as he looms over you, his eyes warm. ‘Can I buy you dinner?’

‘Like - a date kind of dinner?’

‘Yeah, like a date,’ he nods.

You can’t help the dig. ‘And you were just sayin' you haven’t been on a date since...?’

He flashes you a smirk, and you shiver when his hand brushes your waist. ‘Since 1991. Tough sell, I know - but I thought I’d give it a shot.’

Running a finger along his sharp jawline, softened by the endearingly untidy beard, you have to bite your bottom lip to keep yourself from giving away too wide a grin. ‘Why, I think I have a good feelin’ about you, Joel Miller.’

Catching your wrist in his fingers, he presses a sweet kiss to your knuckles, the rough graze of his stubble chasing goosebumps across your skin as his eyes smile at you. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then, honey.’

More notes: I hope you enjoyed this sweet little oneshot 🥰 I really leaned into the fluff and I have no regrets. Comments/reblogs/asks are much appreciated as always! I don't have plans for a second part right now, but a smutty follow-up is always a possibility...

The adorable dividers are by @firefly-graphics 👩🏻‍🍳

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x fem!reader #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller imagine #no outbreak au #joel miller oneshot #the last of us oneshot #fuckyeahshorts

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admirxation · 5 months

Text

Delusional - Leon Kennedy

yandere!Leon Kennedy x afab!reader | 18+ mdni | oneshot

summary: the chief felt sympathy for you and let you have a job as a coffee girl, but along the way you start to do favours for your favourites in the department, only the label of the favourite brings unwanted attention from the new rookie.

warnings: DARK CONTENT, heavy smut 18+ mdni, dead dove do not eat, yandere, obsession, heavy smut fantasies, masturbation, stalking, watching porn, moments of misogynistic language, voyeurism (peeping tom), non-consensual picture taking, breaking in, thoughts of kidnapping, putting someone to sleep with chloroform, tit play, grinding, unprotected sex (p in v), non-con, and somno // please read the warnings carefully, and understand this fiction is made for 18+ only and if any of the warnings make you uncomfortable this fic is not for you; please remember this is just fiction where real people cannot get hurt, and no actions in this fic are condoned.

Stage one: noticing

Navigating the labyrinthine corridors of the job market proved to be an unexpected odyssey, a reality starkly different from the rose-tinted visions of post-college life. You harboured the naive notion that securing employment would be a mere formality, a recipe of time, persistence, and nothing more. However, the harsh truth unfolded before you, revealing a landscape that was desolate and unforgiving, where the promises within the market of ‘urgently hiring’ were nothing more than a lie that echoed hollowly against the deafening silence of unreturned emails and failed interviews where people couldn’t even be bothered to follow-up, just letting you wonder about your failure into obtaining your first real job.

In your frustration, you confided in your father, lamenting the arduousness of the job hunt, how this pursuit was draining you and how unfair it was. You told him it wasn’t what it was like when he first entered it, how he was given the chance to climb the ladder, and you weren’t even given the sight of it—it was just starting to feel tedious.

His empathy was palpable as he sought avenues to alleviate your plight. Despite his respectable standing within the professional sphere, his efforts to secure a foothold in your proved futile search were met with the obstinate resistance of corporate bureaucracy and entrenched biases; when he asked his boss for a simple job, perhaps in the mail room, he was only met with: “If I allow your daughter, I’ll have a whole mailroom of incompetent daughters.” This was met with your father feeling disheartened, unable to fabricate a response, and not wanting to go against his boss’ boundaries.

Yet, amidst the encroaching despair, a glimmer of hope emerged from connections through the benevolence of an old friend, the chief of the Raccoon City Police Department. Your father had met him back in high school, and despite the distance over the years, there was an inextricable bond where favours were allowed to continue being asked. A lifeline materialised in the form of a humble role at the department, as you were designated as a simple ‘coffee girl’ to make the coffee runs for his workers and help clean up the area; it all worked in the chief’s favour anyway, with him needed workers to stop being distracted and continue with their designated cases.

At first—when you started—everyone was curious as to who you were, wondering why the chief allowed a coffee girl when the department never had one; no one could think of any other department that allowed this; this practice was out of the ordinary as the usual practice was having someone nominated to take their turn and collect everyone’s order, but hey, they weren’t going to complain about having someone take care of them, people who were constantly nominated were even more thrilled about you working here.

Before starting, you had some thoughts before going to bed that maybe no one would be friendly or accepting of you, but this was all proven wrong; as the months continued, you were welcomed, becoming a favourite with how you remembered everyone’s usual order, but you also had your favourites. Everyone was kind to you, but you still had your favourites; being your favourite meant you would always sneak an extra sweet treat for them; the way someone knew to expect being a favourite was if you asked them what their favourite treat was. This started with Jill Valentine, then rippled to a man called Chris Redfield; some people even went out of their way to be marked as your favourite, but for a good while, it was only to them two until after a month or so, you found another to be labelled as your favourite; the newest recruit in the department who was the newest target to be picked on, the ‘rookie’ everyone liked to make jokes about, Leon S. Kennedy.

When you first met him, you noticed how reserved he was, how he stuttered in his speech and how shy his demeanour was; when he had a seat allocated for him, you wanted to be the first friendly face after a long time of being subjected to what the guys liked to call ‘harmless bullying’ a term they used to describe it as a state of teasing that ‘built character’, but all you could see was a group of guys that never grew up and stayed in the state that piqued in high school—you had encountered that all your life, and many others. You remembered tapping him on the shoulder and introducing yourself, waiting for him to fabricate his words to introduce himself to you; you told him you were the coffee girl around the department and gave him the times you would go out and get everyone what they wanted, giving him a piece of paper to put his order down. You remembered that shy, small smile as he wrote it down, thanking you for spending time with him.

That was the first stage of him noticing you.

Inescapably, he found himself ensnared by the genial ambience you provided, discerning the elegance of your smile and the picturesque framing of your countenance by your styled locks, reminiscent of an ethereal masterpiece. Yet, he refrained from delving deeper into such impressions, recognising that your amiable demeanour was intrinsic to your professional role. These cogitations united into a resolute acceptance as he seamlessly integrated himself into discussions concerning you, recognising such interactions he noticed were just the result of friendliness being a part of your job. With a nonchalant attitude of seeing the truth, he dimmed any personal inclinations, instead redirecting his focus to his duty as a law enforcement officer, immersing himself into the very reasons he chose this line of work when going through the academy.

As the weeks drew on, your reasonings of favouring started to manifest; the reasons resulted in a mix of his manners and sympathy for Leon. You heard how people talked about him in the breakroom or the reactions to being partnered with him. The titling of ‘rookie’ always left a bad taste in your mouth when you were watching full-grown men bullying him like they were back in the walls of the school—how pathetic it was, you thought to yourself, but you could tell it was doing a number on Leon’s mentality. You were never given slack for being new; at the very most, some people called you ‘cute’ but not in a complimentary way, more to describe your lack of experience within the chief’s sympathy towards you. Still, you were never subjected to what Leon was to. You decided to do something small, to make him feel better, asking him the next time you gave him his usual what his favourite treat was—you were aware how odd this was to him, you could tell with his facial expression, but you knew it would make sense the next day. You could tell the others knew what was happening when you noticed people waiting for that question, just looking at Leon and wondering why him. He quickly answered that he was simple and loved raspberry and white chocolate muffins; you greeted his answer with a quick nod and scurried away to put it in your notebook, ready to give it to him the next day.

When that day rolled along, you managed to collect everyone’s order and pick up the treats for Chris and Jill, later remembering the order you wanted to make for Leon; you looked at the glass dome surrounding the cakes and pointed to the one that you thought was perfect, hoping it would pick up his spirits, even if it were just a little bit. When it came to you walking back to the building and giving out everyone’s orders, you made sure Leon was left til last; you saw him look over to you with a tinge of sadness, perhaps thinking that he was forgotten, but after your little conversations with Chris and Jill you made your way over to Leon, being greeted with that shy smile that you couldn’t help but describe as cute.

“Hey, I’m sorry I took a while to get to you; please don’t think I was ignoring you,” you reassured him as you placed the coffee in front of him.

“It’s o-okay. I know you have loads of people to get to,” he wrapped his fingers around the warm cup, curiously watching as you remained a few moments longer around his desk and reached in your bag for something.

“Oh, don’t be silly, I couldn’t forget you.”

Couldn't forget me? Leon thought.

“Remember that question I asked you yesterday… Well, I hope this answers why I asked it,” you handed over his favourite treat, watching as his eyes widened with happiness, and a dust of blush appeared on his cheeks.

“T-Thank you so much… You didn’t have to go out of your way-”

“It’s my treat,” you said, grazing your hand on his, “Consider it a thank you for being so kind to me.”

He watched your lips curl and stretch into a warm and inviting smile—he couldn’t help but feel a connection from that smile.

That was when it all changed.

That was the day Leon felt connected to you, feeling a need to cling to the idea of you, thinking the more he clung to it, the more the fixation of connection would manifest into a physical connection, much more than just a graze on the hand, but physical intimacy—something he craved, and now only craved with you from now on. When you walked off, you didn’t notice how the blush intensified as he grazed his finger along the paper casing of the muffin you gave to him; one of the corners of Leon’s mouth turned up, his hand smoothed over the warm drink before lifting it to his lips, letting it glide down his throat, before clenching his jaw as he thought and looked to you across the room.

Your name would be on his mind for a long time now.

As he continued to watch you before going into the chief’s office, he made his way into the breakroom, ready to dispose of the paper casing surrounding your provided present; before putting it in the bin, he caught Chris' attention.

“Oh, I see someone else has joined the club,” he laughed lightly, adding to Leon's confusion.

“Club? I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know the coffee girl, yes?” Leon nodded, "She has her favourites, and you know you’re a favourite if she asks you what your favourite snack is and gives it to you; so far, you're the third person; you must have been very kind to her.”

Favourite. I am her favourite. He continued to think about being a favourite, a tinge of jealousy within his mind as he thought about being the ‘third’ favourite, but he was a favourite non the less, steps ahead of many of the guys in the department—and he loved that he was on your radar.

Stage two: obsession.

Leon always thought you looked pretty; he thought it was an objective fact that you were the most attractive girl in the precinct, but he never formed any true feelings about that. However, since that day, his behaviour and feelings towards you started to change; he couldn’t get the word 'favourite’ and the notion that he was your favourite out of his mind. He often thought that he wasn’t the only favourite, but he didn’t need to think of them; they weren’t a competition—the way Chris said it, it had a casual tone, not one of endearing description, granted whenever he heard you in the breakroom laughing with Chris, jealousy was often felt. However, he knew if Chris wanted you, he would have made a move already—but he was still one to watch. As more time drew, he constantly thought of you; no matter the time of day, you were fixed in his mind, a constant that would not change.

As the weeks drew on, he started to notice you more, noticing everything about you with just the simple act of watching; it wasn’t hard to collect this information, especially with how you were a creature of habit, a person who worked with continuous routine—a huge mistake from you. He knew the times you would go off for your coffee runs from the paper you gave him; he knew the order you would go around the room and how you left Leon for last and always had a longer conversation with him. He also noted when you would have your breaks and how long you would talk to Jill and Chris; he made sure to listen in to ensure Chris was never overstepping the boundary he placed ever since his obsession was created. He always felt a burning within his chest, a heavyweight hanging on his heart every time he heard you laugh from one of Chris’ jokes; he couldn’t help but curl his fists into a ball, feeling his head get warmer as the feeling of jealousy expanded further within him.

Calm down, Leon; he would have already asked her if he wanted her. He constantly told himself to calm down and stop thinking of how close you two were together, remembering that Jill was in the middle of you two. If he wanted to be closer, he would spend time with just you—that thought comforted him.

Your small conversations lasted a little longer when you gave him his coffee and muffin. It was Friday, and the easy conversation was on its way.

As you were about to turn around, you were greeted with an extended conversation with Leon, who asked, “Have you got anything plans for the weekend?” he fiddled with the paper casing as he tried to concentrate on the conversation you two were having.

You were taken aback at this imposed question, not shocked at the content, but curious about how he started to take interest: “Oh, nothing much; I’m thinking of just chilling at home and relaxing a bit; what about you?”

“Oh, I’m just working on some cases; see how much I can get done over the weekend.”

“Don’t overwork yourself; there’s a reason you have the time off.”

She cares about my well being, Leon thought, your kind nature only adding to his obsession growing.

“I’ll see you around; I need to do something for the chief,” you went off, leaving Leon in a pool of his thoughts that never stop being around you. You were kind to everyone, but it felt different to him; you cared for him more with how your words were strung together.

~~~~~

The weekend felt long; usually, Leon would enjoy the time off, using this time to be as lazy as possible and have a break from his other colleagues, but his weekends now consisted of longing and counting down the minutes until he went back to work until he could see you again and sneak a few minutes of conversation with you. He couldn’t help but think about what you were doing at your place; he wondered if you lived alone; he wished you lived alone as he fantasised about growing closer to you and spending time with you—if only he had the courage to initiate that.

Leon thought about where you lived; he knew it wouldn’t be too far from the police station, and he was even thinking of getting some information through a series of questions. But he could tell you were a smart girl and wouldn’t give that information out by mistake. You seemed overly cautious, but not too cautious, as you had a few mistakes let slip—like your continuous routine, which was easy to plan around.

But right now, all he could think was the idea of having you, not just in a romantic way where you could be his person for as long as he needed you, but thinking of an intimacy he so long desired.

He wasn’t exactly the rookie everyone described him as; he had a girlfriend before finishing the academy and joining the department. It wasn’t like he was oblivious to it all, but that ended a long time ago when the thought of her disappeared the moment she left his everyday life, and now you were the beautiful and endearing replacement that he couldn’t stop thinking about.

He was confined in the same four walls he had lived in for years. He felt the urge to pull his laptop and fix up a website everyone had at least wondered about, even if it was out of curiosity or plain desperation; he hadn’t touched this website in a while, but thinking about you wasn’t enough, his imagination needed stimulation, and watching porn was the only way he could settle that yearning that was bubbling inside of him for a long time now.

He slowly looked at the screen, looking at the most popular videos that were the most watched, but none of them was attracting him; he just wanted you, and everyone he looked at was just inferior to how he put the thought of you on a pedestal. So, he typed, looking through several pages, looking for girls that emulated your features, perhaps having similar hair colour or style, similar body type, and facial features; he kept scouring through the internet to find a video with someone that looked like you, of course, none of them even came close, leading him to have to settle. His mouse hovered over results that came close to what he needed before the window for settling decreased in chance with an overwhelming wave of uncontrollable desire wash over him, pressing against his pants as he continued to have you on his mind, the thought of you being the source of his mind and body running on adrenaline.

As soon as he watched, he jerked his hands away from the keyboard, pushing the laptop further down as he unbuttoned his trousers, palming the imprint of his clothed cock for a moment, watching as the girl in the video—an inferior doppelganger—undressed slowly for the camera, teasing her viewers with the perfect execution of timing and a smile that just enticed you further; of course, Leon wasn’t enticed by her, he was only watching for the similarity she had to you, but she was a good enough vessel for his imagination to run rampant.

He pulls out his cock, which is throbbing painfully, making him moan and whimper slightly as he wraps his calloused hand and lets it run along his prominent veins, smearing the dribbling of precum along his warm shaft, his cheeks flushing deep red as he continues to morph her face into the perfect imagination of you, imagining you opening your legs and biting your lip, running your fingers along your wet folds, imagining you begging and desperate eyes looking up to him to beg for his cock inside you—god he needed that more than ever right now. He was practically salivating, drooling as he watched the woman fit her fingers inside her wet cunt, continuously thinking about what you would look if he fit his cock inside your aching pussy; he just knew you would be a screamer. His cock continued to painfully throb as he pressed his fingers around his member, even harder with another squeeze, kicking his head back as he continued to think about how you would moan his name, thinking about what you would sound like; he imagined even further how much of a dirty girl you would be. She has an innocent facade, but I can bring it down, he continued to think as he was lost with an unbearable ache within his core, his heart racing as he leaned back and pumped his hand even harder, laying your name on his tongue.

His eyes closed, listening to the woman’s moans in placement for yours, fantasising about what you would look like naked, wet and squirming just for him and only him, his fantasies becoming vivid as he thought about watching your tits bounce with every thrust inside you wet core, pounding his hard cock inside you repeatedly, wanting to just fill you up to the brim with his cum.

That was it. That was the thought that sent him over the edge. The thought of making you his by pumping his hot seed inside you, fucking it further inside your cervix. His fingers were wrapped around his shaft tightly as he let out a whimper, a quiet ‘fuck’ with a release of your name like a blissful treat laced on his lips; his hips bucked as he refused to let that thought of you being his little cumslut be fixed in the lines of memories and fantasies—he needed to bridge the gap with you.

After reaching a sweet release, he looked at the woman in the video, hearing her talking and her high-pitched voice, looking at her with disgust. “Shut up… annoying bitch,” he hissed in a curse, closing down the tabs.

He couldn’t let this be in his imagination; Leon’s obsession would no longer live in his fantasies, and he needed to ask you out.

This was routine with Leon; he always found himself in the same pathways, no matter how much he denied that part of himself. He always noticed a girl, then went to know them a little more, continuously thinking and then… asking them out and letting everything he wanted manifest into a reality of physical connection. That’s all he needed to do. He planned the next time he would see you would be when he asked you on a date, perhaps dinner at his place. All he needed to do was wait for you to say yes and let it continue from there—you would be the most perfect, his favourite girl he laid his eyes on and continued the repetitive journey with, perhaps be the last one with him now finding perfection.

Stage three: rejection

In the dimly lit break room, Leon hesitated at the threshold, his heartbeat pounding against his ribs, his blood flow quickening through his veins with the tumult of his beating heart. Each breath felt laboured with anxiety, weighted with the burden of anticipation and trepidation. Adjusting his shirt—in a futile attempt to regain composure—Leon stepped himself for the task he provided himself the previous night: to summon the courage and ask you out, the enigmatic coffee girl he just couldn’t forget ever since he was exposed to your heart of gold.

As the door creaked open, Leon was exposed to you, immersed in preparing your coffee; you were in your world before you heard the click of the door close. Leon’s breath hitched in his throat, beads of sweat drawing along his brow as he tried to maintain calm and remain at the task at hand, subtly, well to what he thought was subtle, he rubbed his hands on his trousers from them heating up in fear, trying not to become distracted from what he had set out to do.

Summoning his courage, Leon cleared his throat, the sound echoing unnaturally in the space: “Morning… Hey… Um,” he paused for a moment, “The coffee girl making her coffee… heh,” he let out nervous laughter at a failed attempt at what he thought would come out as a joke… If you could call it that.

“Um, yeah… I get my breaks like you lot,” you let out a sympathetic, breathy laugh, but Leon could see through it, knowing it was a sympathy laugh. Nonetheless, he was still warm inside, knowing you were trying to make him comfortable; your smile continued to beacon a feeling of reassurance that made Leon’s heart flutter within its beats.

Embarking upon the precarious precipice of confession, Leon forged ahead, his words carefully fabricating into what he had rehearsed the night before: “So um, I’m glad to find you here… Alone… Since I- there’s something I want to ask you.. For a while now,” he rubbed the back of his neck as you raised an eyebrow out of interest.

“Oh, do you want to change your regular order? I’m happy to do that for you,” you naively reached for your notebook.

“No, no, that isn’t what I wanted to talk about,” he couldn’t help but find your naivety cute; how you were always ready to please was captivating to him; you continued to watch as he was trying to find the words. “So I’ve wanted to ask you this… For a while now…You’re a very kind and pretty girl, and I find… I find…I-I think about you often, wondering if you want to… Go out with me. You’re a really nice girl, and well, I’m a really nice guy; we already have that in common and, yeah, what do you think?”

A flicker of confusion danced along your features, your brow furrowing into gentle bewilderment as he kept blabbing on; you watched how he rubbed the back of his neck, how he couldn’t keep up eye contact longer than a few seconds, and how his foot kept grazing along the wooden floor as he kept gently kicking it back and forth. “Oh,” you said as you tried to figure out what to say, tapping the ceramic layer of your cup as you tried to piece it all together.

Oh… fucking oh, that’s all you got, Leon thought to himself.

“Look, I think you’re lovely, but I’m not ready to go on dates; it’s only nearly been a year after finishing college; I’m not ready to start dating again.”

Again? Who else has got their hands on her? Leon felt a sting of jealousy.

Rejection pierced Leon’s hopes, feeling like the jagged rocks of reality came crumbling down on him; with a nod of resignation, he acquiesced to the painful truth. “I-I understand,” his fists were bawling up and his teeth grinding, “I’m sorry I asked,” he walked off slowly, hoping that you would stop him and tell him you changed your mind.

But you didn’t.

You had a boyfriend in college. Nothing serious happened with him, but you were close to that man; you even thought you loved him at one point until he betrayed you with another woman. You weren’t ready to start going out on dates, especially in a new job where you barely knew anyone.

Just as you were planning to exit, your friends came through the door, noticing how shaken up you were.

“Are you okay? you look like you just saw a ghost,” Jill said with concern, coming over to you and placing her hand on your shoulder for reassurance.

“I-I had a weird encounter with… Leon.”

“The rookie? what’s the little weirdo up to now?” Chris asked while folding his arms, coming closer to you so you wouldn’t have to raise your voice.

“He… He asked me out.”

Both of them widened their eyes, looking at one another and gesturing you to sit down; while the topic of asking someone out was an innocent one, you looked shaken up by Leon’s advances.

“I was here making myself a coffee, and I think he was trying to make a joke. I don’t know; he wanted to ask me something. I thought maybe he wanted to change that coffee order because we all know it’s gross. Who orders that?” Chris cut you off your emerging tangent.

“Back to the topic, you said Leon asked you out?”

“He said he had been thinking about me for a while and was saying that we’re both nice. He asked, and I rejected him, but… I don’t know; I feel weird. Was I leading him on? What’s it that muffin I gave him? I didn’t want to give that idea.”

“Look, I’m not going to defend him, but-“

“Then don’t finish that sentence,” Jill cut Chris off, “Look… It was just a case of a man misreading friendless for attraction; it happens a lot; men are stupid,” Chris looked offended, “especially the one opposite me.”

You both laughed.

“I just… I just find that it’s delusional to start liking someone because they did their job. I gave him a muffin, nothing else,” you told them.

“Giving muffins isn’t in your job; you do that extra. I’m not blaming you, but he might not be that used to women, and before you come back talking, we’ve all thought it; look at the guy,” Both you and Jill agreed, “Also, I did tell him you give muffins to favourites, to people you find kind, he must have taken it as favourite equals attraction. You’ve turned him down anyway. Just forget it happened; I’m sure he’ll forget about it.”

But he didn’t.

He was nestled in the corner, a blind spot for people in the break room, and heard every word. The moment you uttered “delusional”, it pricked a spike right into his chest, feeling like you just couldn’t help yourself but injure him and twist the blade for a bit of enjoyment; he curled his lips into a line as he heard Chris insult him, wondering what it would be like to drive him away from you, to hurt him back like he verbally hurt him. A darkened fog casted over his mind of clarity, putting him back in that dark space he worked hard to get himself out of.

No, no, no, don’t think like that. You wouldn’t want to hurt Chris. You can’t be messy. It leaves tracks. Remember your ex… All you need to do is be persuasive. Leon’s internal monologue kept feeding his delusional nature.

~~~~~

The next day approached, and Leon patiently awaited your coffee run. He watched the reflection of the glass and continued to look at you, hobbling into the building with numerous coffee orders, all with post-it notes and that brown bag for your favourites. He waited patiently, keeping his back turned to not make him seem too desperate as he awaited.

Just as routine kept providing, you went around the room in exact order, starting from left to right, then sneaking a conversation with Chris and Jill, and then to him; Leon’s heart quickened in beat as he heard your deep breaths become clearer as you got closer to him, but to his surprise, all you did was plant his coffee and muffin in front of him—no greeting, no few sentenced conversation, not even the usual grace with care as you just basically threw his order in front of him like a waitress getting awful tips. There was a strange feeling within him, one of anger for ignoring him and one of sadness as you went straight to the chief’s office—you had never quickened your pace like that before.

Probably just in a rush, chief overworking you, he thought as he let the scalding hot coffee pass through his throat, not wincing or reacting to its temperature as he kept replaying your distance in his mind, over and over again. He looked at the muffin you gave him, which was still his favourite, and it looked to be the best quality from that coffee shop with its raised top and good ratio of white chocolate and raspberry. As he analysed every aspect, he concluded that you still cared to treat him.

She’s just teasing me. I can tell. She wants me to work for it. Of course, women don’t want to accept it, and it makes them look desperate; they love it when a man works for them; it’s only an act of chivalry that those women crave. Yes. Yes. If she didn’t care about you, she would have ignored you. She wants you. She does. Leon was trapped in his thoughts as he bit into the fluffy muffin, biting into a sour and sweet raspberry-rich quadrant that fueled his delusions even more. He watched the chief’s door intently, knowing that he just needed to be more persistent with you; the next time he saw you in the break room, you would say yes. Leon had it all planned in his mind.

~~~~~

You were overly cautious now. You knew Leon didn’t do anything wrong, per say, but it made you uncomfortable; something about his demeanour threw you off. It wasn’t even the fact you weren’t attracted to him; you felt an unnerving aura on him. Your eyes darted around you before you entered the break room, watching the coffee machine and tapping your fingers on the counter, blinking every time a second went past and wanting time to hurry up.

Come on, come on, come on, you kept saying like the machine would obey and go quicker.

You heard footsteps linger around the room.

Oh god, not now.

Of course, who else would it be? Leon peered through the corner, watching you, already glued to the door, with an unwelcoming gaze piercing him.

“Hey… Can I talk to you?” he was back in that shy demeanour again.

“If you must,” you coldly replied.

“I’m sorry if I came onto strong… I didn’t mean to creep you out; I’m just not used to this sort of thing,” your brow relaxed for a moment as you waited for a real apology, “but I do really like you and-“

“You don’t know me, Leon,” your arms were folded, knowing he would try his chances again.

“I mean… We can get to know each other… that’s kinda what dating is about, yeah?”

You rolled your eyes.

Look at her, acting rude and nonchalant. It’s all part of her act, Leon. You’re just wearing her down, he continued to tell himself.

“I’m going to say this once and only one more time, Leon,” you said, stepping closer to him. “I’m not interested. It has nothing to do with you. I’m not interested in dating anybody now; I’m just here to do my job for the remaining time. Please understand I’m not looking for anything at the moment. I’m flattered, but I don’t want this.”

When you exited, your fleeting touch upon his shoulder sent shockwaves of longing coursing through Leon’s veins. In that fleeting moment, he entertained the notion that you liked the long game. Perhaps, just perhaps, your gesture or touch harboured a silent encouragement to persevere.

Once you left and went out of sight, you left Leon with another bitter taste of rejection upon his lips. he designated himself to the harsh truth: some desires are destined to remain unrequited, lost in the labyrinth of unspoken longing and unfilled yearning. Yet, in the depths of his despair, a glimmer of resolve ignited within him—a need to persevere despite the spectre of rejection that loomed over your conversations. His heart had fervent whispers that hoped you would stop this chase and let it just happen.

Leon’s darkened thoughts continued, standing still as he let those thoughts unfold; he wanted to keep trying to keep wearing you down, but he needed to satisfy a hunger to get it all out, to get his yearning and built-up frustrations out before he continued his chivalrous courting—a description he kept providing to make him feel better, in all reality anyone would just call this creepy. Still, Leon thought he was just playing the game.

Stage four: stalking

His fingers kept tapping as he waited in his car, tapping on the steering wheel at night for you to come out of the building.

You rejected him. Two times. But the second wasn’t the last, to Leon’s thought process; he was willing to play the long game with you, to wear you down; it wouldn’t take that long. However, there was one problem with all these build-up frustrations within him. He just wanted a taste. Just to see what you look like, but you weren’t so willing at the moment; no, you were holding back, and this led to darker thoughts bubbling and festering inside his mind, thoughts he needed to let out before it became overwhelming. He just wanted something to keep him going, to stop relying on bitches who couldn’t compare to you, to take his pictures, perhaps to let his motivations keep running.

He wanted you. Just you. No other girl.

His car was parked at the back, watching your car and waiting for you to enter. He saw you give one final wave and a comforting smile to a group of his colleagues—a smile only he wanted to be directed at him. You didn’t notice how he stared at you. The darkened atmosphere made it difficult to see anything that far, and as you stepped in, Leon started his engine, ready to follow you at a distance and find out where you dwelled.

He followed the road, making sure not to get too close, watching you from the back window to make sure you weren’t looking back in suspicion; when you finally stopped at your destination, he made a loop around the corner to make it look like he was just taking a similar path and went on if you noticed his car. In all honesty, you did notice that car, but you couldn’t make out who was in there. but after he had driven past, your piqued anxiety levels went down, telling yourself that it was just some person taking a similar route, feeling silly for overthinking.

After Leon had done his little tangent driving, he found a place right in front of the building, watching as the window lit up.

That’s got to be hers.

You always had your curtains open to get some sunlight in during the day at work. Still, your innocent affairs managed to make Leon’s job easier as he watched you from the distance of his car—he was parked in the perfect spot, a place you couldn’t see when looking down from the top floor, but somewhere that gave a clear view of what you were doing by the window.

He watched as you unpacked everything, feeling emotional responses and inpatient anger when you strayed away from his sights.

Unknowingly, you started to undress, taking your blouse off and revealing your lacy bra; this was it; this was the moment Leon pulled his phone and pressed that button to take dozens and dozens of pictures of you, watching you stand in front of the window without a care in the world. Watching as your hand slithered to the back of your hooks, his eyes widening as he moved closer to the window of his car, ready to take pictures of your beautiful body, he felt his cock hardening against his trousers as he waited for you to expose yourself.

You winced as you unhooked your bra, feeling where the underwire pressed into your skin all day, exposing yourself to Leon as he zoomed his camera in to take pictures; he cursed at his phone for blurring and not taking better quality, wanting to see your bare chest. As he was practically salivating, your head darted to the window, recognising you had forgotten to draw the curtains, placing your blouse back under your arms before hurriedly covering Leon’s shot, looking around and thankful that no one was in the streets to see you—oh if only you knew.

“Fuck,” he let out a low curse as his cock started to no longer press against his tight trousers watching your windows be nothing but a dark-covered void now.

But he wasn’t all that disappointed. He managed to get some decent pictures to settle him for a bit longer.

~~~~~

He drove back to his apartment. To his glee, it wasn’t too far from his, perhaps a fifteen-minute drive from yours to his. He hurriedly fumbled with the keys of his place, kicking his shoes off and stripping naked in a matter of seconds as he lunged for his bed, wanting to indulge in those pictures before he lost his high.

He lay on the soft covers, naked, looking at each photo of your unknowing face, how blissfully ignorant you were; he couldn’t help but smirk as he zoomed into your face of shock when you realised the curtains were open.

“Such a tease. You wanted someone to notice you… You wanted me to notice you,” he whispered.

He kept swiping and zooming into your bare chest, circling his thumb around your exposed nipples, wondering what it would be like to suck on them, to pinch them until you squirmed with delight, to press his cock in between your tits; all these thoughts continued to make him harder. Before you covered yourself up, the last photo was perfect; your hair was messy, forwardly in front of Leon’s view as he kept zooming in to look. He imagined a scenario where you were a complete whore for him. Imagining you looking down and pressing your hardened nipples against the window, perhaps leaving a kiss mark on the window while looking at him with those beautiful eyes and leaving a lipstick mark on the glass; that was it, that was the imagined scenario that got him going. His phone was leaving indents on his fingers from his tight grip; he could feel his balls tighten as a dribble of precum started to ooze out the tip, his fingers tightening their grip around his large and thick shaft as he followed the flow of his thick veins, smearing the precum along the direction of his hand pumping along his length. He bit his lip as he whimpered out your name, his core tightening as he continued to look at your unknowing face. He started to think what your face would look like if he pushed his hard cock inside your wet cunt; he could just tell you were a screamer, and he wanted to hear that pretty mouth scream out his name. He imagined how you would feel as your tight hole would wrap against him.

He could barely breathe, and his breathing patterns became laboured, and his chest continued to rise and fall at a rapid pace, a groan released as he kept moaning your name. “Fuck I need you,” he moaned as his head was thrown back into the pillow, cum spurting all along his torso, slowly rubbing himself before letting go and being left to think about what his next course of action was.

Stage five: possession.

What was the point of asking you out again? Leon tricked himself into believing you set out a game for him to play, believing that you wanted him just to try a little harder for you; no matter how much distance you placed between him, he kept thinking you were just making the test harder—to him this was just another challenge he wasn’t going to put down. But this game, Leon forced himself to believe, was difficult; this game of yours would be over if he got fired; if he asked you out again, he knew you would go telling the chief, and every single person knew how much a soft spot the chief had for you. He hated how other people held that spot for you, hated how people noticed the good in you; that was something only he should notice; a burning rage within his chest flowered every time he thought about people experiencing the kindness only he wanted to experience and witness.

He wasn’t going to lose interest until he got you. Hence, he felt drawn to execute his plan for a little treat.

Leon needed to ease his frustrations and pent-up desires just to get a taste of you, to obtain further motivation to keep seeking you out, to keep wearing you down until you realised you were made for him.

For the past week, Leon kept going to your place but could only snap pictures with you fully clothed; how boring, he thought every time he pointed the camera to your window and waited for another good shot like that first night. Every time he left without seeing more of your bare chest, he still smirked behind the screen every time he saw your unknowing face, oblivious to how close he was to you—but he needed more.

To execute his plans, he needed to do some research. He planned to stop having the building be a physical obstacle against his needs, looking up your apartment complex and looking at the rooms ready to be rented out, focusing on the ones on the top floor—your floor—and looking at the floor plans. With just a few clicks on the internet and a few drives, the type of information you can get was amazing; we all know the saying, if there’s a will, there’s a way. He found those floor plans with the available pictures, seeing that all of them were similar, the only difference being the placement of the bedroom and bathrooms—the only thing in his way now was getting inside.

When your lights turned off, he was ready for his plan to continue; he marched up to the doors, running through the rain and making his way to the doors, waiting for someone, making a show of forgetting his keys—it came easy to him to lie and perform.

“Oh god, not again,” he started patting down his pockets, looking around until an older woman came along, giving him a gentle smile that signalled how his acting was believable.

“Have you forgotten the key to the front door?”

“Yeah… I always forget the key to this door; I moved in only a week ago; I need to get used to it.” In another email, making a whole other identity, Leon managed to send a few questions to the landlord, knowing that there were two keys given to the occupant, a front door key and an apartment key—as said, he did his research before coming to your place.

“Oh dear, here you go,” she let him in without a second thought. His innocent facade took her in as he thanked her: “Don’t worry about it, sweety. Forgetting is an easy thing. You have a great night.”

She waved him off as he pressed the elevator button, thinking to himself I will have a great night, clutching onto the straps of his backpack, waiting for the elevator to ascend to your floor; every time the number of the level changed, a jump in his chest was felt, excitement and anticipation running through his emotions as he thought how much closer he was getting to you, to be with you outside of work—finally.

It was almost too easy to find where you were; he knew what side you were on and only needed to count the windows he saw on the inside until he made his way to yours; it was just two windows away from the very edge of the end; he pressed his ear against the door, hearing no sounds of your consciousness still roaming around. As he made sure his coast was clear, he collected a lock pick from the smallest pocket in his bag; he was a cop, after all, he knew his way around and learned how people did this; they ought to be careful who they let in this field of work.

The silence within your place made the room feel empty; he was hit with your signature scent that sent a blush rushing to his cheeks, his heart beating at a constant quickened rhythm as he processed how close he was to you, how close he was to your private realm that he snuck into, everything about you could be learnt just within these walls—but he needed to stay at the task he provided himself. He made his way into your room, padding silently down the hall; he breathes in deeply as he reaches for your white-painted bedroom door, thankful it wouldn’t make a sound as you had left it a crack open.

She’s practically asking for it; Leon’s delusional monologue kept running rampant in his thoughts.

You were fast asleep, as planned, curled up in the countless pillows and blankets you had surrounding you; Leon couldn’t help but find you adorable how you were cuddled up, but he couldn’t let his admiration of you stop his tracks. His backpack hit the floor, making you jolt in movement, but only shifting your legs into a more comfortable position; you were out cold, giving Leon the perfect opportunity to continue with his plan. He retrieved a cloth, draining every last drop of chloroform on it, it dripping all over the floor; with a few searches, he knew it wasn’t going to be a quick breath in like the movies presented; he knew he had to press this on your nose and mouth for at least a few minutes, the fact you were a heavy sleeper made it very easy for this to happen. While you were away in dreamland, he gently pressed the wet rag on your nose and mouth, pressing just enough for you to inhale deeply but not enough to force you awake; you felt almost a tickle sensation on your nose, just thinking it was your fan pushing air on your face and causing an itch; oh how your naivety just made it ten times easier for Leon to indulge a little.

He watched your digital clock to wait for the appropriate amount of time to pass, listening to your breathing becoming shallower with every minute that past; just as the recommended time has been completed, he presses his ear to your chest, your heartbeat and breathing patterns being a murmur now; he couldn’t mess up now, he was in your room and ready to complete everything his fantasies were forcing him to do, he grabbed your face, his fingers pressing into the plush of your cheeks to give more evidence that you were asleep, but you would awake within due course.

It was time.

In a matter of seconds, he stripped off his shirt and jeans, throwing all the layers you put on yourself, his fingers tightening around the bands of your sleep clothes and peeling them off, exposing your naked and bare body right in front of him; his pupils dilated, his blush deepening, and his cock hardening as he processed how close he was to your naked form, your naked helpless form that was ready for the taking, ready for his taking.

As his eyes widen to encapture your whole form, he pressed a desperate kiss on your limp lips, pressing his hands on your chest, grabbing and squeezing them the more he placed wet and rough kisses on your soft lips; he couldn’t believe how you were just there, ready to fulfil everything he had been thinking of—this was the kick he needed, the little taste of motivation to keep going before you would be all over him, he kept thinking about the day you would help him get undressed and let him fuck deep inside you, but he had to settle for this time with you now before that happened. He released whimpers as he grinds his hips into yours, his hands underneath your thighs as he makes them go around his waist, kissing you like you were a hungry couple experiencing their first night together. He couldn’t help but be amused as he pinched your nipples, shocked as they sprung into hardened buds; lapping his tongue around them and letting them be covered in his saliva as he slid his tongue around them and placed gentle nibbles; there was just so much to do; and so little time; he wanted to feel and experience every inch of you, but time was limited, and this was just a taste for him before he wore you down.

He gulped as his fingers collected around his waistband, freeing his throbbing erection from his boxers, adjusting your panties to the side so he could slip his length inside you; his fingers started following the line of your folds, a spurt of precum forming around his tip as he watched your glistening cunt ready for him, pushing his hips closer to you and sliding his tip to push along your slit and hit your clit now and again, he felt his breath hitch as he stared at your wet pussy, biting his lip and letting out quiet and whispered whimpers as he pushed himself inside you, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he placed his hands on your hips before bucking his hips and watching your motionless frame bounce with every thrust he forced onto you.

“Fuck, you feel amazing, baby,” he cooed like you could hear and feel everything he was doing, pushing his hard cock further into your sopping wet cunt that dribbled all over him, making it easier to slide and feel your walls grasp around him, making it hard to last long and savour this blissfully moment, to him, with feeling his dick be placed in something he wanted to own and possess.

He focuses on grinding the head of his cock, pumping it further and letting it continuously hit and bruise your delicate cervix. As he watched your tits bounce, your closed eyes in a tranquil state, he pictured what it would be like to hear you moaning his name, to feel you roam your hands over his biceps and chest as you begged him to cum inside you. He bent down to the crook of your neck, inhaling your sweet and addictive scent with a sigh; as much as he wanted to fill you with his seed, to fuck it further inside you and take ownership, he didn’t want to make such a mess; most importantly, he didn’t want to make a mess that could be tracked.

As he felt a deep gruntle moan erupt out of him, he pulled out and let it spurt all over your soft skin, watching how much of messy darling you looked underneath him.

He thought how easy it would be to drag your helpless body somewhere where you could realise your love with him, somewhere where Leon could fulfil every fantasy he wanted to on your gorgeous frame.

“You’re mine, sweetheart. Forever mine.”

Being delusional is a dangerous thing for the obsessive.

star divider is from @/inklore

please note the best way of supporting your writers is by liking and reblogging, i send so much love to everyone that took the time to read this and hope everyone has a lovely day/evening.

#dead dove do not eat #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x reader smut #yandere!leon kennedy x reader #yandere!leon kennedy x reader smut #leon kennedy x afab reader #resident evil #leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy smut #leon s kennedy x reader #leon kennedy imagine #leon kennedy imagine smut

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feelmyskinonyourskin · 6 months

Text

Worship You

Pairing: Frank Castle x AFAB Reader

Main Masterlist

GIF Source: Papa-Evershed @papa-evershed

Summary: You’re feeling a little nervous and insecure about your postpartum body, Frank just wants to show you how much he loves you.

Warnings: SMUT/18+ (don’t interact if your age is not in your bio). Mentions of pregnancy, birth, and postpartum AFAB body. New mom insecurities and fears. Lactation kink, oral (F receiving), fingering, protected P in V, use of lube. Pet names (baby, sweetheart, mama)

WC: 2600

*I never give permission for my fics, manips, or any other original creation I post on this site to be copied, posted elsewhere, translated, or fed into any AI program. The only platform I currently post anything on is Tumblr. Thanks!*

Four and a half months, that’s how long it had been since you’d given birth to the precious angel that was your daughter. It was the best day of your life and changed so many things so quickly.

Particularly, your body. You were so proud of it; growing and carrying a life for 9 months, enduring 14 hours of labor and delivery, producing daily nutrition to feed this tiny human you loved so dearly. You lamented all the times in your youth when you would pick and pull at your skin, over analyzing the ways your body could “improve” and wishing to abide more by the over photoshopped standards you saw in magazines. How foolish you were.

Now you loved your body. She was a warrior. A Goddess.

But still, even with your new found appreciation for her, it was difficult some days to not feel like a stranger in your own skin. You knew pregnancy and birth would bring about irreversible changes to your body. But nothing could have prepared you for the emotional wave of grief and confusion that came with all the new feelings and quirks that come with life after pregnancy.

Which was probably why you had been avoiding having sex.

Sure sex had been uncomfortable towards the end of your pregnancy, you and Frank inventing the most insane positions just to find a comfortable way to do it. Your body had already changed so much then, but even more so now. Would he still love you like he used to? Would the things you used to enjoy still feel good? Would there be any pain?

You’d been cleared at your 8 week postpartum appointment to move forward with all sexual activity, but still had put it off.

Frank, of course, never pushed the issue. In fact he never brought it up at all, too tired and busy doting on your daughter and making sure your recovery went smoothly. Daily, you got to witness the strength and determination he showed to welcome this second chance despite the demons of his past. He was the epitome of a perfect father and partner, which only turned you on and made you love him even more.

“Ithinkweshouldhavesextonight” you finally blurted out one morning, need for intimate connection and relief outweighing the anxiety.

Frank had just gotten your daughter down for a nap and was at the kitchen sink washing out your pumping equipment.

He turned around so casually to face you and leaned against the counter, as if you had just asked him what the weather was. God, did he have to look so sexy when he was just existing?

He looked you up and down and with an eyebrow corked replied softly “Yeah? That somethin’ you’re ready for?”

You were still reeling from the shock of actually saying it out loud and stuttered out “I… I think so.”

Frank nodded calmly.

“Okay.”

And then he was back to his task without another word.

He didn’t bring it up for the rest of the day, going through the evening routine of dinner, diaper changes, and bathtime with your daughter as he normally would.

Meanwhile, your nerves were on edge, half with anxiety, half with anticipation.

The last feeding of the night was done and your daughter drifted to sleep in your arms as you rocked her. You gingerly set her down in her bassinet, careful not to wake her and have to start the whole routine again.

It was typical to find Frank leaning in the door frame of the nursery, happily observing the site of his family. So you weren’t surprised when you turned around and found him standing there with a grin plastered across his face.

“Hey beautiful.”

“Hey big guy.”

“You still feeling up to…” he asked

“Yeah,” You nodded. “C’mon let's go to the bedroom.”

You reached for his hand, but he pulled it away.

“I got somethin’ for you first.”

The bathtub was to the brim with bubbles. Based on the aroma in the air, you could tell it was the good kind you liked to buy at cute little boutiques in Brooklyn and not the Johnson and Johnson brand you used for your daughter’s baths.

Frank pressed his chest to your back and placed a gentle kiss to your crown.

“Gotta get you relaxed first.”

Docile fingers danced under the hem of the shirt you wore; a dingy, grey henley that once belonged to him, as he slowly began to undress you.

You silently cursed at yourself for not putting on something sexier earlier. Not that any of your old lingerie fit you, but anything more put together than this would have been better.

“Where’s that brain of yours goin’ now?”

Goddamnit how could he read you so well?

“Just wishing I put a little more effort in to seducing you.”

“Eh, you know you don’t need nothin’ fancy to do that.”

The kisses he peppered to your now exposed shoulder sent a shiver up your spine as he continued.

“My woman’s so goddamn pretty, it’s been torture keeping my hands to myself.”

Frank’s plan worked wonders as you found yourself emerging from a half-hour in the scented warm water feeling relaxed and floaty.

He was waiting for you in the bedroom, wearing nothing but clean grey sweatpants that rode low to tease and tantalize you. Good to know he still remembered just what you liked.

He eyed you up and down as you walked towards him, closing the gap between you and pulling you flush to him.

A gentle hand ran down your cheek as you lovingly gazed into each other's eyes.

“Okay, here’s how this is gonna go,” he said “I’m gonna go nice and slow,”

You let out a huff, which caused Frank’s eyebrows shoot up.

“And you’re not gonna whine about it.”

“Fine.” you conceded

“If at any point, anything hurts or makes you uncomfortable, even a little, you tell me and we stop. You got that?”

You nodded your head gently, leaning into the hand he still had resting where your jaw and neck meet.

“Atta girl.”

His lips were soft when they met yours, gentle but not hesitant. He took care to guide you backwards and sit you down on the bed gingerly.

It always fascinated you how hands that inflicted so much violence and death could show you such tenderness and love, could provide so much pleasure. Even moreso now seeing how docile he was with your newborn.

The tie of your robe undid easily and the soft fabric fell off your shoulders and pooled in your lap, exposing you to him.

His eyes were full of reverence as he once again stared at you, admiring with a boyish grin before he dove in and covered your skin in the sweetest of kisses. Each meeting of his lips to your shoulders, your neck, your chest was the rising sun of spring, reigniting your body from hibernation.

His nimble fingers gently grabbed at your breast as he continued tracing his lips across you, giving it a small squeeze before twirling your nipple under his thumb.

It was just enough stimulation to release a few small drips of milk, followed by a tiny stream.

You pushed at his shoulder to get him off and attempted to stop the liquid with a bit of your robe.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I thought about pumping before we got started, but I was hoping maybe she had enough before bed that it’d be alright.”

“It’s okay baby.” Frank practically whispered, swiping at the opaque fluid with his thumb.

“They sore?” he asked

“A little.”

“Can I help?”

You practically felt a flood rush between your legs at his request and nodded eagerly.

Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees before you. His breath was hot against your skin as he licked all the way up from your ribcage to your nipple, gathering the warm nectar on his tongue.

He hummed in satisfaction as he took your nipple fully into his mouth. The divine mix of building pleasure and sweet relief filled your body as he began to suckle, soft pouty lips encompassing your breast.

Big hands wrapped around your lower back, pressing indents into your skin with his calloused fingers as he held you close to him, his eyes now squeezed shut as he continued to nurse.

You threw your head back, groaning at the borderline overwhelm of feelings that ripped through your body.

Frank laid you down slowly, upper lips dragging along your skin as he released your breast and began to kiss down, allowing a spurt of milk to fly into the air.

As he moved down, your hands instinctively flew to cover the loose skin of your stomach, still laden with lighter stripes from where your daughter stretched your flesh as she grew in utero.

His thick fingers grabbed at your wrists to stop you.

“No.” he commanded and instinctually you groaned in rebuttal, trying to free your hands from his grip.

“Ain’t no hiding from me baby. C’mon.”

The low roughness of his voice always made you want to obey whatever he requested. You looked at him with pleading eyes.

“Look, I know you’re still gettin used to all of it, but you’re still my woman and I love you. Shit, you’re even more my woman now that you’ve had my kid. You think I ain’t gonna worship every bit of you? This beautiful body that gave me my daughter, that gave me a second chance I don’t deserve. You think I ain’t gonna love every inch of you just as much as before?”

You couldn’t help but grin at his praise and nodded, leaving your hands at your side and permitting him to continue his work.

Done with taking his time, but still a certain gingerness to his movements, he finally kissed his way to between your legs. You were practically squirming with need as he teased his hot breath against your core.

The sweet relief when he finally ran his tongue through your folds had you practically jumping off the mattress with how calico-like your back arched. You were sensitive, having had no stimulation there in months. You hadn’t even dared to touch yourself in any way that wasn’t medically related, afraid to even test the waters.

Once he was satisfied with the amount he slicked up your petals with his tongue, he went back to being slow and careful, experimenting with your limits by tickling your entrance with the tip of his finger.

Another nod from you and he pushed in just to the first knuckle, then the second. All you could do was whimper with the pleasure of finally feeling him again, bucking your hips to encourage him to go further.

He massaged your walls a little before adding a second finger and you were in heaven.

It was so familiar the way he worked you over with his fingers and mouth. More and more of your fears dissipated with every movement, the luminous pleasure building inside took them over.

Your orgasm crashed into you unexpectedly, taking not much at all to get you there. It made you feel normal and human and real again.

Tenderly, he kissed at your thighs as you worked to steady your breathing.

“How you feeling, sweetheart?”

Another nod. Usually it was Frank who was mostly silent and you doing all the talking. But not tonight.

“That good, huh?”

A giggle escaped you.

“Talk to me pretty girl, what you need now?”

“You Frank, wanna feel you inside me.”

“Okay. How? Gotta do whatever’s gonna be most comfortable for you.”

“I think I should be on top. Have the most control that way.”

“You got it.”

Frank rummaged around the nightstand and pulled out a condom and the bottle of lube. He shed his sweatpants and made his way back to you.

Spreading your legs, he applied a generous amount of lube, using his fingers to push it inside you a little. Satisfied with that preparation, he layed down beside you and put the condom on. You tossed your robe to the floor and crawled to him, maneuvering to hover over his length.

He held you in place with one strong hand and ran the back of his finger down your cheek with the other.

“Remember baby, anything hurts, we stop.”

You nodded, then reached down to guide him to your entrance.

It was a delicious stretch as you slowly sank down, relaxing away the last of your fears about pain. It felt good. It felt different. But it felt good.

The sigh of relief once he was fully seated inside you echoed around the room. You sat there for a moment, enjoying the pleasure. It felt like coming home after being away for too long.

You gave a rock of your hips, steady and easy, feeling the drag of his cock against your velvet walls.

Again. And again.

Until you found a comfortable rhythm and lost yourself to the pleasure.

Meanwhile, Frank’s hands continued to explore, reveling in the feel of your skin under his touch after missing it for so long. Observing the way pleasure twisted and contorted on your face as you rode him, he couldn’t take his gaze off of you.

Temptation won him over, he raised his hand to paw at your other breast. Just a few pinches to your tender nipple and the leak began.

Rising to his elbows, he once again took your breast in his mouth. The warmth of his soft lips latching and sucking sent a wave of goosebumps across your skin as you continued to thrust against him.

Carding your fingers through his cropped hair, you held his head to you, encouraging him to continue.

His fingers found the other breast, squeezing so the stream of milk began once more, flowing down the curve of your tit.

“Frank, I’m so close.” you said, punctuated by the slap of skin.

He moved to bury his face between your boobs and kissed your breast bone, husking out “That’s it baby, let me feel you. Atta girl”

Every dial in your body was cranked up to maximum capacity and it wasn’t long before you erupted, white hot pleasure coursing from head to toe as you rhythmically clenched around him.

You grabbed at his shoulders in an attempt to not fall over and he shushed at the whimpers you released with every spasm of your walls.

Frank wasn’t far behind, cradling your face as he pulled you to press your forehead to his.

A grunt escaped him as he thrusted up into you a final time. His gaze bore into yours as he released, attempting to say a million words he couldn’t form right now.

Cautiously, he tipped sideways and laid you down beside him on the bed, pulling you to lay on his glistening chest.

“You feeling good?”

“Yeah, Frank that was perfect.”

“Good baby, I’m glad we…”

But his words were cut off, the siren cry coming from down the hall stopped both of you in your tracks.

You moved to get up but Frank pushed at your shoulder.

“Shh shh shh I got her mama. You stay put.”

You closed your eyes as you listened to him coo her back to sleep from down the hall, content to live in this little bubble of joy forever.

For you @itwasthereaminuteago

#frank x reader #frank castle

236 notes · View notes

palioom · 11 months

Note

Hellooo!! Just really wanted to say I absolutely love your fics they’re so good am always waiting for you to drop the next one 😩👌🏼

But just a suggestion!! I don’t know what it is but there’s something INCREDIBLY hot about a guy who really wants you to sit on his face 🥵 like he’s FERAL to give it to her and will go down for hours if he can and he will!! 😩👌🏼I don’t really have a specific situation in mind but I just need him to have a NEED to give the reader oral idk FKDKDKS

You can do whatever you want with this! Or don’t! Am grateful for anything 🥹

first of all I'm SO sorry with how long this took to upload! i LOVED the idea the second i saw it and I hope I could do your idea justice after such a long wait, I just didn't have the time for longer stuff with kinktober happening but thank you so much for giving me this idea!!

remedy against pain

summary: after being "gravely" injured, Oberyn knows exactly what would help him heal, and you are more than eager to give it to him.

pairing: oberyn martell x f!reader

word count: 4.9k

warnings: 18+ content; no use of y/n (but many, many nicknames); fluff & smut; oral (m & f receiving); multiple orgasms; overstimulation; squirting; face sitting; 69; one small slap on the ass

part of "the viper and the sun"

• masterlist •

When she was notified of Oberyn’s injury that sunny afternoon, she was worried at first. All sorts of grisly thoughts came into her head - thoughts of broken bones and bloody wounds. Another deep scar to worship later, once it had healed.

All she had been told was that he had been brought back to their shared bedchambers with an injured back and knee, sustained as he was practicing with their eldest daughter, Obara.

It was difficult to believed that a girl of eighteen years of age could injure her own father in such a grave manner that he had to stop and leave the training pits altogether.

But as the nurse who accompanied her talked more about his supposed suffering, she had to try and keep her oncoming laugh hidden. Coughing to stifle her laughter, the best rendition of worry etched onto her features when she heard of what truly ailed him.

A small, moderately deep cut on the knee and a large bruise on his back from when he fell after Obara had swiped him off his feet.

That old man.

Ever a penchant for the dramatics, the immediate notice of his quite severe injury an exaggeration like only he could procure. In grave danger to meet death, at least that was what he wished for her to believe.

Oberyn loved to exaggerate his ailments whenever she was around, keen to have his wonderful wife dote on and care for him like only she could. With her gentle hands and words, her tongue spinning the sweetest words to help him heal while he lamented about how much he had hurt himself.

She knew every time that things weren’t as bad as he made them out to be, at least not when she saw him. Before that, she would worry her head off, the most grim images in her head until she found out the truth. But she played along nonetheless, and sometimes she would even find it in herself to tease him.

“The Prince is in a lot of pain, my Princess.” The nurse informed her as they arrived at the huge double doors leading to their private chambers, seeming extremely worried. Oh, what a mean man Oberyn was sometimes, making everyone concerned for him all because he enjoyed the attention it gave him from his wife. “You ought to tread carefully.”

She chucked quietly, giving the woman in front of her a soothing smile.

“Thank you, I will make sure to treat my dear husband with utmost care.”

The nurse bowed her head before scurrying off again, leaving her to go inside their chambers.

Carefully she opened the huge doors, flanked by guards on the outside, stepping into the silence of the room. They had drawn some of the curtains so not too much light was flooding inside, dipping everything into hues of red and orange.

She could see him lying on the bed, a wet rag covering his eyes, propped up on some pillows behind him into a position halfway between sitting and lying down. Not looking too miserable, if she had to give an estimated guess from where she stood.

“Oh, my Viper.” She cooed as she came closer, watching how his entire demeanour shifted beneath her words. Suddenly he did look quite miserable, creases forming on his forehead and the corners of his mouth turning downward just slightly. Like their girls pretending to be sick so they would coddle them. She wasn’t quite sure if they learned from Oberyn or Oberyn from them. “My sweet, sweet Viper. Are you well?”

Sitting down on the side of the bed, right next to him, she took his warm, broad hand into hers, feeling the rough calluses on it. With the other, she reached up to remove the wet rag from his eyes.

“My lovely wife.” Oberyn groaned, looking back at her, blinking a few times to adjust to the sudden brightness that flooded his eyes. “My pain seems to ease in your presence, my Sun.”

She chuckled quietly, her thumb brushing over his knuckles while her other hand brushed back his dark, slightly damp hair, then trailed down his face to cup his cheek. Always with a slightly concerned look on her face, but he could see the small twinkle in her eyes.

Oberyn knew it would be hard to fool his clever wife, but he could still try.

“I am glad it does, my love.” She said, smiling at him as he put on the sickest expression he could. Of course he was in some pain, but Gods, how he exaggerated. “Does it hurt much, my fierce Viper?”

The phantom of a smile graced his features for just a moment, vanishing just as quickly as it had appeared.

Nevertheless, she caught it.

“Quite so, my Sun.” He answered, his piercing eyes holding her gaze, and for just the briefest moment, she believed the pain he was in. He made her believe, knowing her heart was too soft for him to truly doubt him. “The pain is nearly unbearable, if it wasn’t for you by my side, I would certainly perish.”

She leaned closer to him, placing a soft kiss onto his lips, light as a feather as he was obviously quite weak. Warm and a little chapped against hers, the bristles of his beard tickling her skin.

His lips chased hers as she drew back, having to stop himself from chasing after them further.

He was in pain, his back certainly did hurt, but not to the degree Oberyn made it out to be.

“What would make you feel better, my sweet husband?” She cooed, sitting back up again. Still stroking his cheek and her pout bordering on mock concern.

His dark eyes truly began to sparkle at her question, his fingers flexing against hers.

Oh, there were many different ideas he had about what would truly help him.

But there was one idea in particular that would ensure a speedy recovery.

“The taste of your sweet cunt, my love.” Oberyn said after a beat of silence, a small smirk on his lips. “Nothing would heal me more efficiently than that. Nothing.”

She remained quiet for a moment, her pout giving way to a smile.

“Oh, my love. You are too injured for that.” She tried to imagine him wanting to keep up the facade of being terribly hurt, but also wanting to roll onto his stomach and delve his tongue deep inside of her. As much as she liked the idea, she was more interested in seeing how Oberyn would like to go about this. “I wouldn’t want you to risk your back by helping you onto your stomach.”

His fingers tightened more around hers, a fiery desire settling inside of his eyes. Desire and lust and a need, pushing away all the traces of him being too hurt.

“And you certainly cannot kneel with your gravely injured knee.”

Clever thing.

He needed her cunt against his mouth, had been craving the embrace of her thighs around his head ever since he had woken in the morning. While she had laid beside him in bed, sunken in a peaceful slumber, her magnificent features traced by the rising sun.

But he had decided to wait until tonight, for she had slept so peacefully that he hadn’t wanted to disturb her. And the wait would have made things so much sweeter in his mind.

Imagining her taste so much that he swore he did eventually taste it.

Maybe that had been why Obara had knocked him over so effectively in the end.

“Straddle my face, my love.” He said, already moving to pull a few pillows from beneath his head and throwing them to the side, making it easier for her to position herself. “Please, my Sun. Don’t deny your husband the pleasure of suffocating between your wonderful thighs while drinking from you. Not while he is gravely injured.”

Gravely injured.

Her smile widened at his words, pulling his hand against her lips once more and kissing each of his knuckles. Slowly, deliberately. Never looking away from his eyes.

Oh, how dramatic he was. How could she deny him?

“Is that truly what would make you better, my Viper?” She asked, feeling the familiar heat pool in her stomach, the tingling on her skin and in her spine, wanting him but not wanting to cause him further injury. They both could get quite passionate, after all. “Are you certain?”

Oberyn chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. If his back wasn’t hurting as much as it was, he simply would have lifted her on top of him, unable to wait any longer to have her.

“There is no better medicine than the cunt of a woman.” He replied, removing yet another pillow and reclining. Noticing how she almost gave into rolling her eyes at him. “Nothing better than the cunt of my sweet wife who is keeping me waiting, hurting.”

She removed her shoes before climbing onto the bed with a giggle, lifting her skirts as she straddled his chest and moved closer to where he needed her. Watching how his eyes sparkled with mischief, darting between her face and the apex of her thighs.

Oberyn found her movingly too slowly, his rough hands grabbing at her thighs and ass, pushing her along faster as a pained groan left him. Looking up at her, he found her looking back down at him with a raised brow, but he simply grinned, her knees finally on either side of his head, but she was still sitting on his chest.

“Oberyn.” She warned, not wanting him to be in more pain because of how eager he was. Her husband would break his neck if it meant he could fuck her somehow.

He simply chose to ignore her, coaxing her with his hands on her ass, his thick fingers digging into the silk of her dress.

“Come here, my Sun.” His voice was dark and smooth, desperate almost. So close to what he wanted, if only she moved. “Let me have you, I need your sweet cunt on my tongue, your sweet juices.”

She giggled, letting him guide her over his face, lifting her skirts again as she hovered over him. He looked ravenous and she could feel his hot breath against her folds, his nails forming faint crescent marks on her skin.

Oberyn didn’t even wait, simply pulling her down onto him, groaning at the surprised noise that left her; half moan half gasp. Expertly licking a stripe through her folds, his tongue found her clit and toyed with it. Flicking against it before he sucked it into his mouth with another groan, her hips bucking into him as she grabbed the headboard for purchase.

“Oh, Oberyn.” She moaned, grinding into him, one of her hands tangling into his hair and tugging on it. The vibrations of his noises travelled up her spine, shivers breaking out over her skin. Eyes closed and her head thrown back. “Gods, yes!”

While he started out slow at first, he quickly picked up speed, eating her like a man starved as his tongue sweeped lower, fucking into her quivering hole, his nose bumping against her clit over and over.

Like he had been denied this for centuries.

“You taste fucking delectable.” He groaned against her, one of his hands leaving her hips and moving up to grope at her breast. Ignoring how his back hurt, just needing her and her sweet noises as she pressed herself down harder onto his face. Just how he wanted it. “Exactly what I needed, my Sun.”

His fingers pinched her hardened nipple, making her whine and stutter in her movements for a second, her own tugging on his dark hair harder.

This truly was his heaven, his wife’s weight on top of him, her body freely grinding against his tongue while he took whatever he could get, lapping at her as if his life depended on it. As if her juices were the only remedy against his pain, a concoction no one else could prepare but her.

Suffocating between her warm thighs, her wonderful sounds muffled by them but still loud enough for him to hear.

He would have to make a habit out of this whenever he was sick.

But he needed her release above all, feeling how she pulsed around his tongue, how her movements became more erratic, leading him to double his efforts. He came back to focus on her clit, slowly becoming aware of how hard he was beneath the covers, just from devouring her like this.

“Please, my Viper.” She moaned, the words hitching on her breath as she looked back down at him, so close to reaching her peak. He looked gorgeous in the red and orange lights. “Oh, how grateful I am it wasn’t your talented tongue which was injured.”

He smirked, lightly grazing his teeth over her clit before sucking it between his lips once more, swiftly feeling her reach her peak right after.

Trembling on top of him as she fell into herself slightly, she still moved her hips against his face as his tongue eagerly lapped up her release. His name tumbled from her lips like a prayer, over and over as his fingers dug into her ass, keeping her close to him even as the pleasure started to border on pain.

And she knew, as he didn’t stop and simply kept going, that he hadn’t had enough of his remedy yet. Still needed more to sate himself, to heal. Circling her clit, fucking into her sensitive hole, all while he began to writhe underneath her.

Oberyn loved the shift in her sounds, more on the side of painful pleasure which he knew she loved, her senses heightened and burning a path of desire inside of her as he kept going. Taking what he needed from her, trying to keep his hips still as a sharp pain shot up his back each time they rutted up into nothing, against the thin covers which provided little relief.

She took a glance over her shoulder, her hips stopping just for a moment as she saw his cock straining against the covers. Thick and hard, all from him burying his face inside her cunt, aching to be touched.

Wondering if he would end up begging for her touch, knowing he derived just as much pleasure from eating her cunt like he would with his cock inside of it. That’s what made him so wonderful, being able to give and receive pleasure just from that alone.

Choosing to ignore it and see if he actually would end up begging her, she bit her lip and turned back around, his tongue swiftly working her up again, pain and pleasure bleeding together into one. A steady buzz that had her nerves aflame and her mind swimming, torn between shying away from and pressing herself down harder onto his eager and warm tongue.

He hurled her into her next orgasm, her juices trickling down his chin and neck while he hummed into her. His own sounds bordered on pain, making her concerned amidst the haze surrounding her like a thick fog, but she knew fully well that he knew his limits.

Hopefully.

Oberyn needed her desperately, the pain in his back almost forgotten in the nagging presence of his aching cock, the friction against the thin sheets doing nothing for him. Wanting to lap at her sweet, swollen cunt but also needing her on him somehow, engulfing him.

Her hands, her mouth, her tits - he would take anything as long as it meant he could keep his face buried between her warm thighs.

Reluctantly he pushed her away from his mouth just briefly, latching onto the soft, scarred inside of her thigh. Her tiger’s stripes as he called them affectionately, from carrying his children and the weight gain that came along with that.

“My Sun.” He groaned, tanned fingers digging into her skin and his eyes closing briefly as he dug his teeth into her thigh, humming. Feeling like he was getting drunk just from her, or going crazy. Maybe even both. “Gods, I need you.”

A giggle left her through the haze in her mind, catching her breath in the brief moment of respite. She loved when he got so drunk on her that he couldn’t let his lips rest even for just a second.

“You have me, Oberyn.” She whispered, flames still licking at her insides, her blood boiling hot. Acting as though she didn’t know about the painful erection hiding beneath the covers. “I would think you have me, your tongue was deep in my cunt just moments ago.”

Oberyn groaned again, more kisses and licks and bites bestowing the inside of her thighs in a frenzy. His wife could be such a mean woman sometimes, teasing him, making him wait.

Maybe this was his punishment for acting sicker than he was.

“My cock demands your attention, my Sun.” He rasped, his eyes piercing and full of lust. His hips rutted upwards as if to emphasize his point, a deep grunt following the movement. One of pain, and it made her wonder whether she should be doing this with him in the first place. “My sweet, please. I need to find relief in you.”

Hearing him plead her to pleasure him only fanned the flames inside of her, a whine escaping her lips as her own hips bucked up. She didn’t want to keep him waiting, but just how desperate could Oberyn become?

“But you need my cunt, my Prince.” She said, brushing his hair back without a care in the world. Like she wasn’t burning up from the inside and like he wasn’t aching for her. “How will you heal if you engulf your cock inside of it? What other remedy do we have that is better than my cunt?”

Oberyn licked his lips, regretting that he had taught her to be so naughty.

“My Sun, don’t tease your bruised and sick husband like this.” He admonished, attempting to move her, but the sharp pain in his back swiftly reminded him that he shouldn’t. And he really did not want to miss her wet heat just yet, needing more of her. “I will take anything you can give me, as long as you do. Please, my darling.”

She giggled and Oberyn immediately knew that she was playing with him. Making a twisted little game out of his injury.

He would have to punish her once he was healed enough.

“Does your cock need me so desperately, my Viper?” She asked, laughing breathlessly. “I don’t wish to break my sweet husband in half, you are so gravely injured already.”

The sound that rumbled in his chest was akin to a growl, his patience for her games wearing thin as his dick throbbed with need in between his legs. Aching and desperate for her touch.

“My sweet, please.” He whined, his eyebrows knitting together as he looked up at her. Begging her with his eyes, so full of lust and hurt and desperation that she melted underneath them. “Turn around and let me feel the divinity of your mouth and tongue, my Sun. Help me heal, my Princess.”

She smirked, swiftly moving off of his face before turning around and straddling it again, feeling his strong hands grip her thighs as she leaned down.

Biting her lip as she slowly peeled back the thin, orange fabric of the covers, she let her fingers wander over his hot, tanned skin dipped in orange hues. Feeling his muscles twitch beneath it, teasingly slow as he groaned into her middle, tongue already back on her.

“Don’t tease your husband, my dear.” He whined, digging his fingers into her skin harder in an attempt to make her move faster. “The punishment for this crime is severe.”

It did nothing to stop her teasing, only moaning when his teeth nipped at her folds, her fingers finally uncovering him. Erect and red and angry, the head weeping for her and throbbing as she ran a finger along the length of it with a featherlight touch.

Tracing the thick veins, his hips squirming and his moans muffled by her, she couldn’t help the small laugh that left her. Only keeping him waiting a little longer, she finally granted him his wish, kissing the head of his cock and tasting the saltiness of the pre-cum.

“Oh, Gods.” She heard him groan behind her before his tongue dove into her, eliciting a high pitched moan from her when the pleasurable pain returned. “You gorgeous thing, my Sun.”

Just as eager as he was at the beginning, lapping at her like a man starved, home from long travels through the desert. His hands keeping her squirming hips in place.

She slowly let spit dribble down his cock, wrapping her fingers around it before she pressed her lips against the head over and over, her tongue teasing the sensitive skin with tiny licks before finally flattening against it.

When she finally wrapped her lips around him, he bucked up into her mouth, a whine sounding from between her thighs. Immediate relief spread through him but he needed more, both on his tongue as well as his cock, her head bobbing up and down. Her thighs began to tremble, the slick sounds of her cunt as well as her mouth on him pushing her closer to the edge as she took him deeper.

Her hand wandered to his balls, heavy and warm as she fondled them, just how Oberyn liked it. Taking him deeper still, hitting the back of her throat and feeling another groan against her middle, travelling up her spine.

So damn close, forgetting to move for a moment as she concentrated on the fiery sensation that threatened to set her body ablaze again, closing her eyes and whimpering around him. The tightness of her throat only spurred him on, her weight on top of him as he finally hurled her over the edge, her sounds coming out as delicious vibrations around his cock.

Yet not stopping, giving her ass a soft smack to spur her back into moving, kneading the soft flesh.

She moved in earnest now, letting him slip down her throat and stilling for a few moments before simply teasing the dark head, kissing and licking at it with vulgar wet sounds.

How she wished to look at him right now, see his dark, piercing eyes glazed over with lust and need and watch him watch her devour his thick cock. Her cunt pulsed at the thought, his talented tongue keeping her nerves aflame, the pain it elicited only helping in hurling her closer to yet another orgasm.

“One more, my sweet.” He groaned, so close himself as her mouth worked over his sensitive cock. “One more for me, let me heal myself through you.”

A sharp whine left her, hips bucking against his face.

“One more for you.” She breathed out, her fingers wrapping around the shaft again and suckling at the head. Delirious and repeating what he had said. “One more, Oberyn- Please-”

She was unsure if she needed him more than he needed her right now, still in awe of how long he could stave off on his peak despite how sensitive and worked up he was.

When the telltale twitching of his cock set in, her tongue continuously flicking over the slit, she felt him focus on her clit, closing his lips around it and sucking hard. Just needing to swallow down more of her.

“Oberyn-” She moaned, dragging out his name as she spilled all over his face, her eyes rolling to the back of her head, trembling on top of him.

It triggered his own peak, groaning into her while he finally felt that sweet release wash over him, dulled by the sharp pain shooting up his spine. Still, nothing could ruin this, no pain would ruin the feeling of his wife’s cum all over his face while his own cock twitched and pulsed furiously.

Some of the white ropes laid across her cheek before she wrapped her lips around him once more with a groan and swallowed the rest eagerly. The salty taste spreading over her tongue, fully Oberyn.

Her mind swimming at the sensation and her body boneless.

They remained like this for several moments, his tongue tenderly licking at her once the waves had stopped, noticing the subtle twitch from just how often he had brought her to a peak. Her cheek rested on his muscular, thick thigh, still tracing the veins on his softening cock before clumsily rolling off of him and onto her back.

A breathless laugh left her, taking a moment to close her eyes and take in the warm feeling that simmered in her body, her hand finding his, their fingers intertwining.

A soothing gesture, grounding her in reality as she felt like floating in water.

Oberyn sat up slightly, wincing quietly as he took in her face, some of his cum still on her cheek, red and orange dancing across her skin from the curtains and he couldn’t help but smile. More than satisfied with what just happened.

Never would he tire from seeing his wife covered with his cum, the only sight better than this being when it trickled out of her swollen cunt.

“Thank you, my Sun.” He said, his thumb brushing over her fingers soothingly. Almost forgetting about his injuries as he laid here with her. “The copious amounts of medicine you provided me with are already showing their effect.”

She laughed at that, and the sound only helped to mend his bruised body, watching her open her eyes and sit up. Stopping to take in his wet face, the now tired but satisfied eyes along with the smallest curl of his lips.

The sight was something she would never tire of, her core still throbbing. So handsome, with the lines on his face which began to form, the first few silver streaks in his hair and beard.

“I am glad I was of help, my Viper.” She giggled, raising her unoccupied hand to swipe his cum off of her face before sucking it off her finger. “I generously received a little bit of my own medicine. Though, my aches only began after ingesting it.”

Oberyn laughed, loud and hearty as he pointed for her to lay down next to him. Needing to feel her body, though he wished he could bury his face in between her thighs for just a little longer, slower this time and not rushing things.

She shuffled around, bending down to kiss him languidly and tasting herself on his tongue. Then finally laying next to him just how he wanted, pulling the covers over them.

“I think in your case, my sweet,” he began, wrapping his arm around her and ignoring the pain that came with it. Kissing her forehead and just keeping her close. “It is simply that you are ageing.”

A playfully shocked gasp left her, hitting his chest with a quick swat and laughing at the exaggerated grunt he let out. Pretending as though he had been struck by something much worse than his beloved wife’s hand.

“How dare you treat your husband, your Prince, like such when he is in terrible, terrible agony?” Oberyn asked with a laugh, wishing he could crush her against him. “Do you not wish for me to be well, my love?”

She nuzzled against his neck with a giggle, peppering his jaw with kisses as she inhaled his scent. Still smelling like the training pits, earthy and sweaty.

“I wish for my husband to stop the dramatics.” This sweet banter had always been her favourite, laughing and jesting with him like no other. “Become the feared Red Viper everyone knows instead of letting your daughter of eighteen years of age knock you off your feet.”

The grip on her hip tightened and she giggled more when she realized that he could certainly not do as he pleased with her just now. Secretly she loved the dramatics, always worried about him but unable to stop her loud mouth and her teasing.

“Oh, sweet wife…” Oberyn sighed, looking at her. What a funny thing she was, too swift with her dangerous tongue. “Once your mortally wounded husband is healed, there will be a punishment in order.”

He paused for a moment, squeezing her hip harder, delighting in the warm flesh in the palm of his hand.

“A punishment and an apology. Perhaps both could be the same.”

She became excited at the plethora of things he could do, though she was quite certain about what he meant, her clit throbbing in anticipation.

“First you should heal, my love.” She said, entirely genuine, pushing her dirty thoughts aside as her hand brushed over his stomach. Warm and soft, tender and the most perfect place to rest her head on usually. “Please rest, let the medicine I gave you work its wonders.”

He kissed her forehead again, allowing his lips to linger there as he closed his eyes and breathed her in. The scent of oranges filling him, his body melting in her presence.

Surely, there was no sweeter remedy than his wife and her delicious cunt, the sweet relief he found in between her thighs.

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fayes-fics · 6 months

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When The World Is Free: Chapter 14 - Un Coin Tout Bleu

MASTERPOST PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Warnings: None really... angst, make-ups, misunderstandings, confessions and a proposal.

Word Count: 1.9k

Author’s Note: Multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl. Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. This is the penultimate chapter, so everyone is starting to make peace. There is one more chapter that will have explicit content and an epilogue to go. Thanks as always to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy!

Aubrey Hall, UK, October 1939

Instinct has you up on your feet and chasing after, rounding into each room you pass, but you cannot find either of them. Your stride is definitely no match for Benedict’s; he is likely already far away.

When you stumble up the stairs, you collide with Violet. She is taken aback at first but then sees your apparent distress and has you in a hug before you know what is happening.

“Whatever is it, my dear?” she soothes into your hair.

“Eloise found Benedict and I asleep in an embrace and ran away in horror,” you stutter. “And then I let slip to Benedict you think he loves me, and then he ran. Oh god!! I have messed things up so horribly,” you lament.

Her motherly concern has you clinging to her, the sting of your mother’s recent rejection still a whiplash to your heart.

“Let us find my wilful daughter; she is likely just in shock, that is all.” she counsels calmly. “And then we will deal with your errant husband.”

Looping your arm with hers, Violet leads you to a few places where she knows Elose skulks when she wants to escape the world. You both eventually find her in the attic, where stacks of books and pillows are near an oval window that suggests this is often a refuge for her.

“Eloise Bridgerton, come and make amends with your friend,” is her stern greeting.

“Why should I?” Eloise sniffs, steadfastly refusing to turn around, staring out the small window at the grounds below. “She did the one thing - the ONE THING - I told her would make me disown her….” she adds bitterly, referencing the chat you had in Paris many weeks ago before Benedict arrived. “This was a choice she made.”

“Falling in love with your brother was not a choice, Eloise; it happened quite without me meaning to,” you implore, wanting her to believe it's true.

At that, her head whips around, surprise claiming her face. “Love?” she scoffs. “Please…” Looking to her mother for support in her derision, she frowns when she seems to find none. “Are you serious?”

“Yes…” you reply softly, taking a hesitant step forward, holding your palms open at your side—a conciliatory gesture. “I married Benedict to escape, yes, but even before then, I knew I felt something for him. That connection has only grown more profound since. We have spent a lot of time together in secret. I am truly sorry I, well, we, kept it from you. I was scared you would be angry and hurt. And you are. And you have every right to be.”

“It's true, Eloise,” Violet, standing a few paces behind you, pipes up. “I saw it the minute they arrived here. And I can tell you right now, your brother feels exactly the same.”

You want to believe Violet’s assertion about that, but you feel a tightness in your chest as she says it, worrying that it may not be accurate.

“You are my friend,” she whines almost petulantly.

“And I will always be your friend if you allow me,” you counter delicately. “No matter what happens with Benedict, and even I do not know now, you will always be dear to me and a part of my life.”

“What did that bloody idiot do now?” she inquires, sharp as a tack.

“After you left the room, I-I mentioned your mother thinks he loves me, and well, he ran out, you admit, hanging your head.

“That idiot…” she blusters, rolling her eyes.

“I'm very sorry if you see this as a betrayal. I wanted to keep it quiet because I love you so much as a friend. I truly never want or meant to hurt you….”

Eloise sighs, and you watch her shoulders slump. “You are just lucky I know some semblance of what you speak…” she offers wistfully, a glimmer of hope that has you inhaling sharply.

You know without asking that she is referring to Phillip, and you twist to smile at Violet briefly, who suddenly looks very invested.

“I hope you can find it within your heart to forgive me. I know it may take some time,” you allow. Hope creeps into the edges of your heart that you can reconcile with one Bridgerton, at least.

“It is just a shock that you kept it from me,” she sighs, finally admitting what upset her the most.

“I thought us terrible actors,” you giggle lightly, hoping humour will brighten your exchange.

A soft smile teases at the corner of her lips. “Are you suggesting I am not as sharp as I could be?” she jests gently.

“Heaven forfend!” you clutch your chest, feigning shock, then morphing into a smile you hope is an olive branch.

“I think perhaps you saw what you wanted or rather didn't want to see, daughter dearest,” Violet interjects mildly. “Because I can confirm they are both utterly terrible actors,” she chuckles.

You bite your lip and hang your head in an act of contrition that seems to amuse Eloise greatly. Her hesitant huff of humour is the best noise you could possibly hear.

“Friends?” you query tentatively, hopeful.

“Friends,” she pouts, crossing her arms. “But there is still much to make up…” she adds.

“Understood.”

With this fragile peace brokered, Violet links her arm in Eloise’s and yours, leading you both back down into the house with a declaration that tea, the ultimate British elixir, is needed.

—

Ten minutes later, you are gathered in the small glass conservatory, partaking in said refreshments. Other Bridgerton children—Colin, Francesa, and Gregory—likely drawn by the biscuit smell have also materialised. The gathering is a peaceful balm to a dramatic day. A large part of you still aches that Benedict fled, but you try to force it from your mind and concentrate on the fact that Eloise may be willing to forgive… with time.

Just as you stand to refill your teacup, however, the calm is shattered. Benedict charges into the room, flustered and breathless. He drops an envelope he is holding onto a side table and marches right up to you, stride purpose-filled, completely ignoring the rest of his family.

“There you are! I have been looking all over for you!” Relief palpable in his tone but still agitated and animated, grabbing your forearms. “Where on earth did you go?”

You splutter indignantly. “Where did I go?! Me? I think the more pertinent question is… where did you go?! You ran out of the room so fast!”

“I asked you to wait a moment,” he frowns.

“No, you didn't!” you state forthrightly.

He seems to falter, relinquishing his grip on your arms. “I… I didn't?”

“No…”

A look of doubt, then confusion, then finally understanding ripples over his face. “Oh…So you thought I… Oh…”

“Yes,” you reply quietly so the others gathered, who seem very invested now in your exchange, cannot hear. “I thought you walked out because of what I divulged.” Not wanting to go into detail with an audience.

“No! No!” he asserts candidly. “Nothing could be further from the truth!” His eyes soften as he realises what happened, looking genuinely contrite. “I am so sorry. I must’ve forgotten to say it out loud in my excitement.”

“Excitement!?” you are baffled. “You looked terrified!”

He grabs your hands this time, holding them in his, a look of earnest sincerity claiming his handsome features. “Yes, I was nervous and shocked that my mother knew and told you,” briefly glancing towards her over your shoulder. “But it spurred me to finally be brave enough to show you something. Something very important that I need your opinion on”

He lets go of your hands to grab the envelope from the table. With a nervous mien, he opens it and hands you a pile of photos. They are of an idyllic-looking country home surrounded by a pretty garden and countryside beyond. It looks so beautiful and instantly captures your imagination. For some strange reason, it already feels familiar to you.

“What do you think?” Benedict seems super nervous, shuffling his weight between his feet, apparently anxious for your answer.

“It's very pretty,” you opine neutrally, primarily confused. “I'm not sure why you are showing me, though?”

“I… I wanted to know if it was somewhere you could see yourself living?” he asks enigmatically with a small smile.

“Why?” you frown, unwilling to confess the truth - that you would live there in a heartbeat. It looks like the house you dreamed you would live in one day.

He takes a deep breath, seeming to steel himself. “Because… I would like to buy it. For you. Well, for us.”

There is no other word for it - you are floored. A loud buzzing sound is behind your ears, your knees feel oddly weak, and there is a tingle in your fingertips.

“For us?” you stutter, disbelieving.

You could hear a pin drop in the room. You can’t see them, but you know his family behind you likely have gaping mouths, especially Eloise.

“Yes, to live in. Together,” Benedict answers, that crooked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “And if you are willing to live with me, well, then I also have another question for you…”

Your lungs feel afire, and your brain is short-circuiting—almost unable to surmount the shock. Entirely confounded as your heart pounds hard in your ribcage.

“A-A-And if I am, what is your other question?” you ask breathlessly.

You gasp as he falls to one knee before you, and you hear a collective ripple of shock behind you as he produces a little velvet box from his pocket.

“I wanted you to wait so I could also go and get this,” he explains, a slight shake in his hand as he holds it open—an engagement ring with sapphires and diamonds nestled within.

You can feel your eyes welling with tears as you gaze down upon him.

“Realising my mother knew the truth and accepted it was a wake-up call for me. I had to finally be brave and confess to you. We are already married, so some may think this pointless, but it is nothing less than you deserve: a proper, heartfelt, honest proposal.”

His free hand reaches and grabs yours, lacing your fingers together. It feels like the anchor you need to stay upright.

“Given the short time, it may seem reckless to others, but I do not care what anyone thinks but you. I know what my heart tells me, indeed, has told me from the moment we met—you are my home, my refuge, my present and my future. Y/n, I love you more than I ever thought possible. I would marry you a hundred times over, in whatever way you would have me. Please, please, will you be my wife?”

A sob escapes your lungs, and you fall to your knees with him, wanting to be at eye level.

“Yes, Benedict! A hundred times - yes!!!”

Your answer is rendered through watery tears as he breaks into a breathtaking grin and pulls you both to your feet. He gathers you into his arms and seals the pact with a lingering but chaste kiss. His eyes are misty, too, as your lips break apart and exchange smiles.

Behind you, his family erupts into whoops and applause as he pushes the ring onto your left finger, fitting snugly over your wedding band. You twist to see Eloise, a begrudging tear in her eye; a burden lightens in your heart as she nods towards you as if bestowing her tacit approval.

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unoriginalfellow567 · 30 days

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Herbs n’ stuff

Getting high with Leon Kennedy after saving the President’s daughter

Leon Kennedy x genderneutral!reader

Crack fic

Dividers from: @cafekitsune

Idrk what this is, I didn’t have any inspo for a long time, but I wanted to write something with Leon. And, I thought of the meme of him making a joint, and this came about to be. I think it’s be one of my longest works yet (I apologise in advance for any possible erroneous spelling). Enjoy!

The meme:

The rain pattered against the grimy windows, thunder and lighting striking at arbitrary times, the pair a stark contrast against the soothing effects the rain had on yours, Leon and Ashley’s nerves after the events, the horrors, that had transpired just a few hours ago.

Leon and you were pretty bored, and extremely fatigued. You felt jealousy crawl its way out of the pit of your stomach and nearly escape your mouth through the means of pathetic whining at the sight of Ashely sleeping on one of the villagers’ bed, Leon’s leather jacket (which, quite frankly, you wanted one like it) splayed out under her in a poor attempt of protecting her from the filthy sheets.

You spun on your chair to face Leon, who was sat on the opposite side of the wooden table stationed near the window. “She’s out cold,” you stated the obvious, staring into his weary eyes, dark bags drooping. “Poor girl’s been through hell and back, she deserves some rest.” He replied, softy tapping his fingers on the table’s surface. “How’s your rib?” He asks, referring to the injury you had attained while fighting Saddler’s mutated form. “It’s.. still there, I think. So, that’s something,” you replied, shrugging slightly. “Don’t worry, Hunnigan said a chopper will get here soon,” he assured with a small smile, trying to alleviate the situation. “I’ll live.” Is your reply.

“Hey, you got any more of those green herbs?” You ask Leon, hopeful. “It won’t do anything for broken bones, y’know,” he stated. “That’s not an answer, ‘y’know’,” You mocked, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, I do have some left. Here,” he yielded, retrieving a variety of herbs from his attache case, rolling them up in a piece of paper and handing the combination to you. “Thanks.” You reply, not long before getting out a lighter from one of the pockets of your cargo pants, and lighting the rudimentary joint up.

“The hell are you doing?” Leon asks, seeing you inhale the smoke, then blow it out. “Look, different people have different coping mechanisms. This is the best I’ve got at the moment, take it or leave it,” You say, raising your eyebrows invitingly and holding the joint out to him.

He looked at the drug, then back at you, then at then back at the joint in you hand, and reluctantly accepted it. “Ok..” were his words before he took a drag of the reefer. “Weren’t you not a smoker?” You raised an eyebrow, teasing him. “People change.” He shut you down quickly.

It was amusing, really, two of the U.S.’s most elite agents, smoking healing herbs, high off their asses in a crumbling shed in the middle of a forest right in the Spanish ass-crack of nowhere, saying whatever came to their minds, lamenting about how ‘relationships are a waste of time, man’, as you had re-iterated several times, each more sober than the last, whilst simultaneously laughing (as little and quietly as you could, considering your broken rib and Ashley respite) at his stories of rejection.

‘No use calling yourself a one lady type of guy if there aren’t any women interested in you’, as he had quoted.

It had been a nice change of pace, seeing Leon in a more mellow state. His snark combined with the misanthropic attitude, which seemingly never faltered, cracked, allowing out a more vulnerable, exposed Leon. A more.. human Leon.

You couldn’t remember where you first heard the corny-ass saying, ‘laughter is the best medicine’, but this moment solidified it. Or maybe it was the green herb, mixed with some other leaves of which colours you couldn’t remember. Probably, both.

“And then she went to the bathroom and jumped outta the fucking window! And left me to pay for her meal! The nerve,” his words were bitter, yet you could see the amusement of the anecdote in his bloodshot eyes.

You couldn’t remember the last time you had went on a date. It was somewhat surprising that Leon had time to indulge in the romantic aspects of life, considering your own schedule working as an agent, but maybe he just manages his time better than you do. Who knows.

“Hey, times are tough, man,” You shrugged, taking another drag of the badly-rolled up joint, and slowly blowing out the fumes. “How long did Hunnigan say it was gonna take for a chopper to get here?” You asked for what seemed like the hundredth time that night. “It should be here in,” Leon took a look at his watch, squinting like he had some sort of visual impairment, then he looked up at you again, “15 minutes or so. Going by the storm outside, I’d triple that.” He replied nonchalantly. “I say 30 minutes, wanna bet?” You raise an eyebrow, staring him directly in his red eyes. “You sure you wanna? I’m right pretty much all the time,” he declared cockily, smirking. “Yeah, ‘right’ my ass, you’re just lucky as hell. I wouldn’t be surprised if you have a pot of gold at home.” I rolled my eyes. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if you have a cauldron.” He retorted, stumping out the joint you both were smoking by pressing it into the windowsill on his right.

“Devastating blow.” You deadpan, then return to the subject at hand. “10.. Hamiltons if I’m right, and vice-versa.” You established, and he nodded. There was a comforting silence which ensued, and you took the time to observe Ashley’s sleeping form, her features soft and peaceful. A contrast to the events that had transpired just a few hours prior.

“What do you think’ll happen to her? In the future, I mean,” you looked back at Leon. “Who knows?” He shrugged, “She’s got her whole life ahead of her. I remember when I was her age..” he replied, closing his eyes. “Okay, old man,” You joked, just an innocent jab, in your mind. “Raccoon City.. I was her age when I survived its horrors, back in 1998.” He revealed sombrely. “Shit, Leon, I didn’t mean to.. I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” You apologised instantly. “It’s all right, let’s forget it. Better that way.” You nodded understandingly.

A while later, after the tension had dissipated a little, you received a transmission from Hunnigan. You smirked at Leon, then looked at his watch, anticipation brewing in your core at the thought of 10 dollars, and more importantly, proving him wrong.

“Hey Hunnigan,” you greeted sweetly, waiting for her announcement. “It’s good to hear your voice, Y/N, is everyone all right?” She asked, her voice fuzzy. “We’re all.. alive. Baby Eagle is safe, but I have a broken rib. As for Leon, he’s all good.” I replied. “The chopper has just landed, at the pick-up point. Hunnigan out.” She finalised the announcement, and you looked at Leon.

“30 or 45?” You asked, confidently. He sighed, rubbing his temples. “30.” He begrudgingly admitted. “Pay up,” You smiled victoriously, holding your hand out. “My wallet’s in my jacket,” he replied. “Okay then, we’ll settle this later.”

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x gn!reader #resident evil #resident evil 4 #crack fic #x reader #leon kennedy x y/n #gender neutral reader

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huramuna · 4 months

Text

banshee's lament - chapter 10.

aemond targaryen x stark ofc minor jacaerys velaryon x stark ofc masterlist prev | next

wordcount: 6.2k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

and here we have it! the end of act 1 of banshee's lament. it will be going on a hiatus while i plan and write most of act 2. so sorry for the long wait. i hope y'all enjoy!!

content: smut (specifics under the cut), angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, graphic depictions of violence, death

story playlist

warning: p in v, loss of virginity

The silence was stifling– the usually bustling keep was quiet. It didn’t breathe nor creak like normal. It was lulled to sleep.

The scent of fading smoke still permeated the air, lingering down into paltry ash. Shera wasn’t sure if it was her dream still at play. The world around her suddenly felt different. Not just at Aegon’s pronouncement, but the tone of reality was slightly askew. Askew and off color. There was a throbbing deep within Shera’s skull as if she’d lost something dear— or mayhaps, a memory she was never meant to have was shoved into her cranium. An intense pressure pressed at her mind, threatening to drive her mad.

Shera held onto Aemond for as long as she could, as long as he would have her. His arm was tucked under her legs to hoist her up, his other arm secure around her back, pressing her to him. She felt safe, peering over his shoulder like a stealthy cat. He held her up with ease as she observed Aegon, now apparently pronounced ‘King’. She should be shocked– but she knew Viserys had passed. She watched it, in some twisted semblance of the vision her poppy-addled mind had concocted.

“How long have… I been asleep for?” she asked Aemond tentatively, whispering into his ear.

“Five days.”

Five days. Much happens in five days, then.

“Is everyone… alright? Helaena? The children?” she posed the question to Aegon then as Aemond sat her back down on her bed. She squirmed slightly, not wanting to stay in bed any longer.

“Everyone is fine,” Aegon said, quirking a brow to Aemond. “She’s awake now. You should go before grandsire gets any more cross.”

Go? Where are you going? She stared at Aemond with a pinched expression, tilting her head.

“I will return, Shera,” he paused, brow furrowing. “I promise. Then, we shall speak. ‘Tis a quick flight to Storm’s End.”

“He is petitioning Lord Borros on my behalf, so the Baratheon seat will declare for me.” Aegon answered swiftly as Shera’s mouth opened to protest.

“Petitioning?” she interjected.

“Daeron will be a suitable match for any of his four daughters, I assume.” Aemond nods to Aegon, whom tips his head in agreement. “Keep Shera safe, brother.”

“‘Tis no greater honor upon a King to guard the banshee.”

Shera scowls, folding her arms over her chest. Even with the crown upon his head, Aegon was still an agitation.

Aemond rolled his eye in turn, prying one of Shera’s arms from her chest, turning her palm upwards. “We will speak further, little wolf,” he whispered, leaning down to the shell of her ear. “I hope to never see you in red again. You’re better suited to blue.”

Shera’s eye wandered to the bedside table where her dress, the red and black garment worn at the Lucerys’ inheritance hearing, was strewn.

“You should have Vhagar burn it, then,” she hummed back, the ghost of a smile curling at her lips. “Along with any other pieces of my wardrobe you deem… unsuitable.”

“I’d say what you’re wearing currently is, in fact, unsuitable, my lady,” Aemond responded, his thumb pressing into her upturned palm. Not a warning. It was a promise.

Aegon cleared his throat. “If you two are going to fuck, get on with it. Make it a show for your king, then! I haven’t got all night.”

Heat burned at Shera’s cheeks as she hid her face sheepishly in Aemond’s shoulder. He gave her a chaste kiss on the forehead and let go of her hand. “If I were a lesser brother, you would be eating a meal of your own teeth, Aegon.”

And then he was gone. The door closed behind him and the warmth of the room vanished. Aegon didn’t make a move to leave— in fact, he adjusted himself to be more comfortable.

“You’re… staying?” Shera questioned softly.

“I promised my honorable brother I would keep you safe, did I not? I cannot very well do so if I leave.”

A long silence stretched between them. It wasn’t awkward, per se, but it felt overbearing. It felt… heavy for both of them. A proverbial woolen blanket casted over them, warmth rising to a point of discomfort, to which Shera couldn’t be silent any longer.

“Why did you do it, Aegon? This… this will bring disaster for everyone,” she exasperated suddenly, the breath leaving her lungs as she thought of all the things that could, no, would happen. She worried her lip between her teeth as she stared at Aegon. “You usurped her. You usurped Daemon.”

“Why? You really ask me that, Shera?” he responded, lazed back in his chair.

“Explain it to me– so I might… understand.”

“They will do anything to secure their position. You know that– they… they would kill my children, kill my siblings, my… my mother–” the king choked on the last word like it was bile stuck in his craw.

“You don’t know that for sure, Aegon.” She didn’t want to believe it, even if it was likely true. Undoubtedly true. she thought.

“Look what they did to you, Shera. They mauled you like beasts and then expected you to be okay with it. They betrothed you to one of them. I may be a drunken lecher, but even I know it's wrong,” he took a shaky breath, the heights of his cheeks reddened. “They took my brother’s eye and no punishments were brought forth. Daemon caved his first wife’s head in with a rock and was allowed to marry into Velaryon money, even. They killed Vaemond in the throne room in front of two dozen guards and the bleeding King for fuck’s sake– and nothing happened.”

“Aegon…”

“I am not my mother’s favorite child, I know that. I am not my sister’s favorite brother. I am not your favorite Targaryen by any means. I…” Aegon twisted his rings on his fingers in a way so reminiscent of Alicent. “I cannot sit by idly and let them take and take and take until we,” he gestured between the two of them, then beyond to the general direction of his mother, sister and children’s chambers. “Until we are nothing but dust and ash,” his knuckles were white as he was straining, fist clenching the back of his chair. “Make no mistake, I do not want this. I don’t want the burden, the strife. I’d be much happier stripped of all titles and frills and be nameless in Essos–” he paused, swallowing. He could say it all he liked but knew it not to be true. He needed his family-- as much as they needed him in this moment.

Aegon had always been the eldest of them all, shouldering the brunt of what it meant to be eldest child, but never the favorite. Expectations set upon him the moment he exited his mother's womb, but never sought to fruition. The deep set dark circles under his eyes were reminiscent of someone much older, who had been through much more– but his posture; defeated for the last time as a disappointment, slouched, veins bulging from his hand was a painted picture of a child, a child who wanted to do better. Who had to be better. This would be his metamorphosis.

“Mother said that he professed me his heir with his dying breath. Mother is many things— but I do not think her to lie like this. Especially against Rhaenyra.”

Aegon’s dream. The depiction of the younger, much more alive Viserys danced before Shera’s gaze once more. If the world of men is to survive, a Targaryen must be seated on the Iron Throne. A king.

Or a queen.

But the latter was left unsaid, wasn’t it?

“Then… this is… war?” she finally uttered, looking down at her hands.

“Indeed.” Aegon acknowledged, his voice hollow.

—

The sky finally cleared, if only for a moment. The roiling clouds opened a pathway to Storm’s End, allowing Vhagar to ascend towards the land with ease. Aemond kept his head low as he scoured the palisade, seeing the puny figure of a green and yellow tinged dragon. He felt Vhagar tense beneath him ever so slightly, the bubbling of a growl stuck in her craw.

Vermax. Aemond would recognize his eldest nephew’s bile colored dragon anywhere. Steering Vhagar outside of the castle walls and as far away from the snack-shaped whelpling as possible, he slid down from the saddle.

He didn’t fancy much having to beg and plead Lord Borros against Jacaerys— it was unbecoming. He loathed having to beg for anything, especially from an oaf like Borros. The man could not even read and apparently only knew how to sire girls. Aemond pitied Daeron having to deal with the Baratheon lord as his future good-father.

The prince’s steps were quiet and measured, hands behind his back. The clouds swirled above, threatening to dole out the Gods’ wrath once more.

“Prince Aemond of House Targaryen has arrived, Lord Baratheon,” the page announced, leading him to the seat of Storm’s End.

It was a terribly bleak room, Aemond thought. In tune with a bleak castle and bleak house. The Baratheon house words were ‘Ours is the Fury’. There was certainly nothing ferocious to be seen, however.

Borros Baratheon lazed in his stone chair like a sloven boar as a maester read off a missive next to him. “Another Targaryen prince graces Storm’s End. The house of the Dragon is confused on who rules it and the realm, it seems. The young pup here is asking for a declaration for the Queen. Might I ask what you are asking, prince Aemond? And what you might offer.” he balanced a single gold dragon between chubby, sausage-like fingers.

“I’ve come to seek House Baratheon’s alliance with the true king— King Aegon, second of his name. May I remind you that the current sitting monarch does indeed have the Conqueror’s name, his crown, and his weapon,” Aemond began, standing with a rigid back.

Jacaerys was there, as well, meandering on the outskirts of the room. Anxiety roiled off of him like smoke from a dragon’s nostrils— albeit, a puny one.

Aemond paid him no mind as he continued. “I fear the Queen that my naïve nephew proclaims for is a farce. My father named Aegon his heir upon his dying breath, denouncing Rhaenyra.”

“Grandsire would never!” Jacaerys butt in. “My mother has been named heir and upheld for years. The vipers are spewing their poison, my lord. Their lies are not to be believed.”

“Aegon was crowned in the Dragonpit before Gods and men, as well as blessed by a Septon. I do not recall your mother being coronated with the conqueror’s crown, nephew? Ah, that would be due to her incessant need to hide upon Dragonstone.”

“My mother was crowned b—,”

“That is enough!” Borros bellowed, sitting up in his chair slightly. “I don’t care what the Gods have professed, nor a dead King. What can you offer me, Prince Aemond?”

“A betrothal of my brother, Prince Daeron, to one of your daughters.” Aemond said simply. He knew that Rhaenyra did not have any sons to offer up, all of them being betrothed or still in child’s nappies. It was a fruitless affair.

“May I remind you, Lord Borros, of the oath that your father took in favor of my mother, the rightful heir?” Jacaerys cut in again, voice raising in urgency. Aemond could feel the nerves pouring off of him, no doubt feeling the pressure of failure weighing upon his shoulders.

“That is all well and fine, young prince— but I am not my father, am I? Am I so beholden to the oath of someone who is dead? An oath made when your mother was barely fourteen?” Borros perked a brow as he continued to flip the coin between his fingers. “You weren’t even a thought yet, nary conceived.”

Jacaerys shifted his weight between both feet, clenching his jaw. His leather gloves squeaked under the balling of his fist— and yet, he stayed silent.

“Your uncle brings me quite the offer. I can wed one of my daughters into the King’s family with ease. What do you offer, little prince?”

“My mother’s favor, my lord. The Baratheon name will be sung through the halls of court when she ascends to her throne, rightfully.”

“Her favor? And what can I do with favors and minstrel’s songs? I cannot even wipe my arse with those pitiful offerings.”

“Lord Baratheon—,” Jace attempted to interject.

Borros silenced him with a firm hand. “You’ve lost, boy. Go back to your mother with your tail between your legs,” the stout Baratheon looked at Aemond, who was quiet all the while with his hands neatly behind his back. “House Baratheon declares for King Aegon, second of his name.”

—

Finalizing the affair with Borros was surprisingly straightforward— Daeron would have his pick of four brides when the war was over. Borros didn’t seem to favor any of his four daughters to be wed over one another, but he did mention his youngest being the most ‘comely’.

Shera crossed his mind for a moment, thinking of the situation— she was no different than any of Lord Baratheon’s daughters, was she? In circumstance, merely a pawn for treaties, alliances to be forged, bloodlines to be mingled and heirs to be conceived. Surely, the state of the realm severed her betrothal to Jacaerys, wasn’t it? And if not, surely Aegon would be prevalent to dissolve it.

But Aegon wasn’t the only one with power or a voice. He was the final say and could invoke absolute authority if needed— but it would be wasted on something as tedious as a betrothal during a war. Cregan wouldn’t forsake his oath to Rhaenyra for anything, it seemed. Not even for his own sister. Nothing would be gained by marrying Shera, not in the eyes of the council at least.

Aemond curled his lip in agitation as he left the Keep, fearing that his brain may wither and die if he were to share any further words with that oaf. The ground rumbled with the promise of thunder, as well as Vhagar’s looming presence beyond the walls. Heavy clouds loomed above, dark and swirling.

He felt something cold against his throat as he was suddenly pushed backwards, undoubtedly with a weapon to him. Grabbing his attacker’s arm, he twisted it at an awkward angle and shifted his body weight to stagger them. Wringing their arm behind their back, he spoke evenly. “Drop your weapon.”

A clang of metal upon stones was heard as Aemond got a look at his opponent’s face. “Jacaerys. That was a pitiful attempt, truly.” he drawled, hoisting his nephew’s arm higher behind his back.

The young prince grunted in pain, thrashing against his uncle like a pinned animal. “Where is she?! You and your damnable brother have her captive, you cowards!”

Aemond blinked once. Twice. He was referring to Shera. Did his nephew actually care for her? Or mayhaps the reaction of her brother, instead, that he was afraid of. “She’s safe, ‘tis all you need to know. She’s away from you and your inept side of the family. In fact, I daresay, she is with her real family.” he let go of Jace’s arm, shoving him away and sending him spiraling on the cobble. He drew his dagger, twirling it. “Do you really think anyone believes your charade, nephew? That you actually like her?”

Jacaerys got back to his feet, unsheathing his sword. His grip was shaky, but with some intention. “You know nothing, uncle! I care for her— we are to be married!” he professed the words with hollow conviction, a dullness behind his deep brown eyes giving way to his true emotion: doubt.

“You care for her? If that’s true, you’ll climb upon your puny dragon and go back to Dragonstone with your tail tucked between your legs. Cry to your mummy and tell her to cease this silly charade of war— and never, ever mention Shera’s name again. She’s too good for the likes of you, bastard.” Aemond spat.

Jacaerys surged forward, sloppy and fueled by anger alone. Aemond shouldered his blow, clashing the metal of his dagger with the shortsword. “A rematch, then, nephew? I don’t believe your guard dog is here to so valiantly come to your side, is he?” the elder prince taunted, felling another haphazard strike– sparks flew from their respective weapons, years of resentment, the bullying, prods and exchanges, taking his Shera, it had all finally come to a head. An elude to a dance between them.

Metal bit metal, flickers of those flames bleeding from their blades with each strike, strike, strike.

“Since you very well fancy yourself a dragonrider, nephew,” Aemond continued to tease, gaining ground on Jacaerys with ease. “How about we take this fight to the skies, hm? Vhagar would do well with a snack out of your shitty little whelp.” he cocked his head to the side as lightning struck behind them, near the sea. The skies churned and toiled, swirling like a threatening witch’s brew. Then came the thunder, rumbling and shaking the ground beneath them. “I shall give you a head start,” Aemond hummed, twirling his blade. “Run.”

It was a blur of adrenaline, the pressure of the storm and something ancient brewing in his blood. He did not remember mounting Vhagar and beginning the chase. But as the rain pelted his face like shards of ice piercing his soul, his whole body sung. It was alight with fire, with molten lava straight from the molten hells of Old Valyria. Vhagar rumbled beneath him, as if to share sentiment with his thoughts.

“Dakogon, valītsos!” Run, boy! He yelled into the raging storm, not caring that he was thoroughly soaked to the bone. He felt alive.

The blur of Vermax dodging and weaving through the clouds, above and below the storm, was all Aemond saw besides the red in his vision. Crimson fury coursed through him as he thought back to Driftmark, feeling a ghost of the pain light up his nerves. The roar of the storm was muted over the ringing, the white noise playing in his ears, the echo of his own screams as a child being mutilated. He never told Shera, nay, anyone, but he had heard her cries. He had heard the colluding of his family to murder her.

“Kill her! She’s going to tell on us, Baela!” one of the other kids had cried.

“I-I can’t! I can’t kill her, Jace!” Baela wailed back. “T-That would be… wrong!”

What was left of his strength at that moment, Aemond mustered it. Baela had the knife pressed to Shera’s throat, hand shaking. The Stark girl was eerily still, soft whimpering cries coming from her. Blood was everywhere, the whites of her eyes no longer white, but stained red.

He would save her, he had to!

He hardly remembered moving, it was all autonomous, as he pushed his cousin’s arm wielding the knife away–

The tunnel was silent, save for the noise of sickly gurgling as blood filled Shera’s throat. It wasn’t the action of Baela that cut it. It was Aemond’s paltry attempt to save her.

It was truly an accident.

Aemond was pulled out of the memory by Vhagar’s agitated roar, Vermax spitting fire at her from in front. It wouldn’t hurt the old dragon, no, the whelp’s flames didn’t burn hot enough for that. But it was an annoyance to her– she was the Queen of Dragons, how could a lowly little hatchling think himself big enough to challenge her? Any semblance of clarity in Aemond’s clouded mind was snuffed out at Vermax’s display of aggression.

Instead, he plunged deeper into it. He embraced the madness. “Ao sylugon naejot vīlībagon se dāria zaldrīzoti, nādrēsy?” You dare challenge the Queen of Dragons, bastard? “Kesan jikagon ao arlī naejot aōha muña isse ñuqir!” I will send you back to your mother in ashes.

An updraft lifted Vhagar, her gargantuan wings billowing like sails as she rode the wind. They were approaching a craggy outcrop of cliffs which would spell doom for any would-be sailor. But they were not sailors. Tucking in her wings, she dove downward towards Vermax. Vhagar was not the fastest dragon by any means, but her size coupled with gravity pulling downward made her as fast as an arrow, barrelling towards the pair.

They were at war. It would be justified, surely. It was on the tip of his tongue. Dra—

No. No.

“Keligon,” he whispered. Stop. “Keligon, Vhagar!” Stop! He pulled at the reins to steer them towards the open sea.

Vermax and Jacaerys Velaryon disappeared into the hovel of crags, just small enough to slip into them.

Vhagar protested, growling, snarling, blowing fire into the air as they skimmed the surface of the ocean, more water spraying across Aemond’s face, some droplets turned to stinging steam.

Why did he stop?

He could’ve killed Jacaerys and then Rhaenyra’s side would be down one dragonrider. Shera would not be betrothed any longer. It would be revenge.

But– he remembered Shera rambling about something a few weeks prior.

Shera held a red leaf between her thumb and forefinger, observing it with a careful gaze. They had liaised into the Godswood after his morning training. She was wearing her usual garb of black and white with a lacy train that was getting caught in the twigs and grass as she walked. Her veil was off of her face, pulled to rest behind her neck for a moment of reprieve.

“The leaves are falling,” she murmured, her moonstone jewelry on her hands shining as the sunlight filtered through waving foliage. “Do you think the Gods are watching us, Aemond?”

He glanced at her as he was loosening his armored gauntlets, unstrapping the leather beneath them. “Mayhaps.”

“They’re selective when they do see, don’t they? What makes a God? And what are we…” she dropped the leaf, letting it float away on the breeze. “But just spaces in between? We wish to be blessed by being good, by adhering to their rules. The faith of the Seven condemn bastardry as a sin. The old Gods of the North behold guest rights as an immutable law. Both hold Kinslaying to the highest of faults, none are more damned than a Kinslayer,” her eye met Aemond’s as she tilted her head. “I want to believe in it all, to be good, to appease… but sometimes I feel as if it’s never enough. It seems they only pay attention when you are to be cursed for your wrongdoings.”

Aemond clenched his jaw as he guided Vhagar back to King’s Landing.

—

“You’re inevitable, you’ve always been.” he muttered, loosening the fingertips of his gloves before removing them.

Shera poked her head up from the doorway, nightgown billowing around her like a ghostly shift. It was late— extremely so. The candles had burnt out, the only light available illuminating from the moon. “Aem… ond?” she squeaked, voice laden with sleep. A poor pageboy had been sent to wake her, the shaken lad citing ‘The prince requested your presence immediately in his chambers’. It remained a mystery to her how Aemond had even found a servant at this ungodly hour.

“Why are you inevitable to me? It’s as if I’m looking at my death when I see you, think of you— you’re a parasite upon my own mind, like I have no self control.” he continued, his silhouette outlined by the moonlight. One hand was clutched at his head, fingers running through his hair. The luminosity glared off of the sapphire embedded into his socket— he looked quite mad. Mad in a beautiful, haunting sort of way.

Shera thought them made for one another. “I’m… I’m sorry,” she said, slipping into the room and closing the door behind her. Moongeist had escorted her, but he was left outside the chamber now. It was only her and Aemond. “I didn’t think… I occupied so much of your mind.”

“I could’ve killed him tonight, you know. Chased his whelp of a dragon through the storm and scattered him across the bay,” Aemond rambled on, not addressing that Shera was even speaking. “I should have. Put the title of Kinslayer on me, over my head. I’m already damned.”

Walking closer, he was soaked head to toe, rain water still dripping from his leathers. His hair clung to his skin, curled softly in its dampness. It almost brought a smile to her face, the curls she thought he lost were still there— but the mood of the room, the distant rumble of thunder, was oppressive. It felt like a hood over their heads.

“Would you still love me if I was a Kinslayer?” he turned to her completely. Even in the dark, she could see the smallest rim of violet in his eye— eclipsed by his blown out pupil. His expression was blank, mood unknowable.

Her stomach twisted at his words, legs feeling shaky beneath her once more. She hadn’t told him that she loves him, afraid of denial, rejection. Taking a seat in his desk chair before him, she looked up. “Y-you… you must know,” she whispered hoarsely. “You must know my feelings.”

“Speak it into existence, Shera,” the prince pleaded, almost. “Make it real.” he got on his knees now before her, putting his hands in her lap, palms up— as if he was praying. His head laid sideways on her thighs as he looked onto the darkness, ear up, waiting.

Her heart plummeted to her stomach, to the deepest depths of the hells below them. She never thought herself brave, no, she was quite cowardly, in truth. She would catch a fright from odd shadows and most certainly would never stand up to the face of adversity. She wasn’t made for it. But this— this was something she needed to do. It wasn’t an act of bravery nor valor. It was selfish, cowardly. The words she spoke made it real between them both. And they could not be taken back. Her lips parted slowly, her voice soft as she whispered into his ear. “I love you. I love you irrevocably, irreversibly, irresponsibly, all consumingly,” her words were jagged and unhewn, but it was so much like them. “You are everything, Aemond.”

Aemond let out the smallest puff of air from his nostrils. He still did not speak, nor verbally reciprocate her declaration. He was, of course, a man of action. His hands slid up to her face, pulling her downward into a ferocious kiss. It wasn’t the sweet one they had shared in the Godswood before— no, this was different. It was the exchanges of breath, tethered to one another’s oxygen like lifelines. His fingers threaded in her hair, tugging, teasing.

The heat in the room was rising, much like the fervor of their kisses. Tongues fighting, fingers roaming to snatch at exposed skin— anything to be closer, as close as they could be without their veins intertwining. Soon enough, Aemond lifted her up from her seat with one arm, not breaking their connection for even a second.

“You,” he huffed between her lips as he sat her down at the edge of the bed. “Are mine. You are mine,” his hands left her body as he unbuttoned his soaked jerkin and discarded it to the side carelessly.

“Yours,” she echoed, her voice not sounding like her own. It was an autonomous thing, to give oneself to another, wholly and completely.

Laying back on the bed, her nightgown pooled beside her like silver ichor. The ichor slipped through his fingers like silk, pulling it taut. Aemond pauses for a moment, throat bobbing in an unheard ask for consent to go further. Despite his bravado with starting it, there was an air of apprehension swirling around him, an uncertainty that was almost unheard of with Aemond.

She knew it right away, seeing that own feeling within herself many times. Warmth grew in her chest as she reassured him without words, both hands making a home on his face as she swept him into a kiss that left no room for any other interpretation: she wanted him. Desperately.

To her delight, it seemed he felt the same, if the hardness prodding against her stomach was any indication. He peeled away her lone garment, leaving her bare before him. He blinked, chest rising and falling with a slow, feather light motion. He was observing her with extreme scrutiny, much as he had when he sketched her before. This was something he wanted— needed— to commit to memory. Then, after what felt like an eternity of staring, he let out a deep breath, hands back on her once more. His fingers notched themselves in the soft skin of her hips, silently marveling at them with a less than subtle squeeze.

They didn’t need words between them. Not now, not for this. Words only got in the way, cluttering what could so clearly be said with action. With reaction. Shera let out a gentle sigh as he continued his exploration, palming her heavy breast, once again giving a squeeze. On mere instinct, to want more, to taste more, her lips latched to his neck and jawline. He wriggled out of his smallclothes and finally there was nothing between them.

Nothing but skin and warmth, on display for one another. All of their collective scars washed away with their extremities as their chests cracked open, bones falling away with all pretense, all duty, all expectation. It was just them. The two colors of their souls mingling together rightfully at last.

He prodded gently at her entrance, testing for any discomfort. She sung her consent by melding their lips together again, tongues taking one another and savoring as her arms looped around his neck, pulling him impossibly close. As he breached her, sliding in slowly, Shera paused for a moment, mouth open against his, peering at him beneath fettered lashes.

His eye was closed— the one he could still see from. The other, embedded with the sapphire, did not close completely. The puckered skin tried, eclipsing the gem ever so slightly, leaving a crescent of blue to shine through. Aemond’s brow was furrowed, lips pursed in deep concentration as he finally bottomed out inside of her, hand clutched against her thigh, fingers indenting against her skin.

It didn’t feel right to say anything else at the moment, truly. Her heart hung so heavy in her chest that she feared it would abscond from her ribcage and fall upon the floor. Softly and almost inaudibly, she whispered against his lips. “I love you.”

Theirs was a muffled pleasure, besotted by one another’s presence that all sound ceased. Only once they had finished, the union of dragon and wolf, Aemond planting his seed deep inside of her, did he speak. “I love you.”

–

It was silent, save for the tandem pitter-patter of two bare feet and four paws. Her heart fluttered in her chest, her body still tingling from the encounter. She still felt his hands on her waist, his lips on the soft column of her neck– he absolutely worshiped her after they got over the awkwardness.

It felt like second nature after the initial moments– it felt right, to give themselves to one another, to profess so strongly…

She couldn’t stop smiling. Her cheeks hurt, actually hurt, from smiling so much. When has she ever experienced something like this in her life?

Her fingers skimmed Moongeist’s soft fur as they went back to her chambers. She had wanted to stay with Aemond, to sleep beside him, to wake up next to him– she had to put mind over matter when she left while he was sleeping. She always figured him a light sleeper due to his incessant training with Ser Cole. She was surprised to learn that he even slept at all. When she had awoken from the tiny nap after their coupling, he was, in fact, asleep– soundly, even.

This was probably the only time he did sleep. She giggled to herself as she imagined it again, sipping at her herbal tea left on the side table, left presumably by the maids. It was lukewarm and could use a bit of heat. When did they leave this?

Perched on the settee, she attempted to cross one leg over the other, but was met with a dull, aching pain in the apex of her thighs.

Oh, right.

Her mind began to swirl as she thought of Aemond waking up… and seeing that she wasn’t there. Would he be upset? Angry? Despondent?

Their time together for the past half year had been enlightening. About herself, about Aemond. The fact of it was– he was just as damaged as she was. He had just mastered the art of masking it. She had a lot to learn from him.

Mayhaps she should write him a note– saying she didn’t want to leave, that she liked what they did, that she loved him, that she wanted to do it again and soon because she was absolutely aching for him–

She needed to calm down, beginning to feel wanton. Her head felt full of cotton, leaking from her ears like one of one of the stuffies that Moongeist destroyed as a puppy. Grabbing a quill and piece of loose parchment from the table.

I have always liked blue.

What color do you think we make together?

I think it would be a shade of periwinkle, a beautiful layering of vinca on the forest floor.

Please return to me. And we shall see what color we make.

I feel bereft without you.

She did not address it, nor sign it– Aemond should know her handwriting by now, shouldn’t he? As she folded it up, fuzzy bundles of sheep’s wool cotton spread across the room. When she tried to move, intending to stand up, a sudden illness rose through her, the quill slipping out of her hand. As she stood up, her vision went sideways. Moongeist began to whine, prodding at her hand with his wet nose.

This wasn’t normal– to be frank, nothing about her usual illnesses was normal. But this was different. She was numb in her extremities, shots of ice spreading through her fingers and toes. It felt like being caught beyond the wall in the maw of an ice dragon, rime-wrought teeth burying into her skin. Moongeist was growling suddenly, snarling and snapping his jaws. She hadn’t heard him so upset in so long, nary ever.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell! There’s a damn wolf in here!” an unfamiliar voice boomed.

Who is that? What is happening? Shera clutched the fabric of the chaise as she attempted to right herself, to right her mind and rid it of the cacophony of butterflies that were making a host in her ears.

“‘Course there is, damn rogue wouldn’t mention it! Stave ‘em off while I grab the girl.” another voice responded.

Please don’t. Please don’t touch me. Moongeist snarled, she heard, his body barrelling toward one of the intruders, knocking over furniture in his way. The wolf was a force to be reckoned with, sizing up to the burglar’s height with ease, over six feet when standing on his hind legs.

The former man’s voice wailed, his scream bloodcurdling, followed by a sickly crunch. “Fuck! Fuck! My fuckin’ fingers!”

Strong and careless arms hoisted Shera up, her vision still spinning. “S-St… stop… stop,” she whimpered, her limbs feeling like jelly. She tried to wrestle out of his grasp– he smelled terrible. Twisting her body as much as she could, she wriggled against him.

“Shut up, shut up,” he grunted, looking around the room as Moongeist mauled his companion.

He tore out a chunk of flesh from his arm, then silenced him by ripping out his throat. The first intruder gave a sickly gurgling noise before he went still.

The man holding Shera bolted towards the opening behind the bookcase.

“A-Ae-,” Shera rose her voice, trying her damndest to yell, to scream. Her consciousness faded like a failsafe, her voice cut off by a sharp hit to her throat. It felt like a steel ball ripping through her, her voice going dead and falling from her tongue like vomit.

She felt blood in her mouth, flesh in her teeth. She needed the violence, the rage–

I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll rip you apart, you fucking craven.

She slipped into Moongeist’s being with ease, with urgency, jaws snapping as they whipped around, seeing her corporeal body being taken away.

No, no, no!

They howled, lamenting.

NO!

Their paws moved fast, chest heaving, lungs ballooning and deflating– so close, so close.

The bookshelf closed in their face. They howled again, their song filled with anguish. Their nails scratched against the wood, tearing books apart and splinters embedding into their paws. The physical pain was nothing– nothing compared to the tether between lady and wolf wavering. It flitted across the breeze, pulled taut, taut, taut.

Lost.

Taken.

Stolen.

SNAP.

The cord was severed. She was back in her own body again. Her nose was bleeding. She couldn’t speak. She was well and truly silenced now.

Her vision went dark again as she heard the distant sound of seagulls.

#aemond x oc #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #aemond fanfic #hotd #house of the dragon #aemond x original female character #aemond x ofc #my writing #banshees lament #fic: banshee's lament

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seventeencryinghorses-blog · 2 months

Note

may i ask for headcanons for crocodile x child reader where crocodile's daughter joins the strawhats post alabasta?

and the next time they meet in impel down, well. that's not even his daughter anymore. that's his son now.

thank you very much for the open requests!

(from @77v77)

Bet. My first time writing a trans character so I hope it turned out okay. I'm still not used to headcanons so this honestly came out more as a fic, I'm really sorry about that. If you want a redo I don't mind, sorry. I got kinda carried away with a storyline and it turned out like this.

It's Good To See The New You

Crocodile x FTM!Child!Reader. 1562 words. Author isn't trans but trying their best. Feel free to correct if I messed up. (D/N) Is deadname.

This is how your life is, you’ve accepted it. You’re the daughter of someone powerful, strong, rich, you should be happy; but you aren’t. These dresses aren’t making you happy, the people fawning over you aren’t either, even the small amount of attention you get from your father doesn’t truly make you happy. It’s only when something happens, something that was supposed to be negative, that you get a glimpse of what can be your happiness. How could you let it pass you by at that point? Call yourself your father’s daughter, you don’t let opportunities like this just leave. Of course, maybe daughter isn’t something to describe you anymore.

“Take me with you.” Is what you say to Luffy when he’s leaving.

“Hm?” He looks at you, recognizing who you are, and scowls slightly.

“Take me with you, I want to go with you.” You repeat and it only confuses him more, Luffy doesn’t like being confused either.

He thinks you’re trying to pick a fight at first, but when he realizes you aren’t he calms down a bit.

“I just beat up your dad, why do you wanna come with me?” He asks you.

“Because I want to. So let me on.”

“Wha- Don’t give me orders!”

You two end up getting into a small argument, call it childish but you aren’t used to being argued with by anyone other than your father.

Of course, it ends up working out, Luffy lets you on.

Robin even uses you as an excuse to get on as well, your partner in crime.

Luffy’s a little upset he kind of didn’t get as much of a choice as he’d like, but he got over it once Robin worked her charms. (Using her hands to help them make stupid jokes)

As for you, it took a while for you to warm up to them even though you’re the one who got on.

Something just still didn’t feel right.

You felt better than before, of course, but not as good as you’d like.

It’s only when Nami helps you pick out clothes that you realize that you’ve never truly chosen what you’ve wanted.

You were given options of course, but those options were picked from what your father wanted.

When you were looking at dresses Nami noticed you looking unhappy.

“You don’t have to wear a dress if you don’t want to, you know. You can wear something else.” She says casually.

In her mind it was just a fashion tip from one woman to another, something simple.

But to you it was so much more.

From then on you took things into your own hands.

Not just bossy with the things you’re given, but exploring to find your own choices.

You started dressing differently, which might seem so little but it felt so much bigger to you.

Time passes and it was the best choice you’ve ever made, it helped you become your true self.

The crew was confused at first, Sanji was even devastated, but it passed.

Sometimes Sanji still laments, but it’s more just because he was happy to have another woman to fawn over.

He gets over it, you’re happier this way.

You even get the privilege of not having the privilege of Sanji’s over-the-top affection.

Everything is so much better, so much brighter that you almost forget what your life was like before you were truly yourself.

That’s until you meet your father again, a reminder of who you were.

You know it's not his fault, he never bossed you around or told you you couldn’t be your true self.

He just wanted you to be someone that he could have confidently as his child, someone unbreakable; and that's what you were.

An unbreakable broken person.

That’s how you could describe him too, in the state he’s in.

Chained up and defeated, it makes your heart ache.

Even if he wasn’t the best father he was still yours.

He almost doesn’t recognize you at first, glaring at you until it clicks who you are.

“...(D/N)?” He calls to you and you almost flinch from the sound.

It brings shivers up your spine, even if you know it was from ignorance.

You don’t want to respond, not wanting to acknowledge that previous you; but decide it’s time to face it.

Crocodile himself, your father, isn’t the enemy that kept you captive.

“..Father.” You say to him.

“(D/N) you, what are you-”

“That’s not my name” You interrupt him, and it makes him pause.

Not your name?

How isn’t it your name? He named you himself!

“What are you talking about? I figured you joined that Strawhat’s crew but you changed your name for it? Were you..” He trails off, feeling hurt.

Were you that unhappy with him?

Why else would you change your name if not to try and get rid of your past?

You must be ashamed of him, he sure is.

Got beaten by a brat and ended up in a prison getting mistreated by people he could kill in a heartbeat, if only he had the chance to.

“Father.” You catch his attention, snapping him out of the trance of negativity he put himself into.

“It’s not you, if that’s what you were worried about.” You reassure him, and he scoffs.

“If not me what else? You sure seem a hell of a lot brighter now that you’re not with me.” His heart aches.

Despite not wanting to admit it he did have a soft spot for you.

You were his daughter, the small light he had in the darkness, whether the choice to have you was his or not.

“..It’s (Y/N).” You say quietly and he perks up, looking at you closer.

You look different, more different than he realized at first.

“You’ve changed.”

“I know.” There’s a silence.

Crocodile isn’t one to pry, he didn’t pry even when you were his daughter.

“Are you happier?” He asks you, like a sentimental fool.

Your eyes go wide, but they calm as you smile.

“I am, I’m so much happier.”

“Good. Make sure you stay on the other side of these bars, too, (Y/N).” Your father says and your heart clenches.

You’re happy, but sad at the same time.

Here you are, your true self with friends that care about you, meeting your Father again.

This should be happy for you, there shouldn’t be anything bad about this.

Despite that, you feel like crying; and look down.

Because you’ve gained so much, but you’ve lost being your Father’s daughter.

He still cared for you, and you him.

He helped you with your hair, gave you the luxury he grained, treated you with the respect you deserved, he even changed your diapers sometimes when you were little.

Even though he didn’t need to.

Crocodile loved you as much as he could in and in the way he knew how.

So the thought that you’ve lost that love, it hurts.

You don’t want to go back to being his daughter, you don’t want to go back to being a daughter, but you don’t want to lose being his child.

“Hey, don’t give me that look.” You hear him say, and you look back up.

“I know you and how that face you make when you're about to cry. Even if you’re different know you’re still my..” He trails off and you hesitate.

“Son.” Your heart drops, fear overtaking you at the thought of him rejecting you.

“My son.” He says and your vision blurs.

“Jeez, you really don’t listen don’t you? That a Strawhat trait, or did you get it from me?” He says with a sigh as tears roll down your cheeks.

“C’mon, stand up straight. You’re my kid, act it.” Something he would always say to you when you felt insecure.

It never did much other than help you put your mask back on.

But now those words empower you.

More than when they were said by the savior of Alabasta, the fearsome Crocodile.

You nod and wipe your eyes, you can’t cry now.

“That’s right, one of us has to be free." He looks down at himself, weak from mistreatment and seastone.

"Maybe it’s better you than me.” His chains clink as he moves.

“I am free, I feel so free. All the time.” You say, laughing a bit.

It shocks Crocodile, he hasn’t heard you laugh like this in so long.

He'd thought you'd lost it from age, just as he did.

You haven't laughed this freely with him since he could hold you up with one hand.

The sound of his son sounds so much happier than his daughter.

He wishes he knew sooner, maybe he could’ve even given you different life skills.

Too late for that.

“Are you gonna stand here all day looking at your old man? I doubt you’ve come to free me.” You shake your head.

You don’t even have his key.

Your ears perk up at crashing noises, it’s time for you to go.

You look back at your father, eyes clear and bright.

“I’ll be going now, Dad.” You say with a smile and he bites the inside of his cheek to hold any emotion in.

“Go get em, son.” Crocodile says with a chuckle.

You go off and he sits in his cell.

He wonders if this is how you felt, trapped with him and in a body you didn’t feel was your own.

Maybe this is his retribution, his punishment for his wrongdoings.

If there’s a God out there.. he hopes that they keep that punishment to him.

It wouldn’t be fair to drag someone he just met into his problems.

You deserve your new life.

He’s just happy he was able to see a glimpse of it.

That was it. Hope that was good. I'm not trans but I just based it off of what i've seen and maybe how I would feel if I were trans. Hope that works. I don't know why you made yourself anonymous but put your @ but I'll assume maybe it was because you wanted me to tag you so here @77v77

#crocodile x reader #platonic x reader #one piece #crocodile #crocodile one piece #headcanons #anime only #child reader #Crocodile x child reader #ftm reader #trans reader

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arrthurpendragon · 1 year

Text

Briony is the middle Everdeen daughter. She isn't brave like Katniss. She isn't as kind and compassionate as Prim. She just is. But her life is thrown into a tailspin when she is forced to flee her home after her sister's disastrous actions in the Quarter Quell.

Read Chapter 1: Kingdom Come @ Wattpad or Ao3

OC Fam Tag: @akabluekat • @noratilney • @misshiraeth98 • @the12thnightproject • @yelenabolevas • @darkwolf76 • @mimikoflamemaker • @bobfloydsbabe • @asirensrage • @getawaycardotmp3 • @juliaswickcrs • @heirsoflilith • @theawesomeloner • @sentineljedi • @phoenix-rising29 • @bravelittleflower • @nixdragon • @rennys-new-life • @allicenthightxwer • @heathersocs • @letthestarssing • @ocappreciationtag • @zeleniafic • @nejires-hado • @kingsmakers • @eddysocs • @chickensarentcheap • @amixedwitch • @alexandra-scribbles • @iron-parkr • @valdrinors • @witchofinterest • @wordspin-shares • @disneyprincessbuffyannesummers • @starcrossedjedis • @heresthefanfiction • @bluebell-winter • @foxesandmagic • @misskatiewrites • @twofacedharveydent • @neet0 • @fanficanatic-tw • @darknightfrombeyond • @drbobbimorse • @trash0saurus • @villain-connoisseur • @sunlitscribe • @ruvaakke • @starryeyes2000 • @bardic-tales • @oneirataxia-girl • @that-demigirl • @water-writings • @reirvival • @endless-oc-creations • @themaradaniels • @fakedatings • @dancingsunflowers-ocs • (wanna be added or removed? Just lemme know)

#ocappreciation #oc: briony everdeen #fic: daughter's lament #fd: the hunger games #gale hawthorne x oc

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darkestspring · 3 months

Note

Could you do another fic about how yandere the twins are for their mom?

It was an accident really, Aegon hadn't meant to say that in front of the twins.

Aegon sighed as he watched one of the guards assigned to you keep the same conversation that had been started twenty minutes ago. "Should i just have him poisoned? or maybe have false evidence planted on him and execute him for treason?" Aegon lamented as he leaned his cheek against his hand.

"Papa?" Jaehaera spoke up, having heard all of that.

"Shit, I forgot I'm babysitting." He cursed lowly before turning to his young daughter, his son not far behind. "Don't tell your mother I said that."

"He's just talking with Mama, why does he deserve to die?" Jaehaerys looked up at him.

Well, they were at the age where they could hear it so Aegon should tell them at least, they were targaryens, it was bound to happen anyways. Aegon picked up both of the twin and sat them on his lap softly. "Well, sometimes when you fall in love, not all the time. The love I have for Mama is really special. People becomes a nuisance to the relationship and can say bad things to Mama, so I don't like it when they're around her. So, he deserves to die because he could say bad things about Papa and about you both to Mama." He explained to the twins.

Jaehaera processed his words for a while. "Does that mean that weird creepy guy that Grandma Rhaenyra is married to deserves to die. Mama says he wants her to di..." Jaehaera thought of the word. "to stop being married to you."

"Hm..." Aegon barely help back his anger. "Yes, that guy deserves to die."

"If we want Mama to stay, then we have to get rid of the bad guys." Jaehaerys grumbled, looking upset by it. "Starting with that Weird Uncle."

#aegon's dadly duties of the day were making his children slowly blossoming yandere tendencies 100x worse #after that the twins started plotting murder and not just humiliating people in front of their mom #their primary target was daemon

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autistichalsin · 8 months

Note

Do you happen to how / have made a good timeline of The Shadowlands? What was there before? What it was called? When it fell? IIRC one of the writers confirmed that the rude pale elf in the list of customers banned from the pub was a reference to Astarion. IDK is that was canon or more a joke that stayed in. Having a collected resource on that would be amazing for plotting out fics!

I have no idea if the banned elf was Astarion- I've seen conflicting things on it. But for everything else:

So, the Shadow-Cursed Lands cover primarily the town of Reithwin along with Moonrise, in the Western Heartlands. Thaniel is the nature spirit of this land. (Sidenote: because nature spirits can't really leave the area they embody, and Halsin knew Thaniel as a child, this implies that Halsin grew up somewhere near here, probably in a nearby forest. Since he also mentions his family being buried in High Forest, which is quite far away, it seems likely that they moved at some point, or maybe they lived in the area for a few generations but still considered themselves to have very strong ties to High Forest.)

As for a timeline of the Shadow Curse:

1142: Halsin is born in a forest, most likely near Reithwin. Over the next years, he becomes close friends with the nature spirit Thaniel. Growing while Thaniel stays the same age drives him to decide to become a Druid, as he realized nature, his first friend, needed protecting. After his last family member passes away (Halsin being the youngest son of an ancient line of elves that faded out due to illness and accidents, according to Halsin's writer), Halsin is "turned over to the Druids," at a "comparatively young age" (per his writer).

Sometimes before 1392: Isobel Thorm, Ketheric's daughter, is born. Melodia, Isobel's mother, and Ketheric's wife, tragically passes away.

Sometime between this and 1392: Dame Aylin arrives in Reithwin. She and Isobel Thorm fall in love at first sight.

Roughly 1392: Isobel dies. In Early Access, this was at Halsin's hands, as a fight broke out due to Shar's influence, causing Isobel to attack Halsin, and him to stab her on reflex. In the full release version, this was cut, and no one seems to know exactly how or why she died. Ketheric is devastated by grief, converts to Shar worship, and gathers an army of Dark Justiciars.

Later in 1392: The Archdruid who served the Emerald Grove before Halsin gathers a group of Druids and Harpers (including Jaheira) to face them; they win, with many losses, but Ketheric uses Shar's powers to unleash the Shadow Curse as revenge. Almost all the Druids and Harpers who had survived are then killed by the curse. Halsin takes what survivors he can manage, gets back to the Emerald Grove, and is appointed the new Archdruid. Some days later, he returns to the Shadow-Cursed Lands looking for survivors, finds the Shadow-Cursed version of the previous Archdruid, and is forced to kill it. He keeps his glaive as a "reminder that victory can taste bitter" and locks it away, along with his journal from that day. (In the original, this glaive/dagger, called Sorrow, was the weapon Halsin used to kill Isobel, and had a different journal to go with it talking about his guilt.) This curse, of course, also causes the nature spirit Thaniel to be split in two. One half is trapped in the Shadowfell, while the other half stays in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, eventually becoming Oliver.

Meanwhile, Dame Aylin is kidnapped by Ketheric Thorm and locked away so he can leech her power to make himself immortal.

1392-1492: Halsin spends the next 100 years researching the curse and trying to gain Silvanus's favor to be able to break it. Almost everyone else abandons the land; Jaheira admits to doing so, and a note Halsin wrote laments that the Emerald Enclave wouldn't help even if he asked. The few people who do attempt to go there perish- a Druid from another community got some information from Halsin, tried to enter the land, and then fell to the Curse. Some lines Halsin had in Early Access indicated that his being there when the curse fell and his empathy with the suffering of the Shadow-Cursed Lands/its people were key in his ability to later break the curse.

Meanwhile, Art Cullagh, a Flaming Fist, is trapped in the Shadowfell with Thaniel. They form a very close friendship, and Thaniel repeatedly tells Art that Halsin- and only Halsin- can save him.

At some point, Ketheric converts to worshipping Myrkul in exchange for resurrecting Isobel, becomes his Chosen, and helps hatch the Absolute plot along with Gortash and the Dark Urge.

1492: Shortly before the start of canon, Halsin meets Aradin and his band of adventurers, who tell him they're looking for the Nightsong at Moonrise Towers. Seeing a chance to investigate both the Curse and the modified mindflayer tadpoles he's encountered, Halsin joins them, then is betrayed when they're attacked by goblins and Aradin promptly abandons Halsin to the goblins.

After that comes everything in canon with the Break the Shadow Curse quest and all of its sub-quests.

1493, roughly: In the 6 months after the curse is broken, Halsin (/and Tav, if applicable) repurpose what was left of Reithwin to become a new community for those needing a new start, the narrator noting that it's "hidden from those who are not welcome, open to any who need shelter." Halsin is noted to have "built a schoolhouse in a day" for all the nine wagonfuls of children who joined their community, and become an unofficial leader of the community. He says that the place is unrecognizable in a good way, with the scars rapidly becoming invisible even to those who know what happened.

Sadly, Art Cullagh passes away sometime between the curse breaking and the epilogue, but he remained close to Thaniel until the end, and it is noted that Thaniel and Oliver come to the community often to play.

I think that's everything for the parts of the Shadow-Curse story we don't directly play through in canon!

Random interesting fact that @ride-a-dromedary and I noticed: the name "Reithwin" is one letter off from "Relthwin", the Elvish word for "refuge". That may or may not be intentional.

#halsin #halsin silverbough #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #shadow-cursed lands #reithwin

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capseycartwright · 23 days

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have been tagged in many wip wednesdays and seven sentence sundays the last few weeks i haven’t replied to, so instead here is a tidbit thursday

Eddie Diaz is fourteen years old the first time he thinks he might be gay. He remembers the moment so clearly – he was lying in bed, curled up under the covers, and the thought struck him like lighting – sudden, and seemingly out of nowhere, sending a shock down his spine as he lets the thought wash over him.

He remembers thinking it – Eddie doesn’t quite remember why the thought came to him, though. He thinks maybe it was because Carson from his third period math class got a girlfriend – Emily, who played soccer for their school team - and had proudly boasted to everyone before the bell rang that he’d kissed her for five whole minutes and Eddie was sort of confused as to why you’d want to do that when he’d much rather see what it was like to kiss Carson, and –

Oh.

Fourteen-year-old Eddie didn’t know a lot of gay people. He knew they existed, in a mythical sort of way, like Sophia was convinced unicorns did, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever actually met a real-life gay person. He’d only ever heard about them – from movies, and television shows, and the way his parents murmured in quiet voices about what a shame it was that Mrs. Garcia’s daughter, the one who had moved to New York for college, was a lesbian now – she’d have found a good husband if she wasn’t that way inclined, his mother had lamented, and his father had nodded his stoic agreement, offering his hope that Isabella Garcia would change her mind and settle down with a good man, in the end.

People were gay, Eddie knew – but at fourteen, he had the distinct impression that he wasn’t supposed to be one of them. Ramon Diaz had old-fashioned ideas about who his son was supposed to be – the only Diaz boy in a house of girls, Eddie’s job was to be the man of the house when Ramon would travel. Eddie was supposed to be strong-willed, and he was supposed to keep his emotions to himself, and he was supposed to be a man. Never mind that he was still a child – Eddie was supposed to be a man, and the kind of man his father expected him to be, wasn’t a gay one.

Eddie was fourteen when he wondered if he could be gay, and he was fourteen when he took that thought and buried it as deeply as he could.

tagging @clusterbuck @hattalove @doeeyeseddie @thatbuddie @mellaithwen @sibylsleaves @henswilsons @littlespoonevan @roy-kents and anyone else who wants an excuse to post a wee bit of fic!

#in which i ramble #anyway. yes it’s another eddie coming out fic don’t look at me #in which lorna writes fic

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marblemoovt · 2 years

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Bake A Wish - John Price/Reader

Masterlist

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: Fluff with a smidge of angst

Summary:

You bump into a man and his daughter at the grocery store. The kid is really insistent you join them for dinner.

------

She’s been on a tangent about her father, who you assume she’s hiding from, for ten minutes now. From what you’re able to gather, he works in the military.

Unwilling to dampen her excitement, you crouch down and listen to every word. “Is that so, little one?” you say, propping your chin up with your hand.

She nods, brown strands flying everywhere. “Mhmm. And he’s super handsome, too! A lady called him a dill, but Daddy’s not a pickle! She was so silly.” Your eyes widen, and you slap a hand over your mouth to barricade the gurgle in your throat. A fucking DILL.

Note:

This has been sitting in my wips for over a month but it's finally done!! I apologize if the quality feels sporadic throughout the fic. Writing consistently is just something I can't seem to do and my motivation/inspiration has been in a slump lately. The amount of fluff fics I've written that involve baking is ridiculous, I didn't realize that's the activity I default to lol.

I've never written for John before, so I'm still trying to get a feel for his character.

Anyways, thank you @yeyinde for introducing John Price to me. I was debating on not tagging you but I can't be a coward forever.

Happy Reading! ヾ(•ω•`)o

─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───

John holds the hand of his six-year-old daughter, Rose. The little munchkin is a ball of energy, and he fears the consequences if he were to let her run wild. “Don’t let go of my hand, ok Rosy?” Rose grins with more mischief than a little child should have. She attempts to run away, and John scoops her in his arms.

“I’m too big to be carried, Daddy!” she squeals, arms flinging around his neck to stabilize herself. The scent of her strawberry shampoo tickles his nose.

“You have to promise me you’re not going to do that again,” he says. Rose holds out her pinky, and he accepts her promise. Her finger looks tiny and frail compared to his. He sets her down and ruffles her hair despite her whinging. “Do you remember what we came here to buy?” he asks.

She claps her hands with glee and exclaims, “Cookies for Santa!!! Because Daddy can’t bake, so we have to buy cookies from the store!” John smiles, but he can’t help but feel the sting of her bluntness. Kids are way too honest.

“What kind of cookies do you want to get?” he asks.

“Not chocolate chip. Everyone uses chocolate chip.” She strokes her chin, imitating the gesture she’s seen her father do whenever he has to think hard about something. “Candy cane cookies!” She ponders over it for another minute before nodding her head. “I bet Santa’s never gotten candy cane cookies before.”

“I don’t think they sell those, rosebud,” he says, and she frowns.

“I guess they’re too special to sell in a store,” she laments, her enthusiasm wilting a little.

John crouches down to Rose’s eye level. “Why don’t we look at all the cookies they have and pick one afterwards?” he suggests.

“Ok,” she sighs, holding her hand out for him to grab. Large, calloused fingers swallow her hand whole, and John wonders how much longer it will stay like this. Her brown locks are a few inches longer than last time, but the beaming smile on her face when she sees him remains constant. He blinks the heat away from his eyes and leads Rose to the snack aisle.

There’s an entire shelf dedicated to cookies, some of them themed for the holidays. But the snowflake shortbread cookies further deflate Rose. She droops when they come across sugar cookies in the shape of Christmas trees. John silently curses the corporate companies for manufacturing every winter holiday cookie except for a candy cane. He squeezes her hand, and his heart aches when he catches Rose biting her lip. Tears are on the verge of spilling, but she will not cry. He actually can’t remember the last time he’s seen her cry. The thought bothers him more than he wants.

John spots a box of rainbow cookies on the top shelf. He releases her hand to grab them, “What about these?” When he turns around, Rose is gone. The box tumbles to the ground. “Rose?” His eyes sweep the shelves. Rows of cookies and other snacks, but no sign of her. “Rosy?!” He begins jogging through the store, checking every aisle before moving on to the next. Icy claws grip his chest, and all of his senses are on high alert. He fidgets with the dog tags around his neck and has to remind himself that he’s not on duty.

Sharp laughter slices through the pounding in his eardrums; a high-pitched fit dissolves into familiar giggles. Rose. He flexes his clenched fists to relieve the stinging in his palms. He pinpoints the sound to the baking section and sprints like a madman. Sliding to a stop, he spots her at the other end of the aisle. His body sags against a shelf, and the air enters his lungs with ease once more.

“My Daddy’s amazing! He can shoot bad guys from reeeeally far away,” Rose brags to a stranger crouched in front of her. That stranger is you.

A faint giggle grabbed your attention. Twinkling lights accompanied by the pounding of tiled flooring. A little girl beelined straight toward you, veering to the side to hide behind a display of chocolate bars. She covered her shoes with her hands to dull the blinking, peering around for someone. She spotted you holding a bag of flour and asked if you bake. Her eyes lit up when you confirmed that you do.

She’s been on a tangent about her father, who you assume she’s hiding from, for ten minutes now. From what you’re able to gather, he works in the military.

Unwilling to dampen her excitement, you crouch down and listen to every word. “Is that so, little one?” you say, propping your chin up with your hand.

She nods, brown strands flying everywhere. “Mhmm. And he’s super handsome, too! A lady called him a dill, but Daddy’s not a pickle! She was so silly.”

Your eyes widen, and you slap a hand over your mouth to barricade the gurgle in your throat. A fucking DILL. You don’t have the heart to correct her. Correction: You’re too busy trying not to collapse on the floor in a fit of laughter. The misunderstanding is best left alone, but your curiosity is piqued. What does this man look like?

“Rose!” A voice booms from the other end of the aisle, and the child hides behind you. You stand up and shield her with your body, eying the stranger with a frown. Brown hair with silver streaks, and his eyes—fuck, you wish the sky would be that blue instead of grey. He approaches you two, and when Rose makes no further movements, you stick your arm out to block him.

“Who are you?” you ask. He must be at least six feet tall, with broad shoulders, and built like he could beat you into a bloody pulp if he wanted.

He mirrors your frown, eyes flickering to the brown hair peeking behind your figure. “I should be asking you that. Who are you, and what are you doing with my daughter?”

You narrow your eyes. “How do I know you’re not some pervert who kidnaps children?”

He chuckles; the low rumble sends the butterflies rampaging against your stomach walls. “Sweetheart, I could say the same about you,” and he crosses his arms—his thick and muscular arms. The way his biceps bulge underneath his sweater…. You bite your lip. The metallic tang in your mouth grounds you. You swipe a tongue across the fresh wound, and the sting helps you regain a few brain cells.

Turning to Rose, you ask, “Is this your dad?” and squeeze her hands. “You can tell me if it isn’t, and we’ll find a nice employee to help you.” You talk slowly, enunciating each word with care. Rose glances at the man behind you before settling on your face.

She cups her hands around her mouth, and you lean in, her warm breath tickling your ear. “Yeah, that’s my dad. What do you think? Super handsome, right?” she whispers. You glance at him and huff. A fucking dill, indeed.

“Rosy, stop bothering the nice stranger,” her father says, gesturing for her to come to him. She skips over and fails to dodge his hand. Rose groans and buries her face into her father’s stomach as he ruffles her hair. You avert your eyes and ignore the heat that prickles the back of your neck. Wringing your hands, you stare at the floor as their laughter echoes in the aisle. You hardly know these people. Plus his wife must be somewhere in the store, ready to pop out at any second.

“The ‘stranger’ has a name,” you speak up, introducing yourself. You keep your eyes trained on the shelf of sprinkles above his right shoulder as if the plastic bottles of sugar will stop you from falling.

He holds out a hand for you to shake. “John, John Price.” Firm warmth envelopes your skin and dissipates far too quickly for your liking. Sparks of electricity fizzle before they get a chance to light your nerves on fire—and you want to burn.

“Heh, P as in Pickle,” you snicker, making the mistake of meeting his gaze. Your arm drops to your side, and your bones turn to lead. The sky must be grey because all the blue was stolen and contained in his eyes. There’s no coldness, no ice, only calm ripples of water. The gentle drag of the ocean as the waves lap against the shore, inviting you into its depths.

John raises a brow. “An odd observation, but yes.” He smooths Rose’s hair to no avail. Baby hairs and cowlicks in all different directions are a continuous reminder that he’s been meaning to learn how to style hair.

Rose beams at him with her toothy grin. “Cause Daddy’s a dill!” she adds.

John’s confused expression quickly morphs into one of horror. “Where did you hear that?!” He narrows his eyes at you.

You throw your hands up in surrender. “Don’t look at me. This is the first time we’ve met.”

Rose tugs on his shirt and says, “That lady who used to babysit me. She also called you a fox, but I told her you’re a man.” Your eyes widen, and your shoulders tremble. John runs a hand through his graying hair, and you rip your gaze away because witnessing that felt illegal. Every time you look at him you notice another thing that attracts you.

John sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry about her. I love Rose, but she can be a handful at times,” he says, whispering the second half. His head tilts forward, and now all you can focus on is how his moustache frames his mouth. Plump and pink.

Your lips crook upwards in a slant. “It’s not a problem. She’s an entertaining conversationalist.” You find yourself drawing nearer to his face, wandering from the shore and deeper into the ocean—oblivious to the current that will pull you under.

Rose tugs on your shirt and asks, “Why don’t you join us for dinner?” You pull away with a sharp inhale, processing how John’s eyes flicker to your lips. The little girl gazes at you with a hopeful smile, but you look to her father for confirmation.

“Rose, you can’t invite people you barely know to your home,” he reprimands, and her smile flatlines. It’s probably for the best. At the current pace, it’s like you’re in a sappy romance novel! John shoots you an apologetic smile, but you wave your hand and shake your head in understanding.

Rose pouts and stares at her shoes. She shuffles her feet, and the lights twinkle with each tap. “But then there’ll be someone who can bake cookies,” she says, looking up at him with puppy eyes. John winces.

You notice him wracking his brain for a response and decide to help him. “They sell rolls of sugar cookie dough; next to the puff pastry,” and you jerk a thumb behind you. Sometimes you buy a roll or two when you feel particularly lazy but crave cookies.

John mouths a “Thank you” and holds Rose’s hand. “C’mon, rosebud. Let’s buy some, and you can make your candy cane cookies.”

Rose perks up at the mention of cookies, her shoes now fighting to match the brightness of her eyes. “Wow! They sell everything here!” She drags him to the pre-made dough section. Well, she tries to drag him. Rose is less than half her father’s size. It reminds you of those cartoon characters that try to move a comically large boulder. Blue eyes meet your gaze one last time and wink at you.

Did. Did he just?

You stand there, unblinking, staring at the corner they disappeared behind.

Holy fucking shit. He did.

You don’t register going through the checkout and packing your things in the car. With a blink, you’re in front of the steering wheel, key in hand. Where were you...? Home. You were on your way home. Slotting the key in the ignition, you start the engine and begin the drive home. For once, the clouds have gone, and the world mocks you with its clear skies. You don’t think you can stand to look at the colour blue for a while. It’s a good thing you’re sitting right now.

The drive itself is unremarkable. You go through the same streets, pass the same buildings, pull into the same parking lot, and park in your usual spot next to a truck. You admire the muscular arm resting on said truck window. Funny. Guess that sweater is popular around here. Large hands run through brown hair flecked with grey—John.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

You creep out of your car and circle around to the apartment building, abandoning your groceries.

Just a few feet. Just a few feet, and you’ll make it to the door. Conscious of your steps, you slink across the pavement and concrete. You wrap your hand around the handle, and the tension bleeds from your shoulders.

“Are you playing hide and seek, too?” a voice from below asks. You jerk and pull the door instead of pushing. A loud rattle echoes in the vicinity. Who decided it was a good idea to make doors out of glass? A sadist who likes to watch people open doors incorrectly, that’s who. You glance down. Long lashes frame blue eyes that stare into your soul. Your fingers itch to adjust the cowlick in the disarray of her hair. You spot a few leaves clinging to her locks. Was she hiding by that bush beside you?

“Are you hiding from your dad?” you ask Rose, scooting behind the potted plant when she beckons you closer.

Rose shrugs and peeks around you. “Daddy was taking too long. I’m waiting to see when he’ll notice I left.”

Your brows pinch together. “That’s not safe, Rose. You should stick close to him. What if something bad happens to you?”

“Don’t worry, I have a lot of uncles, and they taught me how to beat up baddies!” She punches the air a few times. Her face pulls tight in concentration before loosening into a grin. She shrinks behind the bush and brings a finger to her lips.“Now shhh, we have to be quiet.”

Boots thud against the pavement, the strides between each step growing shorter. “Rosy! Where did you run off to this time?” There’s a divet to his tone beneath the loudness, like the warning tremors of an avalanche. “I need to put that girl on a leash.” There’s a smile in his tone, but it stretches taut like a rubber band, ready to snap and whiplash you with his increasing agitation. He runs a hand down his face and sighs, eyes darting across the rows of cars.

You can’t watch this any longer. You move to reveal yourself, but Rose beats you to it. She tiptoes behind her father, giving up halfway and slamming herself into him.

“Boo!” Rose screams, voice muffled by his shirt.

John stares at Rose and shouts half a second later. “Ah!” Half a second too late.

Rose pulls away with a sullen frown. “I didn’t scare you, did I?”

John crouches down and pets her hair. “No, no, rosebud. Was so afraid I forgot how to talk,” he insists.

Rose gives him a scrutinizing look. “Liar,” she pouts. John leans in and whispers something into her ear, scratching her smooth cheek with his beard. She giggles and squirms, pushing his face away with both her hands. He deliberately rubs their cheeks together, and it causes her to laugh harder.

Once again, you’re watching the two of them from afar. Heat pricks your skin, and your gaze steers toward the door. You should be able to slip unnoticed if you’re quiet. Standing up, you wince as your joints pop. You might as well hang a giant neon sign to denote your presence.

John’s voice glues your feet to the ground. “Let’s bring everything inside, then you can bake your cookies,” he says. You press your back against the wall and exhale through your nose. No big deal. You just need to wait until they head inside first. Your palms dig into the stony material of the building. As if with enough force, you’ll be able to reorganize your atoms and disappear into the walls to escape dying from embarrassment.

“I have a surprise for you, Daddy!” Rose’s voice draws nearer.

You are a wall. A silent, still, and formidable wall.

“Did you find another pretty stone?” John asks, tone laced with amusement.

You close your eyes, but the ocean will not leave you alone. The waves lap at your feet on the shore, and you shrink away. Stone presses hard into your back.

They won’t find you. They’ll walk past you and go inside. Your erratic heartbeat fragments your thoughts into mismatched puzzle pieces. You can’t think with all this drumming and adrenaline.

“It’s pretty, but it’s not a stone.” Rose runs up to you and tugs you from your hiding spot. “A special guest for dinner!” she presents you like a prized animal. You stumble, and your eyes snap open in fear of hitting the ground. Strong arms rush forward to steady you. You lift your head, and your mouth dries.

Cerulean eyes pull you into their depths, crinkles forming at their edges. John’s accent caresses your ears, and you tamp down the unintelligible noise that threatens to destroy your last shred of dignity. “I didn’t know you lived here too,” and the corners of his lips twitch.

You force your tongue to articulate, the words scraping like sandpaper up your throat. “Neither did I—that you also lived here! Cause I know that I live here because I live here!” A shaky laugh warbles out of you. “I wasn’t following you because that would be creepy—and I’m going to shut up now.” You seal your lips together before you can dig a deeper hole for yourself. His hands are still on you, fingers wrapped around your arms. Your blood sings at the contact.

“Do you think Daddy’s handsome?” Rose blurts out. Flames lick your skin, and your mouth becomes reminiscent of a goldfish.

John’s fingers dig into your arms, and it’s not until you flinch that his hands drop to his sides. “That’s not a polite question, Rose,” he rumbles. It’s low, a warning. But when you’re a kid, you’re not afraid of anything.

Rose places her hands on her hips. “But you were like this in the car on the way home too! And when I asked you what was wrong, you told me I was too young to understand. I’m not stupid, Daddy. I’m six.” She stomps on ‘six.’ And you watch as this little girl brings this burly man to his knees.

John sighs, “Not here, Rose. Please.”

But Rose refuses to yield. “Why not? You both like each other, so why can’t we have dinner together?” she asks.

John rubs the back of his neck, the muscles in his arms flexing. “Would you like to join us tonight?” he asks, eyes flickering between your face and the parking lot behind you.

“I’m afraid Rose will kidnap me if I don’t say yes,” you joke.

Rose grumbles, “Just because you’re right doesn’t mean you have to say it out loud.” She grabs your hand and tugs you to the entrance. “Daddy can bring the groceries inside. I want to show you my toys!”

You dig your heels into the ground and say, “I need to bring my things inside as well. It’ll only take a few minutes.” Rose’s smile falters, and she reluctantly lets you go.

“Don’t worry, Love. I can take care of that for ya,” John offers

You fidget with the keys in your pocket. “Are you sure?” You’re not worried about him stealing your car. He can’t exactly hide if you two live in the same building. Besides, you want to believe that the kindness in his eyes is genuine.

“Wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t,” he reaffirms.

“Ok,” and you hand him your car keys. His fingertips graze your palm, and you shiver. God, you’re pathetic. Rose tugs on your arm, and you trail after her. She leads you up a few flights of stairs before stopping on the third floor, where you also live. Except she walks to the opposite end of the hallway, away from your apartment. She pulls a key out of her pocket and unlocks the door.

Rose drops your hand and runs inside, returning with a stuffed animal in her arms. “This is Mr. Bear. Daddy got him for me!” Mr. Bear is wearing tactical gear and a bucket hat. Frayed threads stick out of his body along the seams, and small patches of fur have fallen out. She cradles the stuffed animal close to her chest and rests her chin atop his head.

You nearly melt on the spot. “That’s very sweet of him,” you say.

“Sometimes, when I miss him, I just need to squeeze Mr. Bear tight.” She gives you a demonstration.

A familiar warm timbre greets your ears.“I love you, rosebud.”

You grin and say, “Your dad reminds me of a bear.”

“Yeah! He’s big and cuddly. But his face turned red when I told him,” Rose mumbles the last part. She straightens up and tugs on your arm. “Oh! And these are my action figures!”

You walk into what you assume is her bedroom. It’s not as chaotic as you thought it would be. Her bed is in one corner of the room, with a collection of stuffies sitting along one side. There’s a shelf with knickknacks and picture frames. Your eyes land on a photo of John holding a small bundle in his arms. It looks like the picture was taken without him knowing. His eyes are wide, staring at the tiny hand wrapped around his thumb.

There’s something that’s been bothering you, but you don’t think it’s your place to ask. Rose startles you when she starts barking out, “Hold your fire! We can’t alert the enemy of our whereabouts!” You whip around to see her sitting on the ground with a mini soldier in each hand. The large tub behind her is open, the lid propped neatly against its side. You sit next to her and watch the ‘mission’ play out. She hands you a soldier and assigns you the special position of super spy. Now a successful job rests on your shoulders.

Thanks to Captain Rose, your team retrieves the files, returning without a single casualty. Although you had a close encounter with the enemy’s Captain Pickles, which began some sort of enemies-to-lovers arc. You don’t know. She’s six. She reasoned that the power of love triumphs over all. Rose begins cleaning up, setting the toys neatly in the bin before snapping the lid shut.

“Did you learn all that from your dad?” you ask.

Rose shrugs and picks up Mr. Bear. “Daddy never tells me anything about work. It’s classified. Sometimes I watch TV. There’s a show where one of the characters looks just like him, but Nana doesn’t let me watch much 'cause it’s not for kids.” Dear lord. Could you imagine being sandwiched between two Johns??

“Rosy? Want to bake your cookies now?” John shouts from the corridor, snapping you out of your fantasy.

“Yes, please!” Rose replies. She grabs your hand and gives you a toothy grin. “You can be my assistant. Daddy’s hopeless at baking.” She leads you to the kitchen, where some bowls and a tray are on the table. Rose lets go and skips to a seat, plopping herself down. Mr. Bear is seated on the chair next to her.

You sit at her other side and ask, “What kind of cookies are we making?” There are no cookie cutters in sight to give you a clue.

Rose clasps her hands together. Her feet swing beneath the table. “Candy Canes! Santa will be so impressed that he’ll grant my wish for sure,” she answers.

You don’t know what a six-year-old would ask from Santa, but you sincerely hope it’s fulfilled. Perusing the items on the table, you notice a vital ingredient missing. “Do you have food dye?” you ask.

Rose strokes her chin. She hops off her chair and walks up to John. “Daddy, do we have any food dye?”

John’s head peeks out from behind the fridge door. “Sorry, Rosy. I don’t remember,” and there’s a sheepish grin on his face.

Rose hums and grabs a stool, tottering to the drawers. “I forgot. You went away for a while. I think Nana left some the last time we baked.” Your eyes snap to the fridge when you hear a thud. An apple rolls across the floor and stops near your feet. You pick up the fruit, thumb brushing over the bruise blooming underneath its skin. “I found red!” Rose waves a small bottle in her hand and dashes to show you.

You set the apple on the table and praise Rose. Her chest puffs up, and the smile she gives you is dazzling. She hops onto her seat, clutching the bottle to her chest.

John walks up to you two. “Here’s the dough,” and he holds out the cylindrical tube but changes his mind and leaves it on the table. The only seats left are the ones across. He picks the spot in front of you.

“Thanks.” You snap the tube open and remove the packaging. “Alright, Rose. We split the dough in half, and you’ll colour one part red.”

Rose cocks her head to the side. “We don’t paint the cookies?”

You shake your head and say, “There’s an easier way to make them look like candy canes.” You hand Rose a wooden spoon and tell her to mix the dough while you add the dye. Once half the dough is red, you take equal parts from both bowls and roll them into noodles. Putting them together, you twist them to form a cane. You curve one end, and the result is a near-perfect replica of a candy cane. Rose marvels at the sight, face inches from the table’s surface.

There’s a streak of food colouring on her face, and you grab a tissue for her. She’s engrossed in the cookie, picking it up and turning it over. Out of impulse, you wipe the stain on her cheek and her laughter tinkles throughout the room. She complains about being ticklish between her giggles. A low sigh draws your attention. You look over to John, who’s watching you with his head propped up with his hand. “What? Do I have something on my face?” you ask.

There’s a softness to John’s features. He looks at you like you’re holding his heart in your hands, squeezing the pulsating organ with every cookie you form. “Do good looks count?” It’s barely audible, but you hear it. His elbow slips from the table, and he clears his throat. “Just been a while since I’ve seen her so happy.” He folds his arms across the table, a wall of muscle to create a false sense of distance.

You gesture your head at Rose. “Make a cookie with her; have fun together.”

John stares at the table, stroking his chin in a familiar fashion, but remains silent otherwise. You chew on the inside of your cheek and resume forming the cookies. The squeal of wood scraping against wood pricks your ears. John squeezes himself into the space between you and Rose. His shoulders brush against you, and he is radiating heat. “What have you got there, Rosy?” he asks.

Rose looks at him with furrowed brows. “A candy cane, silly. Here, I’ll show you how to make it,” she answers. Rose does a quick demonstration, but John still struggles. Somehow he’s managed to mix the parts to create pink. Rose shakes her head, lips tugging into a frown. “My hands are too small; can you help him?” She turns to you. Long lashes frame her doe eyes, and you can’t bring yourself to say no.

You glance at John to find he’s staring at you. Shifting in your seat, you say, “If you don’t mind…?”

John maintains eye contact. “I’m all yours,” and the smile he gives you is bashful. You fight the warmth rushing to your cheeks, but it’s like trying to douse a flame with gasoline. The heat intensifies, and you grab a tissue to wipe your clammy hands, muttering an excuse about the dye staining your skin.

You focus on the table, resisting the temptation to turn your head and meet the gaze burning into your face. “You take equal parts of each dough and roll them into logs.” You pause to make sure he’s following along. “Once they’re the same size, you can twist them together to form a cane.” John is about to mush his cookie as children tend to do with playdough; always mixing the colours. You grab his hands to stop him. His fingers twitch against your palms, but he doesn’t recoil. “Like this,” and you twist your cookie, rolling it some more to flatten the cane.

“You make it sound so easy,” John huffs.

You shrug your shoulders. “It’s not too bad once you get the hang of it.”

John shakes his head. “Give me a pistol, and I can field strip and reassemble in a few minutes.” He holds up a warped cookie. “This, this I can’t do.”

You bump your shoulders together. “I’ll have you baking like a pro.”

John grins; it’s boyish and charming—it pulls you in like a flower reaching for a ray of sunlight. “Is that a promise?” he asks, lashes framing an expanse of blue. And once again, you are hopelessly lost at sea.

“Only if you’ll invite me over again,” you quip.

“Is this flirting?” Rose asks. Her head pops up behind John’s shoulder. “If Daddy won’t invite you, I will.”

You smile as John buries his face in his hands. “Thank you, Rose,” you say.

She returns the gesture with a wide grin. “You’re very welcome.”

You continue making the cookies in silence, gaslighting yourself into thinking that the numerous brushes against your hand are accidental. 7/10 times you’re grabbing something, John also happens to be reaching for the same item. The cookie under your palm flattens into a pancake when his body leans ever-so-slightly into yours. Thankfully this is the last cookie, and you place it on the baking tray with the rest.

Rose insists on putting the tray into the oven herself, and John watches her like a hawk, hovering behind her in case he needs to step in.

Once John’s certain the apartment won’t burst into flames, he rolls up his sleeves. You eye the veins along his arms as subtly as you can, wincing like a child caught in the act of misbehaving when John speaks. “Can you please help Rose clean up? I need to get started on dinner,” he asks.

“Yes, Chef,” and you give a mock salute. “Alright, Rose. I’ll wash all the dishes in the sink. Can you wipe the counter?” you ask her.

Rose straightens her back and nods. “Affirmative,” she replies, marching to grab a towel.

You begin collecting the bowls and utensils, plugging the drain afterwards to fill up the sink. A few drops of soap and a mountain of suds form. With a sponge, you begin scrubbing away at bits of dried-up dough and red dye. In the corner of your eye, Rose is reprimanding Mr. Bear on how he needs to pull his weight too and that it doesn’t matter if he’s not heavy because he’s full of stuffing.

“You’ve got an adorable soldier,” you say, turning your head to John, who’s heating a pan on the stove.

John watches Rose with deep affection. Those are the eyes of a man staring at the purpose of his existence. “She’s a trooper, alright,” and the smile on his face is lax.

“What’s on the menu tonight?” you ask, adding more soap to your sponge. The remaining traces of dye are giving you grief.

“Fish and chips; one of Rosy’s favourites,” John answers.

“Daddy makes the best!” Rose pipes up.

John shakes his head, and the base of his neck flushes. “She’s exaggerating,” he says.

You smirk, “I’ll be the judge of that.” The chuckle your words elicit from John fills you with a pleasant buzz.

“I have to warn you. I aim to please,” and the lilt in John’s voice encourages you further.

“Yes, you certainly look the type,” you say, eyes trailing up and down his figure. John’s body trembles under your gaze. “Is it just you and Rose here?” You don’t know if he’s divorced, but you don’t recall seeing a ring on his finger.

“She’s dead,” John says. Concise and well-practiced. The plate in your hand slips and splashes into the sink with a thud, shattering the silence. You look over at John, but his back is to you. Shoulders hunched and head low. “Died during childbirth,” he adds, and the slight wobble churns your stomach. You should have known. Should have guessed from how the pictures on the walls only contain two subjects. Rose only ever talks about her father and grandparents. How could you be so fucking blind?

You crush the sponge in your hands, and bubbles seep out between your fingers. An apology is on the tip of your tongue, straining under the weight of your rapid thoughts. Day one, and you’ve already stepped on a mine. A phantom pain aches in your chest, grieving the loss of a love you never had in the first place. John says nothing. Continues to fry the fish in silence. Pops of oil like the rounds of a machine gun, but not loud enough to drown out the hammering of your heart.

Rose breaks the silent war. “I cleaned the counter. Can I check on the cookies?” she asks.

The apology dies on your tongue, and you tear your eyes away from John’s back, missing how the tension bleeds from his body. “Of course,” you say, placing the last dish on the drying rack. “Do you know how?”

“Nana showed me the buttons because I accidentally turned off the oven before,” Rose replies. She hands you her towel, and you lump it in the sink with yours. Rose walks up to the oven, and John moves to the side. You hang back, grappling with the temptation to steal a glance. You’re not sure what’s worse: John catching you staring or the disappointment of him not staring back. In the end, you decide to focus on Rose. She awes at the cookies and beckons you closer. You shuffle towards her, sticking close to the opposite side.“We should leave extra for the reindeer and elves who want some too!”

You smile and pat her head. “Next time you can buy peppermint extract so they’ll taste like candy canes too!” you suggest. Rose’s eyes widen. She looks at you like you have the biggest brain in the world. Your confidence skyrockets, but a quick peek at John sends you plummeting back to Earth. You can’t read the expression on his face, and it worries you.

“They look so good! Santa will definitely grant my wish!” Rose’s comment piques your interest.

“What’s your wish?” you ask, crouching down to her level.

Rose glances at her father before lowering her voice. “I can’t tell you with Daddy around; it might make him sad.” Your jaw slackens. What could a child wish for that would make their parents unhappy?

Dinner is served, and the seating arrangement remains unchanged. True to John’s words, Rose devours her dinner. She even asks for seconds. “I’m a growing girl,” is all she responds with when she notices your amused expression.

The conversation consists of small talk. You learn they moved into the complex two years after you did. It’s honestly amazing how you didn’t run into them earlier. John doesn’t talk about his job, but he asks you plenty of questions about yours. You’re happy to answer. Glad to have something to talk about that won’t prod old wounds. Before you know it, you’re cracking jokes, and John is struggling to breathe. His laughter is intoxicating, and like an addict, you crave another dose. Rose watches the entire interaction with a broad smile, nibbling on her food as her eyes ping pong across the table.

John leans forward and hangs off your every word. Every ounce of his attention focused solely on you. You pause mid-story, caught up in the softness of his features. Before he can ask you what’s wrong, your phone vibrates in your pocket. You pull out the device to see it’s a text notification. The time on the screen reads 9:30 pm. It’s getting late, and from the way Rose slumps in her chair, she should be in bed soon.

“I should go. Rose looks like she’s about to pass out,” you say.

“M’not sleepy,” Rose argues, rubbing her eyes.

John rises from his seat. “I’ll clean up. Rosy, why don’t you say goodbye to our guest?”

Rose gets out of her chair with Mr. Bear and holds your hand, leading you to the entrance. John steps forward but stops himself. He turns to collect the dishes, and you walk away, feeling the heat of his gaze lingering on your back.

As you’re slipping on your shoes, you ask Rose, “Now that it’s just us, do you want to tell me your wish?” She glances behind her. The faint sounds of porcelain clattering against metal travel along the corridor.

“You can’t tell Daddy, but I don’t want him to be lonely. He doesn’t cry at night anymore when he thinks I’m sleeping, but he still looks like a raccoon in the morning,” Rose says, pinching an invisible zipper between her fingers and dragging it across her lips. You copy the gesture and even go as far as to mime turning a key and tossing it over your shoulder. You have a sneaking suspicion, but you don’t want to get your hopes up.

Unlocking the door, you reach for the doorknob. “Wait,” John shouts, stopping you in your tracks. He jogs up to you and holds out a reusable takeout container and your bag of groceries. “I made too much. Take some leftovers with you.” You peer inside, and there’s a generous portion. How much did he cook?

“I’m tired. I’m getting ready for bed,” Rose suddenly announces.

John chuckles, “I thought you weren’t tired earlier?”

“That was earlier. I’m tired now.” Rose walks off to her room, mumbling to Mr. Bear. The only snippet you catch is something about ‘having a moment.’ You take the container and bag from John, fingertips touching. He doesn’t let go, and you’re left standing there awkwardly.

“Don’t feel bad about what happened earlier,” John says, withdrawing his hands and shoving them into his pockets.

Earli—oh. Your cheeks tingle with warmth. You clear your throat and bring the container close to your chest. “I didn’t mean to pry, I just wanted….” You pause.

“Wanted what?” John asks, and his eyes are wide and pleading. He waits and doesn’t push. Watches as you chew on the inside of your cheek and avoid his gaze.

When you finally gather the courage to look at his face, tender eyes observe you. Does he feel the same? A wave of confidence washes over you, and you decide to take the risk. “To know if I have a fighting chance,” you say.

The corners of John’s lips boomerang up and then back down. His eyebrows draw together, and he almost looks… scared. “Love, I work in the military. I’m a single father. I don’t have much to offer,” John rasps, the words constricting his chest like a vine of thorns. His throat bobs, and he closes his eyes, steeling his body. Because bracing for impact is a natural human response in an attempt to lessen the damage of an imminent crash.

You smile softly. “And if I said I didn’t mind? That I’ll wait for you to come back and become Rose’s favourite while you’re gone?” John’s eyes snap open wide. He stares at you like you’re some sort of mythical creature; a being that can’t possibly exist in this world. Here is a man with his own baggage, who carries a burden on his shoulders that you will never comprehend. And you want to learn how to love him anyway. His expression softens, and he gravitates toward you.

“When I saw how you handle Rose, I didn’t think I could like you more than I already do,” John says.

Your ears perk. “You like me?” you ask. You didn’t think the attraction went both ways.

John rubs the back of his neck, and his cheeks flush. “Might have seen you use the elevator a few times… regularly,” he confesses. “I’ve liked you for a while.”

“And you never tried to say hello?” you tease him, placing a hand on your hip. The pain that flashes across his face is brief, but it stops you from continuing. You decide to change the topic. “Can I kiss you goodbye?” Your face engulfs in flames. “On the cheek, I mean!”

The pink dusting John’s face darkens. “Only if I get to kiss you—on the forehead,” he clarifies.

“Deal.” You place a quick peck on John’s cheek, his skin an inferno against your lips. He cups your face and leans in. It’s soft and leaves you tingling from head to toe. A laugh bubbles in your chest. You slap a hand to cover the dopey grin spreading across your face. “Sorry. I'm just really happy.”

John’s thumb caresses your cheeks. His blue eyes are sparkling. “So am I, Darling. Goodnight,” he says, leaning forward to plant another kiss. You close your eyes and make a content hum, basking in his warmth.

John opens the door for you and leans against the doorframe after you step out. The hallway is relatively dark, and the lights from the apartment bathe him in an ethereal glow. A smile graces his features, and the current that threatened to pull you under has settled into gentle ripples. “Night, John,” you reply, waving goodbye.

A smug grin stretches his smile, and he winks at you. “See ya later, Love.”

You skip to your apartment. The door behind you doesn’t click shut until you disappear from sight. You head to the fridge first to store the leftovers. You find a note when you put away your groceries. Fishing out the paper, it reads: ‘Rose’s bedtime is 10 pm.’

The clock on your stovetop tells you it’s 9:50.

Where did you put that expensive bottle of whiskey you bought years ago?

Bonus Scene:

John tucks his daughter into bed, pulling the blanket to her chin. “What else did you wish for, Rosy?” he asks. It’s become a tradition to figure out her Christmas present. He makes sure to ask her right before bed when he’s certain she won’t remember the conversation in the morning.

Rose snuggles into her pillow, hugging the stuffed bear close to her chest. Her voice is muffled and thick with sleepiness, but he hears it crystal clear. “A little sister.”

─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───

End Note:

Happy early Valentine's Day! I can't wait to consume the Valentine-themed content for all the fandoms I'm in. Not related, but I saw a cowboy ghost render on IG and I think I'm going to have to go back to writing something for him ¯\_( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)_/¯

Time to drop off the face of the Earth for a month or two again.

I'll see you guys at my next hyperfixation! (。・∀・)ノ

Reblogs are appreciated!

#john price x reader #captain john price x reader #john price #captain john price #cod x reader #cod mwii #single dad price #gender neutral reader #no y/n #And they were apartmentmates!#I will update the tags with something funnier once my brain isn't mush

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