#for snuggling beneath purposes you understand

[stellewriites]

Part Four - John Price x reader

Masterlist

Summary: When John gets an unexpected invite to his ex-wife's wedding, he scrambles to find a suitable date to take with him to ward off old ghosts from his past.

Notes: trans John, fat reader, angst

The pair of you stayed quiet in the taxi and then on the short walk to your hotel room. John broke the silence finally when the door closed behind you and you were faced with the double bed and your bags, presumably dealt with by John’s family earlier in the evening when they found out you’d not had chance to stop at the hotel beforehand. You’d wondered where Richard had disappeared to for half the evening.

“Thank you,” John said heartfelt, ducking his chin to meet your eyes. “For coming here, being there for me and—“

“And for not being a raging bigot?” You blurted out, biting your cheek immediately after. You looked up at John’s shocked silence and backtracked. “I’m sorry, that was blunt and- rude. I got pulled aside, figured it out from what they were saying.” You winced, and rubbed at your forehead when a headache made itself known.

“Where they saying anything good?” John asked calmly, jokingly even.

You sighed. “Honestly I think I should be commended for my patience with them but then you’d need about a hundred more accolades than me, I’d assume,” you said tiredly.

“It’s just small town bullshit. Used to bother me, but I’ve found people since that don’t care.”

“Mm. And just one more day of it, at least?” You asked rhetorically.

“Made all the more easy with you here,” he soothed.

You smiled thinly, his words causing an ache, before heaving a heavy sigh and rubbing at your tense shoulders and neck. “I’m tired, I need some sleep. It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah, ‘course.” He nodded and moved to give you space to reach for your bag. He left you to it in the bathroom and once the door was closed you let your face crumple just a little and your shoulders sag. What a mess, and he likely thought you were mad at him now for not telling you about it, leaving you in the dark with his family when that wasn’t the case at all.

You opened the door again and caught him with his shirt halfway unbuttoned.

“S-sorry,” you stuttered as he continued to get undressed. “Uhm, I just wanted to say that I understand why you didn’t tell me, when we first met. I mean given how everyone was there and you didn’t know me, not that you seem worried that I was upset about it, but I’m not. Just to confirm.”

Christ, dig yourself deeper.

John huffed a soft laugh and nodded. “Good to know, Sunshine.”

You nodded and closed the door again, leaving him to continue getting changed while you did the same, washing your face clean and brushing your teeth and feeling ten times lighter.

The ache you felt when you saw him with Charlotte hadn’t gone away, but you could put that on the back burner.

When you stepped back through, a little more hesitantly this time in case he was slow to change, you smiled when you saw he’d purposely left his sleep shirt off. His surgery scars were hardly visible beneath his dark chest hair and he’d clearly taken care of them to ease the healing and provide as much stretch in the skin and across his chest for movement.

You stayed quiet however and didn’t draw attention to his decision; instead you smiled at him a little less forced and joined him in bed.

“You better not snore,” you warned as you turned onto your side away from him, snuggling down into the blankets. You wanted him to know nothing had changed since you’d found out, but you needed to get a hold of your feelings now before you got hurt even worse. The last thing you wanted was to act cold to him, but if you saw his tired eyes crinkle in a fond smile from across a shared pillow you might do something drastic like confess your feelings or suck his cock ‘til your jaw went numb.

You clenched your thighs and shuffled to get comfortable as you felt the mattress dip behind you. It was time to sleep, not time to think about your kiss and the rumbling moan he’d let slip, mouth to mouth with a direct line to your—

“Good night!” You said overly chirpily before yanking the covers up to your hot cheeks, not daring to look over your shoulder.

“G’night, Sunshine,” you heard him say quietly before he switched off the lamp on the bedside table.

——

The celebrations were continued the next day of course. Though this time it was for their closest friends and family only, John had assured you when you’d asked if the crowd was going to be as big as it had been the night before.

Charlotte’s family had wanted to give the couple one last send off before their honeymoon, which came in the form of a garden party in the afternoon.

“Need to give the guests enough time to recover from their hangovers, save face,” John had joked.

“It’ll be hair of the dog, more like,” you’d snorted.

You and John had woken up early enough to spend the free morning together, deciding to grab breakfast nearby before heading into the viper’s nest again.

You spent the time waiting for your orders to arrive convincing yourself you could get over John once you were back home and able to gain a bit of space – and maybe a distraction. You just needed to get it together, to not fuck up the great friendship you’d made with John over the next twelve hours. Easy.

Never mind the few minutes you’d spent in the middle of the night looking over at his side of the bed, tracing the outline of his shoulders in the dark with your eyes. You’d yearned to reach out and touch, to huddle close for warmth and comfort and to breathe in a lungful of his scent, but you’d refrained. You’d jumped out of bed in the morning when you heard the shower going and took the chance to breathe while you were alone.

You’d waited your turn to tidy up and get ready, saying a quiet hello when you passed each other and doing your best to act like you weren’t gagging for his touch. It was the least you could to to calm yourself in the cold shower until you were able to make eye contact and hold his hand to the nearby café without sweating.

John however was struggling not to do something stupid while sat opposite you across the little café table, his eyes glued to your form, exactly where they’d been glued since you’d first stepped out in your cute sundress.

“Figured there was no point in bringing extra clothes just so I could get changed after brekkie, so I put it on now,” you’d said that morning. “Might’ve gotten away with keeping my pyjamas on if we were eating at the hotel but I wouldn’t want to give your old neighbours anything else to gossip about if they saw us.”

You’d winked playfully and John had swallowed his tongue, nodding like a bobblehead when the words stayed stuck.

And now, with your elbows leant on the table as you tapped away on your phone with both hands, your arms pushed at either side of your chest and made John’s life harder as your cleavagee became so distracting that he’d burnt his tongue and choked on his coffee, twice. He’d managed to swallow back his hiss of pain but felt his cheeks flush red when he realised how ridiculous he was acting.

He was grateful that you’d not noticed his staring and even more so when the waiter brought over your orders with a knowing smirk, grateful to have food to concentrate on and for you to have a reason to move your arms and give your tits a rest from driving him crazy.

Breakfast together was otherwise uneventful, conversation easy as always, and once you’d finished your own strong coffee, the pair of you made you way over to Charlotte and Tom’s new home for their ‘intimate garden party’.

Again you wondered why the pair of you had managed to get invited, but the image of John and Charlotte laughing in the low light the evening before answered that question for you. Whether she was still interested like John or not, it was clear their history together meant something to Charlotte and would continue to do so.

With your mood already on edge, it didn’t take much from the other guests to set you off, though with considerably less alcohol served at brunch, both they and you were more subtle with the intrusive questions and returned biting answers.

“Look at you John, doing well since it all went downhill with Charlotte then? Found someone else that likes you for… you?” An old classmate asked as she leant into her husbands snickering side.

“What’s not to like?” You asked bluntly, staring her down until she cleared her throat and looked awkwardly to her partner. “Oh, I see. Jealous some of us didn’t have to settle,” you hummed knowingly as you looked her partner up and down. You’d have felt bad any other day, not one to judge quickly, but it turned out John was a sore spot for your usually light temper and your patience wore thin at his expense. Ignoring her offended scoff, you visibly brightened as trays of food began to be set out on a nearby table. “Oh John, look. They finally brought out the snacks.”

“What are we waiting for then?” He encouraged with a teasing nudge and the pair of you walked away from his old classmate without a further word.

You continued your sarcastic and caustic approach to the other guests for the next hour, only easing up politely if John didn’t immediately stiffen at the sight or sound of them.

Maybe John wasn’t yours, but you still felt a duty to be protective of him, as a friend and his current fake girlfriend. No one else seemed to step in when given the chance, and your role meant you could be as catty as you wanted without raising suspicion. So you took advantage and let out your frustration.

John couldn’t have complained, happy enough to watch you; the sharp smile you sent to the prying guests so different to the soft one you’d share with him a moment later. He was happy to see someone stand up for him without fail and brag about him as if the last six years hadn’t been a complete waste.

Even if you’d gotten a little creative with your bragging as the party went on.

��We were visiting Scarborough for the day,” you said to his aunt and two other older ladies that had been sucked in to your stories. You’d started lying halfway through the gathering just to see if anyone would call you out, to see just how far you could go that they’d still believe you. It had been tricky keeping his face straight as he listened but you were clearly having fun with it, so he wasn’t going to stop you, especially when it painted him in a flattering light. Most of the time. “We were walking along the cliff edge when we heard a shout from up ahead, and John being John he had to go investigate.”

The ladies cooed.

“Someone had fallen over the wall trying to take a photo of the dolphins,” you said dramatically, wide eyed and pausing to let your small audience gasp. “John didn’t even hesitate to jump in himself to help. Think he shaved ten years off of my life that day,” you said and lightly slapped his chest with the back of your hand.

“Couldn’t let the bloke drown,” John said humbly.

“The pair of you were left bobbing in the bloody water until they could fish you out!” You laughed, only encouraged when his aunt laughed along. John shook his head at you with a hidden smile, this one teasing him more than anything. “You were freezing by time they got you back on land.”

“What were you thinking?” His aunt asked with worry.

“Didn’t have time to think of how I was getting back up, did I?” He asked you with a fake pout.

You squeezed his cheeks and cooed. “You were a hero in my eyes, resemblance to a wet cat or not,” you snickered.

John felt his chest ache with the idea of having this with you all the time; not just for his family and Charlotte’s benefit, not just for a long weekend.

Christ, when he thought back to how much he’d been enjoying his time away from work this last month with you, how easy it was to push the important things aside for you, to prioritise the fun stuff or just the simple domestic things that made your life a little easier… He felt a pang of guilt that he wasn’t able to do that sooner for Charlotte, not because he wanted it with her, but because he’d put her through years or waiting for it to never come. It wasn’t her, and it wasn’t anything you’d done either.

It was simply that he’d finally been able to do it, years too late and yet just in time.

And thinking of Charlotte moving on with Tom, finally getting what she deserved; the attention, the love, and the possible family. None of that brought hurt with it like it would have when he first received the invitation. It didn’t bring jealousy or seething regret, just happiness for his ex-wife and her new life. A life he’d have never fitted into.

But this one you were making, fabricating? He could gladly settle in and make home there. You made things easy in a way he couldn’t fathom.

But telling you this seemed impossible.

How could he tell you he was no longer mourning his past life, instead looking towards a brighter future now that he’d come to terms with how he and Charlotte weren’t meant to be. Seeing her face to face had been the splash of ice cold water needed for him to see clearly. And maybe you and him weren’t meant to be either, but god did he just want to try for the first time in years.

He swallowed thickly as you brought your story to an end, rubbing his arm and looking at him too adoringly, it felt undeserved.

“I’m not the one that saved that baby rabbit though, am I?” he said, starting his own story. Though this one was real, and something you’d mentioned to him once in passing, something he knew you’d never have expected him to remember. “Found it in your garden injured so you nursed it back to health for a week, took time off work to do it even, and then let it go in the nearby park.”

“You remember that?” you asked, disbelief written clear as day over your face. You stared at him without blinking, a smile wanting to pull at your lips.

“‘Course I do,” he said simply. “Remember everything you tell me.”

You let the smile break then, ducking your head bashfully and leaning heavily into his arm. He leant in to kiss the crown of your head, glad that his impulses only helped to sell the lie.

“I’m going to go grab a snack,” you said and cleared your throat. You tried to avoid John’s eyes but they flickered up without permission, a magnet to his own. “I’ll get you your favourites,” you promised.

“Thanks, Sunshine,” he said softly.

You bit the inside of your cheek as you got to the canapés table. You needed to reign it in, stop getting sucked in by blue eyes and rich voice.

“Never bloody filling enough,” you outwardly complained as you piled the snacks high on your plate. “Smaller than baby bites,” you huffed under your breath as you picked up a cube of cheese and ate it as you went along.

You heard a small laugh and turned to your right, eyes widening when you saw Shirl, John’s mum.

“They are quite silly in practice,” she admitted, gesturing to the small portions. She looked over her shoulder. “Though they look very nice plated like this.”

You snorted and moved to join her further up the table.

“Don’t tell anyone but we’re on our third plate,” you stage whispered, hooking a thumb back at John.

Shirley smiled indulgently. “Rich is on his third serving by himself. I wouldn’t worry.”

You laughed and looked back at John’s dad as he stood with John, slapping his son’s shoulder and nodding along as he spoke.

“You’re lovely together,” Shirley suddenly said. “I wasn’t sure at first. But you both seem good for one another, or at least you seem good for him.”

You watched her for a moment, how her gaze fluttered over the crowd as she sipped at her drink. Hair of the dog for Shirl too it seemed.

“Thank you.” You smiled genuinely when she looked at you out of the corner of her eye. “Lizzy not attending?”

Shirley sighed, happy for the topic change. She leant close and kept her gaze shrewd for any listening ears. “Too hung over to even get out of bed. God knows what people will think tomorrow.”

“Oh I simply couldn’t imagine,” you simpered along with a smirk.

——

“Quite the woman you’ve managed to catch for yourself,” Richard said as he came to stand by his son’s side.

“Yeah, she’s great,” John said as he watched you. He shifted with the weight of his father’s palm slapping his shoulder.

“‘Great’ he says,” his dad huffed with humour. “She’s a keeper, John.”

John shifted uneasily and nodded. Suddenly the weight of the lie settled heavily and uncomfortably over him, more prevalent now than all weekend and it dried his throat. He checked his watch and cleared his throat.

“Think we’ll need to be off soon,” he said. “To beat the traffic and all that.”

“You’ll be wanting a good night’s sleep for work tomorrow, I assume,” his dad agreed. “It was nice seeing you, son.”

John looked to his dad and took a deep breath. He spoke as he shook his dads hand tightly. “You too, dad.”

——

You turned at the tap on your arm and smiled when John was at your side once more.

“Got you the last of the little sausage rolls,” you said cheerily and he kissed your temple in thanks.

“We’ve got to get going, didn’t realise the time,” John said apologetically and turned to his mum with a close lipped smile.

“Oh, shame,” she hummed. She put her drink on the table and pulled him in for a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t leave it so long between visits next time. I’d like to see her again some time soon.”

She nodded to you over his shoulder and John swallowed past the guilt for a second time.

“I promise,” he lied.

“Come on, let’s scoff these as we say a quick good bye to everyone, John,” you suggested and let him lead you around the guests.

By time the pair of you got to Charlotte and Tom you’d finished your plate, but you were remiss for not having anything in your hands to keep them busy. Instead you had to try and keep them still as you watched with a little anxiety as John shook Tom’s hand and gave Charlotte a hug, wishing them well with what you could almost believe was a real smile on his face if you didn’t know better.

“It was great catching up, Lottie,” John said as he hooked his arm back around your waist. “Lovely party.”

“I’m so glad you both came,” Charlotte said, looking between the pair of you.

“Thanks for inviting us,” you added.

John didn’t linger; with a wave, he led you away and you felt him squeeze your hip as if to comfort himself.

With one last goodbye to his family, including Lizzy who had finally managed to fight past her hangover to turn up fashionably late, you climbed into his car with your bags in the boot.

You were uncharacteristically silent for the first part of the drive and it had the journey feeling a little melancholic, something John picked up on immediately.

His eyes cut across to you gazing out of the window, your hands folded in your lap, legs turned towards the door. His lips pursed at the shut off body language and he switched on the radio, skipping stations until he found an old rock song. Feeling his lips twitch he turned it up with another scant look your way to gauge your reaction and started singing along out of tune.

Your eyebrows rose at the sudden burst from his speakers and the sound of his scratchy singing voice, and you bit back a surprised smile as you turned to watch him. You snorted but joined in as soon as it hit the more familiar chorus, falling into his contagious spirit easily and drumming your hands on the dashboard when the heavy drum solo hit.

You couldn’t help but laugh when John took the chance at a red light to play the air guitar, head banging in time and biting his lip in concentration as if actually playing the tricky chords. You couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness however that all of this was temporary; coming to an end as soon as you reached home in a few hours.

You turned your sad eyes down and played the air keyboard dramatically to keep his suspicion waylaid; stating the instrument was your specialty when John commented on your questionable finger technique.

——

When he finally pulled up in front of your house several hours and a few stops later, you both sat there and looked at your front door in silence without moving.

He saw you fiddle with the strap of your handbag nervously, picking and scratching with your thumb nail.

He cleared his throat softly before breaking the silence. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

You took a moment before giving him a weak smile. “Just know how shit it is to watch someone you care about be in love with someone else,” you settled on with a shrug. You felt pathetic about your month-old crush, especially in comparison to the hurt John was guaranteed to have been feeling at that moment.

He frowned and nodded slowly, trying to piece together what you may have meant. He opened his mouth, wanting to tell you that he didn’t feel that way about Charlotte anymore. That he’d realised he was over her this weekend while with you; but he hesitated, closed his mouth with a clack. Because this was just a favour to you wasn’t it? There were no real feelings on your end, right? It’d be wrong of him to put that on you now after the emotional exhaustion of lying to his family and supporting him through it. Selfish of him even.

But what did you mean you knew how it felt?

You watched him struggle for a moment and felt your heart ache when he said nothing; entirely unsurprised, and yet knowing he didn’t feel the same didn’t change how much it hurt to have it confirmed.

“Thanks for inviting me, John,” you said as sweet as you could manage. “I had a really good time.”

“Despite my family’s best efforts,” he joked weakly.

You rolled your eyes playfully. In a moment of weakness you reached out for his hand and squeezed it where it rested on his thigh.

“You know, I’m going to miss hanging out, just me and you,” you admitted, regretting it when John’s eyes turned sad. You spoke before he could have to chance to share false platitudes with you that maybe you’ll stay in touch; this was a favour, no more no less. You’d completed your end, there was no reason to drag out the inevitable, not when he didn’t need the fake dates as ‘proof’ anymore. “You’re a great guy, she doesn’t know what she’s missing.”

He blinked and in a flash you were out of the car, door slamming with finality behind you as you jogged across the clear road.

Seeing you slip through his fingers in real time brought that feeling of an empty pit back in his stomach, but this time it wasn’t regret for something he couldn’t change or yearning for someone already out of reach.

“Chris’sake, I’m a grown fucking man,” he cursed himself out as he shouldered his way out of the car. He owed you the effort of trying at least.

John called after you, a shout of your name he didn’t often use, and you turned in surprise before you opened your front door. He saw the glassy tint to your eyes and felt his heart clench. Without thinking he blurted out the first thing that came to mind that might stop you for just a moment longer, “I still owe you the money we agreed on.” Your expression shuttered, shoulders stiffening, and he rounded his car quickly, needing to be closer with no barriers. “Fuck, no, that’s not what I meant to say, love. Wait.”

You stayed silent as you watched him on the other side of the dead road.

He paused to gather his racing thoughts.

“I don’t love my ex-wife anymore, or not how I did. Haven’t for a while I think; just loved the idea of her, the memory of what we had, the familiarity of it.” He swallowed thickly. “Think I loved fucking wallowing because I was used to it, ‘nd it was easier than admitting I’d been wrong and having to put myself out there again to get hurt a second time ‘round.”

He checked the road before making his way closer as you wrapped your arms around yourself, tight and self-comforting.

“But these last couple of days… This last month; Sunshine, I got closure I didn’t know I needed but more than that I realised I want more than what I’ve been letting myself have. I want you.”

“John,” you finally spoke hoarsely. You shook your head.

“The time we’ve spent together recently… They’ve been some of the best days I’ve had in a long time.” He stepped forward and reached for your hands but you kept them folded away. “I want to feel that way again, every day that I can, with you.”

“I saw the way you looked at her,” you said gently, as if breaking to him that he still loved Charlotte. “You were laughing together at the end of the reception like it was your wedding.”

John huffed in disbelief. The fucking irony.

“Yeah because she told me how lucky I was to have a firecracker like you by my side,” he said with a laugh. “Not because I was trying to get her back. She’s pregnant, Sunshine, that ship has sailed.”

You felt your heart drop when realisation set in. “So I’m a consolation prize.”

“No,” he denied vehemently, eyes wide and horrified. “No, that’s not what I meant, bloody hell.”

He wiped a hand over his beard roughly, feeling you drift away word by word. He was fucking this up.

“Seeing her like that,” he started carefully. “I understand now that I didn’t want her back in the first place, not really.” At your doubtful look he continued on. “I don’t feel any jealousy or regret and not being the one starting a family with her; I just want to be happy like she is. And, Sunshine, it’s you that makes me happy like that.”

You looked at him with watery eyes, hope glistening in his own as his hand hovered by your hip.

You were quiet for a moment as you gathered your thoughts. John had flipped everything you’d felt, everything you’d thought you’d known about the last few days on its head and now you were stuck outside your house in the cold as the sun set, his confession heavy and waiting.

You felt cornered. It didn’t feel genuine, you still thought he was doing this out of some delayed sense of desperation and rejection. Clinging onto the first available woman after seeing Charlotte move on completely.

You liked John, a lot, and at any other time you’d have likely been jumping for joy hearing him say all of this. But you thought you knew him pretty well by now, and you weren’t going to make yourself unhappy by being second choice to help ease his bruised ego.

“I’m not looking for anything right now, John. Sworn off dating, remember?” You reminded him of your first conversation in that café, something that felt so long ago.

John became quiet for a moment, considering your soft rejection and trying to come to terms with it. He nodded and took a step back, his hand dropped back to his side.

“If you do start looking again, you’ve got my number,” he offered softly.

Your breath hitched and you nodded. You looked away and wiped at your face roughly when a tear fell. In a split decision you leant up and kissed his cheek before turning back and closing the door behind you.

did a little moodboard for this fic when i was stuck,, kept reader off it, the people in it are optional oc representation

[phoenixiancrystallist]

Month 11, day 6

Another floofy cloak design! :D I'll do the back of it tomorrow

They still don't have names, but then again neither do the other two cloaks in the Echt line. Names can happen later, I suppose

[wearysparrows]

My First, My Only, My Last

ao3/masterlist

Summary: With the passing of time, your dragon has grown to expect your touch. He is like clay in your hands, and you mould him.

CW: fluff, cuddling & snuggling, some suggestive themes, you caress your dragon, very touchy feely, dragon Sylus, no use of pronouns or Y/N 1K

As of late, your dragon had begun to change.

Not of his physicality – he still radiates an imposing heat, sharp edges ready to eviscerate anything that comes too close. Lives shudder and end tremulously under his claws.

Well, all except for yours.

No longer was he wary of your approach. He welcomed it, pulling you closer with the powerful muscles of his tail, as if he could crush you to himself and make two into one. His gifts, too, changed with him. Instead of gold – flowers whose blooming you had never known, the songs of birds, delicacies from far away lands. Things you knew he desired to share and understand, together.

You approach him, now. He was lounging much the same way he did when you had first met – on a throne cast in stone. Since your arrival, however, it had been covered with the softness of furs and silks to aid in your comfort. The only light in the cave came from flickering sconces adorning the walls. His shadow flutters underneath them.

He supports his head with one hand, and the tip of his tail twitches to and fro at the sound of your approach. He turns over to face you. The mark of his teeth on your neck stutters with the briefest of pains. As you come within his proximity, his tail slips around to the small of your back, and bids you come closer, as if your pace wasn’t quick enough for him. It stays there, caressing your spine with its heat. In the flash of his eyes you see his barely concealed amusement, excitement at your encroachment on his space. His youth.

“Approaching a dragon with nothing to defend yourself? How bold.”

His voice, bereft of malice, and full of tender warmth. You kneel onto the throne beside him, notching yourself between the gentle curve of his legs and torso. He makes room for you, and his tail follows your movements, now curled possessively around you. You feel the scales of it touch the soles of your bare feet.

“I have no fear.”

His quiet laugh reverberates through his chest and into you from where your forms connect. You take one of his hands into your lap. He lets you.

“Are you certain that’s wise?”

His hand uncurls and curls around nothing in your lap. The collective warmth of your bodies pools beneath you through the furs, warming your calves.

“I have no need for wisdom. I know you as I know myself.”

You massage the soft web of a junction between his thumb and index finger, encouraging the muscles there to loosen under your touch. The same motion is repeated between each tendon – index and middle, middle and ring, and ring and pinky. The scaley pads of his palms were like leather softened with age and use – well loved. His fingers twitch reflexively as you maneuver them. He carefully avoids puncturing your skin with the sharpness of his claws.

“What is the purpose in this?”

You hear the ingenuousness in his question. He doesn’t pull away.

“Pleasure.” You say.

A word he understands. This seems to compel him, and he rolls onto his back. His hands wrap around your waist, and deposit you into a straddle on top of him. His hold on your middle doesn’t cease. His back is supported by the stone arm of the throne behind him, and only a few inches of space is left between your faces. Gone were the usual slits of his pupils, now blown wide with a blackness that nearly dwarfed the ruby of his eyes entirely.

“Like this?” He accentuates the statement with a roll of his hips into yours, eliciting a responsive heat from your body. You steady him underneath you, hands splayed on his chest. You had grown to understand that you were the first to touch him in a capacity that was free from violence. By his admission, he had only known the sensation of suffering, even by his own hand. You reach up, letting your palms drift over the grit of his horns. Black, and wrought like iron. You rubbed them at the base with your thumbs where they met his skull, disappearing into the softness of sterling hair. He rattles out a purr of surprise underneath you, but doesn’t stop your attentions. His neck bends towards the touch, and you slip your hands up, up, wrapping your fingers around the bony protrusions. They fit perfectly, like the spaces there were made for your hands alone. You feel his hands around your wrists, then, and he directs them from his horns to his face. You cup it. Barely restrained heat colors his cheeks.

“Only you would dare to tease a fiend.”

There’s breathlessness in his words that he tries to conceal. His grip drops from your wrists and returns to your waist. He presses you into him again. You laugh brightly, feeling his interest make itself known underneath you.

“It’s not teasing. It’s adoring.”

You drag your nails up and down the plate of scales on his jaw, and the muscles underneath it flex in response. His nostrils flare at the combination of your words and your touch. You drop your hands to his chest again, and drag a finger around the contours of the gem that thrums with his lifeforce. His blood rushes in and out of it there, a tiny microcosm of life. He shudders, a quiet gasp escaping him. His purr continues to rumble, and though you know it comes from within him, the sound is so inhuman that it's hard to believe he produces it. His tail wraps around your entirety, replacing his hands at your waist. He sits up, his breath just a ghost against your lips.

“It’s my turn to adore you now, then.”

Your dragon learns that there are pleasures of all kinds. Those that excite the senses, invigorate the mind, and electrify the skin. He learns the pleasure of the mundane, too – the crunch of residual volcanic ash under foot, the ground warmed by its activity. The radiant flash of a fish in deep waters. A name that can’t be pronounced, given anew. He learns to share in pleasure, to become one in all ways. The arc of two souls no longer separated by flesh. He learns and merges, and the place where he begins and you end ceases its existence, and there is only the one song left behind in its wake.

[landinhoe]

Moments Between Us- Lando Norris

A/N: Hii guys, this is my first ever experience with writing, hope you enjoy 🤗

The soft glow of the early morning sun filtered through the curtains, casting a warm, golden hue across the bedroom. She stirred, her eyes fluttering open as she felt the comforting weight of Lando’s arm draped around her waist. The familiar scent of him—fresh and warm—filled her senses, and she couldn’t help but blush.

She turned slowly to face him, careful not to wake him. His face was peaceful in sleep. For a few moments, she just watched him, amazed by how lucky she felt to be here, wrapped in this quiet, shared moment.

Lando’s breath was slow and steady, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. She snuggled closer, tucking herself into his warmth, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her hand. She pressed her lips to his bare shoulder, the touch lingering as she savored the warmth and the closeness.

As if sensing her movement, Lando stirred slightly, his arm tightening around her in a sleepy embrace. His hand began to roam, fingertips tracing delicate patterns along her spine, drawing soft shivers from her. Slowly, he woke, his eyes opening to meet hers with a gaze filled with affection and something deeper—a quiet, simmering desire that matched her own.

Good morning, he murmured, his voice thick with sleep, but there was a playful note beneath it. His hand found its way beneath her nightgown, brushing over her skin, the touch light but purposeful.

Her breath hitched, her own hands exploring the familiar lines of his body. “Good morning my love, she whispered back, her voice soft but carrying a hint of anticipation. She leaned in, their lips meeting in a slow, deliberate kiss that deepened as the moments passed. The kiss grew more heated, more insistent, as if they were savoring every second, every touch.

Lando shifted, rolling her onto her back, his body pressing against hers. Their movements were slow, unhurried, each touch deliberate, exploring, cherishing. The thin fabric between them felt like nothing, their warmth blending as they moved together. There was a comfort in the intimacy, a quiet understanding that this was where they belonged—in each other’s arms, sharing these stolen moments of passion before the day truly began.

I love you, Lando whispered, his lips brushing her ear as he moved against her, his voice low and filled with sincerity, yet thick with desire.

His lover heart’s swelled, her fingers threading through his hair as she held him close. I love you too, she breathed, her voice barely more than a sigh. Her body responded to his, their connection deepening with every heartbeat.

They lost themselves in each other, the morning stretching out around them in a haze of warmth and whispered promises. The world outside ceased to exist, replaced by the simple, profound pleasure of being together, of sharing something intimate and pure.

As the sun continued to rise, its light bathing them in a soft glow, they remained wrapped in each other, content to let the morning linger as long as it could. They knew that soon, the demands of the day would pull them apart, but for now, this was enough—more than enough.

[cloudwisp]

Wriothesley falling in love means you being the reason for his smile when he sees you for the first time that day. Even if it’s just the tiniest quirk at the corners of his mouth, it’s most definitely there and he’s usually seen in a better mood for the rest of the day. The Head Nurse notices this and after she made a passing comment, he can’t help but catch himself doing it the moment you come into his view and dammit was Sigewinne right about you—you do make him happy, more so than you could ever imagine.

Wriothesley falling in love means he can believe these things you tell him—about himself. You’re by no means naive but you always strive to see the good in people and understand their circumstances. Even when he questions what kind of man he is, you tell him he’s a nice person who looks after everyone beneath his care. Even if he’s got blood on his hands and has his regrets, you tell him it wasn’t really fair that he was pushed into that position in the first place. He still has some reservations about his past, but he appreciates being seen in a different light.

Wriothesley falling in love means he’s always a bit romantic with you. When you mention you miss feeling the sun’s warmth on your face after having to spend most of your time at the Fortress of Meropide to be with him, he plans a small outing in a scenic location to watch the sunrise/sunset together. (And he makes a mental note to take you on dates in the overworld more). When you pretend you’re getting overheated by snuggling too close to him and move away slightly, he pulls you back with purpose and a teasing smirk on his handsome features. “It’ll be cold outside of my embrace. You want to stay here… forever, right?”

Wriothesley falling in love means he’s allowed to be incredibly sappy and a touch playful and say all these sweet things because if there’s one thing he loves most about you—it’s the way you bring out the softness in him and you make it so easy for him to just be himself with you. Even someone like him who hasn’t been dealt the easiest hand in life is deserving of a tender and healing kind of love whether he believes it or not.

[fear-is-truth]

𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐘 . . . hc .ᐟ ✶ 𝐭𝐨𝐦 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐨 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞

⟢ tags — fem!reader﹒established relationshi﹒fluff﹒a bit suggestive﹒toxic relationship

tom is always composed and distant when others are around, his poker face never betraying much emotion. he doesn’t indulge in pda, but his eyes often linger on you a moment too long when he’s made sure no one is looking.

rarely shows affection outwardly, but when he touches you, it’s always with purpose. a hand on the small of your back, guiding you; fingers brushing against your jaw, reminding you of his power over you.

likes it when you sit on his lap, especially in front of others. he won’t say anything—just grabs your wrist, guiding you to sit without a word. once you’re settled, he’ll rest a cold hand on your thigh. it sends a subtle message that you’re his, reinforcing his control over you and everyone around.

when it’s just the two of you, he likes having you close—idly toying with your hair or tracing his name on your thigh while he’s reading or strategising.

mostly calls you by your last name, the same way he calls everyone else. occasionally, he’ll call you things like love, darling, and pet. he says it with a slow, almost condescending drawl that gives the impression he’s savouring the syllables on his tongue.

pretends to hate it when you fuss over him—especially when you adjust his tie or push a curl of his hair away from his forehead. he’ll roll his eyes or mutter something like, “i can manage on my own, thank you,” but deep down, he finds it oddly soothing. the small, almost maternal act just gets him in ways he doesn’t fully understand.

he may not express concern in obvious ways, but he’s always watching. when you enter a room, his gaze discreetly scans for any threat. if someone dares insult or harm you, they’re screwed. tom will handle it in the shadows—silently and mercilessly.

if someone really gets under your skin, tom doesn’t hesitate to send his cronies to deal with them. you don’t even have to ask—he’ll notice your irritation and handle it discreetly. whether it’s a nasty hex or making their potion explode in class, tom ensures they pay for bothering you, all while keeping his hands clean.

if you snuggle into his side or playfully kiss his cheek, he’ll act annoyed and insulted, sighing as though you’re interrupting his important work. “you really are a needy, insufferable little thing, aren’t you,” he’ll murmur with a barely concealed smirk.

often manipulates you without you even realising it. tom always frames his possessiveness as concern and his control as a form of protection, but beneath it all, there’s a genuine care for you, albeit toxic and twisted.

though tom sees everyone else as beneath him, he holds a rare soft spot for you. he may never admit it, but you see it in the way he allows you small freedoms—like teasing him, stealing food from his plate or running your fingers through his dark curls.

despite his own lofty ambitions, he is surprisingly attentive when you rambling about the most random, mundane things. whether you’re excitedly describing your favourite book, the details of a dream, he listens with an intensity that almost surprises you. he doesn’t say much, but his eyes never leave your face, taking in every word as if it matters deeply to him.

tom won’t coddle you, but he always keeps an eye on your well-being. if you’re overworking yourself, he’ll insist on a break.

he’ll save you a seat next to him in class or meetings, hand you the book you’ve been searching for before you even ask, or casually drape his cloak over your shoulders when it’s cold without saying a word.

when you’re asleep, tom lets his guard down completely. if he has nothing else to do, the boy can literally watch you for hours, his usually blank, cold eyes softening just slightly before he presses a tender kiss to your forehead. when you wake up, of course, he’s as distant as ever.

tom is highly disciplined when it comes to academics, but he enjoys having you by his side while studying. he’ll let you sit next to him in the library or the common room, occasionally glancing at you while you work. if you’re struggling, he’ll lean over and explain it in detail.

kisses from him are slow and languid, always controlled, as if he’s relishing the power he holds over you. soft, cold lips barely brush yours at first, teasingly close but not enough to satisfy. he likes to make you lean in for more, only granting you a deeper kiss when he decides. his hands always rest possessively on the back of your neck or waist.

enjoys teasing you, both physically and verbally. he’ll brush his lips against the shell of your ear, nibbling at your earlobe and whisper filthy things just to see you squirm. he’ll smirk at how easily you react, eyes lighting up with sadistic amusement. “you get worked up so easily, love,” he’ll drawl, fingers toying with the top few buttons of your shirt and slipping dangerously low on your collarbone, toeing the boundaries but never quite crossing them.

even when he’s being more… soft, tom keeps some degree of dignity. if you’re tugging on his tie or messing with his hair, he’ll let you indulge for a bit, but then his hand will come up to grasp your wrist, stopping you. “enough,” he’ll say softly, but not without affectionation

he likes it when you card your fingers through his hair and tug it gently during sex. he may let out the slightest sound of approval but quickly regains his composure, gripping your wrist to slow you down. “impatient, are we?” he’ll chide with a raised brow, though the way his eyes darken with lust betrays his enjoyment.

loves leaving hickeys on your neck, collarbone, or anywhere that will remind you of him long after he’s gone. it’s possessive—his way of marking you. he’ll kiss the sensitive skin, biting just hard enough to leave a bruise, then watch your reaction with a smug, satisfied smile. “there you go,” he’ll murmur, “now everyone knows who you belong to.”

playful in his own sinister way. if you try to pull away from his teasing, he’ll pinch your ass or thigh just hard enough to make you gasp. the smirk only widens at your reaction, and he’ll say something like, “running away? i don’t think so.” long fingers linger on the sore spot afterward, tracing the sensitive area with a feather-light touch, knowing it drives you mad.

when he wants your attention, he will let his breath tickle your skin, leaning in close without touching, making you anticipate the next move. hovering just above your lips or trace his mouth along your jawline, only pulling away when you lean in for more, leaving you craving his touch.

has a fixation on your neck, often letting his lips brush the skin there when he kisses you. he’ll nip at it gently, knowing exactly where to kiss to make you come undone. loves how sensitive you are, how you react so easily to his attention in that area.

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[slut4thebroken]

Just a Dream

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Pairing | dark stepbro!Neil Lewis x reader

Summary | Neil lays with you after having a bad dream.

Warnings | NON CON smut, sexual content, 18+, innocence kink, technically incest, non consensual touching, brief fingering, forced breeding, painful first time, almost somno??, gaslighting lol.

Words | 1.4 k

Notes | oof

Ao3 link | <3

Masterlist

Light flooded your room briefly, but it disappeared as your door clicked shut softly. You sat up in bed a little and rubbed your tired eyes, trying to see in the darkness of your room. 

“Neil?” You hoped it was him… You parents aren’t home for another two days so you’re in trouble if it’s not. 

“It’s me.” He said quietly, walking closer until he was standing by the side of your bed. “I just… I had a nightmare and I couldn’t sleep.” You frowned at that. 

“I’m sorry… Do you want to sleep in here?” Your voice was still laced with sleepiness. 

“If you don’t mind.” He said sheepishly. You scooched over to the other side of the bed and lifted the covers for him. “Did I wake you?” He asked, once he was all settled. 

“I was only half asleep.” You shrugged, then yawned at the reminder of how tired you were. He was quiet for a while and your eyes became too heavy to keep open once again. 

“Can we cuddle? I still can’t sleep.” You mumbled out an agreement. “Turn over.” You didn’t respond and just turned onto your other side, letting him slide in behind you. He wrapped his arm over your torso and pulled your back flush with his front. 

“G’night.” You murmured, placing your hand over his on your stomach. 

“Night.” He said quietly. You smiled and snuggled into him a little more when he kissed the back of your head. 

You’ve done this once or twice before, usually you have a bad dream though. You just feel so safe and comfortable in his arms. Neil told you that your cuddle sessions had to stay a secret, which you didn’t understand but you agreed anyway, just wanting to make him happy. 

You were dozing off again and you could kind of register his hand rubbing up and down your side, relaxing you. His fingertips were under your shirt on your bare skin and when he brushed your side boob, you groaned out a protest and he shushed you. 

“I’m just trying to sleep.” He explained, then cupped your breast and squeezed gently. 

“Neil…” You mumbled. 

“Don’t you want me to fall back asleep?” Of course you do, that’s why he’s laying here right now, but you don’t want him to do this. He gently rolled your nipple between his fingers, making you moan quietly. When his hand traveled back down your stomach, you relaxed again. His fingers teased the waistband of your panties, making you groan and bring a lazy hand down to bat him away. He wasn’t deterred though. 

He slipped his hand beneath the fabric and cupped your sex, letting out a heavy breath as you whined and tried to pull his hand away. He just shushed you and started rubbing his fingers up and down your slit, spreading your arousal. He slipped a finger inside and you whimpered at the new feeling. 

“Fuck you’re so tight.” He whispered, breath fanning the back of your neck. “Are you a virgin? Were you saving yourself for your big brother?” He chuckled, making you mumble out a weak protest. “Shh. Just go back to sleep.” He said quietly. 

He pushed a second finger in and started curling them against your walls, pressing the heel of his hand against your clit. When he groaned and bucked his hips, you suddenly noticed that he was hard. 

“Neil… stop.” You whined. 

“I’m not doing anything.” He chuckled. 

“Y-you’re touching me.” You were frowning now. 

“No I’m not. You’re just dreaming, silly girl.” Are you? It feels real. But you’re also so tired that it’s hard to tell. He slipped a third finger inside and you let out a whimper of discomfort, not used to the stretch— not used to any stretch. 

“Hurts, Neil.” 

“Shh. You can take it. You’re just dreaming, baby.” His hips started rutting into you with more purpose now. When he pulled his hand away, you breathed a sigh of relief, but it was cut short by him freeing his length, then pulling your panties to the side. You could feel his cock brushing your folds, getting ready. 

It’s not real. 

He applied some pressure and you whimpered as you brought a hand back to weakly push his hips away. 

It’s just a dream. 

It took even more force before he was finally able to breach your opening, making you cry out. 

It’s just a dream. It’s just a dream. It’s just a dream.

It felt real though. Your eyes were watering from the burn and you started crying silently. 

“Neil, no.” You whimpered. Without responding, he grabbed your leg and lifted it up a bit to have easier access. He didn’t push in all the way, or give you a second to adjust. He just started slowly rocking his hips, letting out quiet groans. “Please, stop.” Your words slurred together now, almost incoherent because of the mixture of sleepiness and the way you were moaning in pain. 

“Shh. Just take it.” He whispered, moving a little faster. “Be a good little sister and take your big brother's cock.” He gruffed, ignoring your crying. He started fucking you harder and deeper, chasing his orgasm and relishing in your little whimpers and the way you squeezed his cock so tight that you almost forced him out. 

“Fuck… Are you always this easy? Or is it just because you’re half asleep.” He chuckled, lifting your leg up more. 

“Neil..” You cried. “Stop it… Please stop it, Neil.” He wasn’t listening. All he could hear was you begging and crying for him, and unfortunately for you, the fact that you were begging and crying for him to stop only turned him on more. 

“Shit— You’re gonna make me come.” He was panting now. Heavy breaths fanned your neck as he bucked into you wildly, getting closer to his release. “You gonna be a good little sis and take my come?” You shook your head and babbled out senseless protests, making him laugh quietly. 

“Beg. Beg me not to fill you— not to knock you up.” You let out a choked sob and his hips moved more frantically. 

“Please don’t… Neil, please don’t.” You cried. 

“Fuck— just like that.” He groaned. “Keep begging and maybe I’ll listen.” 

“Please don’t— don’t… come in me.” You whimpered. You weren’t used to saying that word with this meaning and it made you blush. “Please, Neil… I don’t wanna get pregnant.” It was getting harder to speak through the sobbing. 

“Oh fuck… More.” 

“Neil, please! Please stop already— it hurts.” 

“Does it? Is my cock too big for your little pussy?” All you could do was let out a strangled whimper. “That just means we’ll have to do this more often so I can break you in.” 

“No— no please. Not again.” You were babbling out pleas and protests, all of it incoherent through the crying though. 

“Fuck I’m gonna come.” He choked out. 

“Pull out! Please pull out, Neil!” His hips snapped into you harder and faster until he buried himself to the hilt inside you with a low groan. You could feel heat filling you up and it caused a new wave of tears. “Neil…” You sobbed, making him moan louder. Each time he bucked his hips into you, it forced out a quiet whimper because of the intensity of the thrust. 

“Shit…” He breathed, panting heavily as he lowered your leg back down. Your crying slowed a little, but it felt like you were close to hyperventilating with the way you were gasping in breaths between each sob. 

“I- I’m gonna tell mom and dad…” You whimpered, not sure what else you could do. But it was already done. Maybe it would keep this from happening again though. He let out a low chuckle and wrapped his arm around you again, holding you close with his softening cock still inside you. 

“No you’re not.” You tried not to let your fear show from his tone. “If I even think that you plan on telling them, I’ll go to them first. Tell them that you got yourself knocked up by some random guy. With your hysteria, we’ll see who they believe.” He scoffed.  

“…Neil.” You sobbed out, your crying picking back up again. 

“I know— It’s okay…” He placed a gentle kiss on the back of your head. “I'm gonna teach you a lot. Gonna make you into the perfect little sister.” 

Taglist (join here)

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[luonnon-varainen]

I can't stop thinking about the fact that Collie is a teeny tiny eldritch horror(headcanon). Knowing the darkness secrets of the universe. Possessing a knowledge about the nature of existence, time, overall scientists far beyond mortal comprehension. The little god, raised as a one in a belief of their superiority over mortals. Allowed to decide about fates of those beneath. The eldritch who adores the life and wants to both understand and protect it, while being the greatest threat to living. Also they are extremely similar to the creatures from the deepest and darkest trenches of ocean. Relaying on lowest instinct, primal force who brought then to being. Moving blindly through the emptiness of the universe in search of the precious energy, the life to fill the endless void, which consumes them from the inside. Never meant to experience satisfaction nor rest. Left only with vague sense of purpose, which they will execute at all cost. But they are an actual kid, who loves games and warmth of other creatures. And those natures of Collector are equal and complement one another, forming whole picture of who they are. Leading to those "clashing situations" when Collie is a kiddo and just "breaks the character". It could be the most unsettling, unhinged behaviour/information about themselves, casually explaining the most complex theories from all the science studies like it's common knowledge with no reason, reacting weirdly to any old cultural/history texts, but never mentioning why, treating the mortals with some distance, sympathy and objectify or just entering a little hunt mode out of nowhere. Casually remind that they surely a kid but the primal god's kid. The moral backbone, all the social cues, all acceptable behaviours might simply not apply to them, never been taught. All this burden to show Collie how to be good mortal is on their surrounding. Not always in the best way, but still. A cute, adorable and perfect for snuggling kiddo, but that uncanny feeling being around them, similar to facing a wild dangerous animal, knowing it could tear you apart, but it just passed by, never leaves.

[flowerandblood]

The Fall from the Heavens (25)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: angst, tension, anxiety, a lot of half-truths ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

Characters & Series Moodboard Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Childhood

Author note: For the purposes of this story, Lord Rodrik Arryn had a son and an heir, who in turn has a son of his own, to whom our Lady Strong was betrothed. I invented the lullaby in this chapter, so if you think it's weird, thank me, lol.

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

After what he heard, he just vomited, unable to stop the convulsions that were squeezing his stomach, the rapid pounding of his heart or his terrified, ragged breathing. He could feel tears of despair and fear running down his cheeks as he coughed once more, panting heavily over the vessel − he felt like his whole body was twitching.

You will betray her at the moment she trusts you the most.

You will achieve victory, but she will never let you touch herself again.

You will put your child inside me, your bastard son, who will rule Harrenhal after our death.

He felt his stomach twist again in pain at the mere memory – he leaned over the bowl, feeling the gag reflex shake his body once more, but nothing left his throat.

He cried out loudly as if he were a small child, covering his face with his hand, leaning over the table, thinking about how much he needed his wife right now.

How much he wanted to snuggle between her soft, sweet breasts, to feel her smooth, warm hands stroking his hair, her heart beating beneath his cheek.

He drew in a loud breath, reminding himself that he had left her alone and that any moment spent in this disgusting place could have been her last; he reached for the cup of wine, rinsed his mouth a few times and spat the contents into the bowl, washing his face with fresh water, trying to calm himself.

This was part of their game, he thought, feeling his terror slowly begin to be replaced by fury.

He was sure Larys Strong had made her say it because he wanted him to believe that what was to come was destiny, not his and his grandfather's plan.

They wanted to manipulate him, to force him to leave her, to strip her of his protection, to destroy her.

No, he thought.

He was no longer a small child.

He left the fortress feeling that he had again unwittingly become the cold, empty stone he had been for eight years when she had not been with him, recognising that he had to keep a cool head.

He could not allow himself to be weak now.

He knew that if he just looked at her, if he just saw her face again and remembered what that woman had said to him he would simply burst into sobs, so to her disappointment he pretended not to see her.

The journey to the Eyrie, although spent in full sun and short, was unbearable for him and dragged on endlessly; he felt that waves of thoughts, suppositions and versions of events flowed through his mind one after another, causing complete chaos in his head.

What if Rhaenyra did not agree despite his lie?

What if she agrees, but demands the head of his grandfather and mother?

Whoever he was, his grandfather was his kin, his blood; all his life he had fought for them and their rights even if he himself often despised him.

How should he behave in such a situation so as not to let her down?

To fight? Declare war on them? Let her decide for herself once again which side she would stand on this time?

He pressed his forehead to the front of his saddle, clenching his hands on the ropes he held in his fist, feeling that he was descending into madness.

As they landed in the valley below the fortress he slid off his saddle, thinking that he had to share his plan with her, lest she accidentally say something herself that might destroy their credibility.

"− uncle −" She began, walking towards him, her face all pink and sweaty from exertion, unruly strands of her hair clinging to her skin.

His heart pounded harder.

You will come back here to face your nephew and you will take me, because you will decide that I am similar to her enough to satisfy your pain and longing.

You will put your child inside me, your bastard son, who will rule Harrenhal after our death.

He swallowed loudly, feeling that his vision was blank, his hands clenched into fists.

"− we'll tell them you're expecting my child −" He said coolly, sidestepping her, heading ahead, wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible − he heard her draw in a loud breath as she moved immediately after him, terrified, trying to keep up with him.

"− what? − Aemond, we can't lie, not now −" She muttered, clearly terrified by this vision − he pressed his lips together into a thin line, furious that she was making this all even more difficult.

"− they must agree to our terms − I will not discuss my decisions with you −" He growled impatiently and stopped when her silhouette appeared in front of him – her palms slapped against his chest, a fury in her eyes that startled him.

"− you will − you don't know them as well as you do − Daemon can sense the lie, he will see it in your eyes − do you think that once they understand that you are manipulating them they will agree to whatever conditions you set for them? −" She asked with an irritation in her voice that he didn't like; he felt a cold sweat on his neck at the unbearable thought that she was partly right.

Fuck.

He stared at her for a moment, breathing heavily, feeling like he was about to faint, another disturbing thought flashed through his mind.

What had that whore said to her?

"− that fucking witch − what did she say to you? −" He asked uneasily, wanting to be sure she wasn't trying to manipulate his wife the way she was trying to manipulate him.

His Rhaenys blinked rapidly and swallowed hard, as if his question made her uncomfortable − he felt an unpleasant twinge in his stomach at the sight.

"− that we should not return to Harrenhal − that I should watch out for myself and trust no one −" She muttered, and he felt his heart stop.

That we should not return to Harrenhal.

That I should watch out for myself and trust no one.

She warned her.

Why?

He felt that he understood absolutely none of this; the woman's behaviour seemed to make no sense to him, but that wasn't the worst of it.

The worst part was the thought that perhaps she really believed what she said.

That perhaps she really did see his betrayal and what he would do next in her dream or in the fire.

He stood watching her like a small, frightened child who was afraid to tell a parent that he had stolen and destroyed their favourite book unwillingly, who was afraid to admit his guilt for fear of punishment and what it entailed.

She must have seen what was happening to him in his gaze because she walked over to him and touched his upper arms, her scent, the smell of vanilla reached his nose.

"− husband, what happened? − if you have doubts, let's discuss everything − but please don't close yourself in the fortress of your mind −" She muttered pleadingly, her voice warm and calm, soothing, as if she understood that he was afraid.

That thought, the realisation that she knew him well enough that he couldn't hide from her what was happening inside him made him feel even worse.

He thought she would loathe him forever.

He swallowed hard as she cupped his cheeks between her hands and closed his eyes, feeling himself tremble all over, focusing only on her closeness.

"− uncle − look at me − I am your ally − I always have been −" She whispered tenderly making another wave of heat and fear surge through his body at the same time, causing something inside him to crack.

"You're your parents' child too. Just like me. What will you do when one of them demands the other's head?" He asked coldly, feeling his heart pounding like mad − he felt like he could hear in his ears the fast pumping of blood through his veins.

His wife furrowed her brows, shaking her head as if she did not understand what he had just said to her.

"− I will never agree to this − despite what your grandfather and your mother did to me, I will not agree for them to be harmed if you assure me to do the same − you know that I am not driven by revenge − and you? − you are the one who constantly doubts me, however, ever since I appeared in King's Landing you have been the one to let me down − yet I remain faithful to you − I chose you, uncle, when will you understand it? − when will you understand that there is no other way for me but by your side even if I come to burn? −"

She said in a trembling, angry, breaking voice from which a shiver ran down his back; he looked at her in disbelief feeling his body filled with guilt and shame.

You are the one who constantly doubts me, however, ever since I appeared in King's Landing you have been the one to let me down.

She was right.

She welcomed him with open arms despite the fact that he hadn't answered her letters for eight years; she didn't show him any kind of resentment, she didn't demand an apology from him, she lavished him with understanding and tenderness when he needed it, wanting to make things right.

It was he who betrayed her when Aegon became King.

It was his mother who forced her to drink the moon tea.

He was the one who made her try to take her own life.

He was the one who kept her locked up like a prisoner.

And yet, it was he who perpetually accused her in his head of the possibility of betrayal, as if he was just waiting for it.

For an excuse to decide that this was never going to succeed.

Despite this, she was now standing in front of him, being on his side, willing to fight alongside him for a future for them.

He felt a squeeze in his throat at this realisation, at the thought that there was never any other way for him than the one that would always lead him to her, to his beloved, to his friend.

To his Rhaenys.

He lifted his hand, in some subconscious gesture of tenderness and closeness placing an unruly strand of her dark hair behind her ear, looking at her pretty face, at her bright, shining eyes, at her long lashes, at her swollen, moist lips − everything that belonged to him, that he could take every night.

He felt his manhood twitch in his breeches at the thought.

"Can I kiss you?" He heard her whisper and looked at her, seeing that she was staring at him exactly as she had then, that day when she had come to his chamber as a child, holding a small book clutched to her chest in her hands.

He leaned towards her without a word and closed his eyes, sighing in relief when her plump, soft lips pressed against his in a sweet, sticky kiss; she pulled away from him, stroking his cheeks and hair with her hands, but it wasn't enough for him.

"One more time."

He moaned into her mouth and locked her in the tight, strong embrace of his arms as her lips pressed against his again, this time as if she wanted to devour him, her wet, swollen lips sucking and licking him making him completely hard; he felt the lust, the hot feeling he shared with her shake his body as his eyes involuntarily filled with tears at the thought of what he had heard.

You will take me, because you will decide that I am similar to her enough to satisfy your pain and longing.

You will put your child inside me.

But he wanted her.

He wanted his childhood friend.

His lover, his companion, his joy.

She filled his heart with herself so much that there was no room in it for any Visenya.

"I love you." He muttered helplessly, feeling the words leave his throat without the participation of his free will. "I've always loved you."

He felt her gasp loudly at his words as her body trembled in his arms; his heart squeezed tight with pain as she wept quietly.

"− I feel that some weight has crushed you, my beloved − it covers you like a heavy black cloak − but I am by your side − I am with you − trust me − I know how to speak with them, I know them −" She mumbled out looking at him with a hot gaze full of affection from which he felt that nothing mattered anymore, that he couldn't fight himself or what only she could do.

He was completely helpless against her.

"− will you be by my side even when all is lost? − even if there is nothing left but darkness? −" He asked in a breaking voice, and she smiled, so sweetly, tenderly, joyfully that his hands clenched tighter on her body.

"− yes − don't go the path I could not follow − let me stay by your side − if I am to leave this world, I want to die in your arms −" She whispered softly, and he felt that it was over for him, that whatever he had been thinking about a moment ago, it didn't matter.

"− so be it − fall with me −" He breathed out, before his lips pressed greedily into hers, his fingers digging into the material of her leather coat enclosing her in his tight embrace, their tongues colliding with each other, licking with their soft sighs of pleasure.

He thought, panting hard into her throat, caressing her with a loud click of their saliva, that he could take her now, on the grass, in front of everyone, and fuck her so hard that the whole Eyrie would hear.

This, however, did not happen.

The sight of her would-be betrothed was the last thing he wanted to see − Ronnel Arryn seemed to him to be a boastful and self-obsessed man, focused only on the tonnage of his muscles and how he presented himself.

His grin full of mockery which he threw back at him, looking at the left side of his face made him involuntarily think how pleasant it would be to just slit his throat.

He remembered why they were actually there when they walked into the circular chamber where his uncle and half-sister were waiting for them − he pressed his lips into a thin line seeing that his sister-whore dared to wear his father's crown on her head.

He said nothing.

As his wife threw herself into her mother's arms, he glanced at Daemon; his uncle stood back leaning lazily against the wall, his chin lifted slightly in some sort of challenge, a lazy, mocking smirk on his face.

"Let's sit down." He heard his sister's voice at last, but he had no intention of obeying her orders; so he stood, looking at his uncle, who also had not moved from his place, stroking the handle of his Dark Sister thoughtfully.

"My husband has conveyed to me that my brother-usurper wants to pact over the succession of the throne he himself has unlawfully taken. I must admit that this is a quite ridiculous situation." Rheanrya began, and he rolled his eyes, feeling frustrated and impatient. His wife threw him a quick, frightened glance − he, however, just looked at her, letting her speak.

He decided that he would trust her.

His niece grunted loudly and looked at her mother, adjusting herself in her seat, tense.

"My uncle, Prince Aegon, had no choice. His mother is deeply convinced that her husband, my grandfather, and our King, revealed his final will to her before he died. She mentioned to my uncle about the Prince who was promised, about Aegon's dream. I think she misunderstood him, mother, I…" She paused as Rheanyra looked quickly in Daemon's direction − he and his wife exchanged quick, shocked glances between themselves.

He furrowed his brow, feeling discomfort in his pit, wondering what they knew that might have escaped his attention.

Her mother looked at her again, some strange glint in her gaze.

"Mother?"

"Aegon the Conqueror's Dream. A Song of Ice and Fire. This is the prophecy my father spoke to me about. Whatever Alicent heard, it did not apply to her firstborn son." She said in a trembling voice, as if it was obvious to her.

He felt rage at the thought that their father had shared with his daughter some prophecy, a future that was to befall their lineage, but did not consider them, his sons, worthy of the privilege.

Humiliation, shame and anger surged through his body making his words involuntarily leave his lips.

"You mean to say that our father only conveyed the contents of this prophecy to you, but you don't believe my mother that he could have passed on to her that he changed his mind regarding the succession?" He growled, his sister and uncle throwing him quick, warning glances.

"Calm down, nephew. You are speaking to the Queen." Daemon reminded him, and he looked at him with rage.

"She is not my Queen." He hissed, his hand sliding down to the hilt of his sword when he saw Daemon's fingers tighten around his Dark Sister.

"That's enough. We have met here because Aegon realises, as you do Mother, that his and your children's rights to the throne will be challenged, and the war will not end with your death." His wife interjected, startling him as did the rest of those gathered, his heart began to pound like mad.

What?

"Are you undermining Jace, my firstborn son's right to the throne?" Her mother asked in a trembling tone, clearly not believing what she was suggesting.

Her daughter drew in a loud breath and swallowed hard before answering her.

"He's a bastard, mother. Like me, Luke and Joffrey, he cannot inherit the throne. Will you cut off my tongue for those words? Will you deprive me of my head, father?"

He looked at her with his lips slightly parted, feeling that his mind was not yet able to comprehend fully what she had actually done.

She continued, however, as if the words were pouring out of her like a river.

"We just lie and lie and lie until in the end we ourselves don't know where the truth lies, but it is there somewhere, always, and sooner or later none of us will be able to deny it even if we beheaded all the men in the Seven Kingdoms."

He felt a surge of satisfaction and warm affection shake his body at her words, at her proof that she understood him, understood his pain, understood why her brothers could not be heirs to the throne.

How could he ever doubt her?

Her mother and stepfather seemed as shocked as he was, unable to get a word out.

"How dare you say such a thing? Your father, Laenor Velaryon, has recognised you and your brothers as his heirs. He gave you his name, he recognised you as his child in the eyes of the kingdom." Her mother muttered, clearly heartbroken that her own daughter was challenging her words.

"But the whole Kingdom knows, mother. Even if Jace were to sit on the throne after your death, his lineage will not be forgotten. Are you prepared to die knowing that neither he nor his children will ever be safe? That, like my uncle's coronation, his coronation would also be challenged by lords across the Kingdom?" She asked in pain, as if she herself could no longer bear what was happening, how far they had gone in pretending what was the truth and what was a lie.

He thought that he himself would not have put into words better what he thought and acknowledged with pride that his wife was a great speaker.

That even he would have hesitated and reconsidered what she had said if he had heard the arguments spoken in this way.

"I know what humiliation you experienced, mother, and how much suffering you endured. Believe me that I did too. I, too, do not believe my grandfather would change his mind on his deathbed. I did not and do not recognise Aegon as King, nor have I ever called him that or given him the honour he deserves.

However, if we do not find an agreement, war will break out not only in the Realm, but in our family. This is what King Viserys wanted to prevent at the last supper before his death. Mother, after all, you are siblings. Your brother, though a traitor, extends his hand, he is ready to relinquish the crown he stole from you."

An awkward silence fell; Rhaenyra looked over her shoulder at her husband, apparently seeking his advice. His uncle stared at her with clenched lips, clearly believing that she should fight for her rights no matter what − even at the cost of war.

His half-sister looked at her daughter again and swallowed hard.

"I can consider the terms my husband has conveyed to me, but I also have my conditions. I will agree that it is your children who will inherit the Iron Throne, and you will be named as ruler-regents only if there are two kings, and you will be one of them.

You and your husband will share the power of the Kingdom equally and neither of you will sit on the throne or wear the crown. Aegon the Conqueror's crown and my father's crown will be kept in the treasury.

In addition, my husband and I will sit on the Small Council, and deprived of their seats will be your grandfather and Alicent. In addition, Otto Hightower will be stripped of all other functions and privileges and will reside under our oversight in King's Landing.

Jace will inherit Dragonstone as my first-born son. If no male heir is born to you, the official heirs will be the children from my and my uncle's marriage, pureblood Targaryens."

He stared at her wide-eyed, feeling the cold sweat on his back, his heart pounding like mad as his mind tried to quickly analyse what he had heard.

I will agree that it is your children who will inherit the Iron Throne, and you will only become ruler-regent if there are two kings, and you will be one of them.

You and your husband will share power in the kingdom equally and neither of you will sit on the throne or wear the crown. Aegon the Conqueror's crown and my father's crown will be kept in the treasury.

She wanted the kingdom to be ruled by two kings.

She wanted him and her daughter to have the same title, the same privileges.

He saw his niece look at him, her eyes big with terror, filled with fear of how he would react.

No, he thought.

She was no longer her daughter.

She was no longer a bastard.

She was his wife.

When he had covered her shoulders with the cloak with his family crest she had officially taken his name, and who her father was no longer mattered.

Although he knew that the name her mother had given her was different, to him she was Rhaenys.

Rhaenys Targaryen.

His childhood friend, a woman he trusted, respected, loved, whose opinion and letters he had held deep in his heart for years, whom he would have consulted if he had become king-regent anyway.

The thought that she would stand by his side, that she would help him carry this burden, that she would be like a second, necessary pillar to support the whole crumbling structure that was their family, filled him, to his surprise, not with frustration but relief.

He nodded his head.

His wife sighed quietly, looking at him with hope, turning her gaze to her mother. Rhaenyra's eyes welled with tears of grief and sorrow as she nodded, sealing her decision.

She had agreed.

Gods, she agreed.

"Pass on my words to my brother. Let him know that this is not just about my pride, but about the welfare of the Kingdom and our family. That I respect my father's will and hope that he will do the same." She said dispassionately and he nodded, feeling his whole body quiver with emotion, his hands clasped behind his back clenched into fists.

"You are surely exhausted. My cousin has prepared chambers for you where you can rest to set off on your return journey as we will tomorrow morning. Let us have supper together. I have been separated from my one daughter for too long." She said matter-of-factly and he swallowed hard feeling that he had completely frozen.

No.

None of them could stay here.

He couldn't propose that they fly to King's Landing knowing that they would surely disagree, so in desperation he proposed something that shocked everyone, including himself.

"No." He said coolly. "We'll spend the night in Dragonstone."

His niece beamed all over, her cheek blushing with happiness, as if she didn't believe his words.

"Do you mean it?" She asked sweetly like a little child to whom he had just given a wonderful surprise.

He felt a squeeze in his throat at the thought.

"Yes." He replied calmly, glancing at his uncle, who was squinting, watching him intently. "As an expression of my goodwill."

Daemon tapped the tip of his tongue against the wall of his cheek and hummed under his breath, a tense silence fell between them.

His wife was right.

He had the feeling that his gaze was piercing him to the core.

He muttered under his breath and looked at his wife − Rhaenyra, like his niece, seemed shocked by his proposal, but also pleased at the prospect of her daughter returning to her family home, if only for a while.

"Well…I see no objection. Daemon?" She asked her husband, who looked at his daughter. Apparently, something in her pleading gaze made him decide to remain silent for the time being, as he merely nodded his head in wordless agreement.

He closed his eyes and sighed quietly in relief, feeling a huge stone fall from his heart.

He stepped back, allowing Rhaenyra to leave, just behind her the room left Daemon throwing him one vigilant, mocking look telling him that he knew there was something more behind his words.

His wife, however, overwhelmed by excitement and joy, seemed not to notice it − she ran to him and snuggled into him, clasping her hands on his back, his arms immediately enclosing her in a tight, secure embrace.

He hadn't betrayed her.

He would never betray her.

So why did he feel so guilty?

"There are no words in which I can describe my gratitude to you. "She whispered, burying her face in his chest; he sighed heavily, pressing his lips to the top of her head, stroking her soft hair and neck with his fingers.

"I'm proud of you." He said calmly wanting her to know that he admired what she had done, the calmness in which she had presented his side's reasons while showing understanding and respect for her mother's rights and heritage.

He thanked the gods that he knew when to shut his mouth.

She looked at him and smiled shyly, as if his words surprised and embarrassed her. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him, pressing her soft lips to his, and he murmured low, feeling a tightness in his throat.

He should tell her, he thought with pain, but he didn't know how.

He didn't want to spoil this beautiful moment.

So he kept silent, but the guilt, the fact that he was hiding something from her, pressed down on his shoulders like a huge burden, through which he could experience neither relief nor satisfaction that Rhaenyra had agreed to their terms.

He never expected to fly through the skies beside Larax, Caraxes and Syrax, to ever see Dragonstone, to propose a journey there of his own accord.

He felt shame filling him.

As he and his wife stepped inside their fortress, where their children were already waiting for them, an awkward silence ensued. Jace and Luke stood behind a large stone table that resembled the shape of all of Westeros, looking at him in disbelief and horror. He shuddered when he saw that Rhaena was the first to rush ahead, sidestepping him and her father, enclosing his wife in a sincere, tender embrace.

"I'm so happy you're alive." She muttered in a breaking voice – his niece stroked her back with a smile.

"Me too." He heard her whisper.

After a moment, Baela joined them, throwing him a cold, warning glance along the way, from which he only rolled his eyes. He looked again at Luke, who swallowed hard and lowered his gaze, clearly unable to bear his presence.

He felt disgusted at the sight of them, two boys with cheeks flushed from shame, who knew full well that they did not and should not have any claim to the throne.

He grinned involuntarily at the thought, seeing how pale Jace was, that he understood for certain that their presence meant he would officially cease to be his mother's heir.

Satisfaction as sweet as poison coursed through his veins at the thought.

Jace drew in a breath at the sight of his grimace, his hands clenched into fists as if he felt like lashing out at him − he flinched when Daemon stepped in front of him, standing between them and shook his head.

Jace swallowed hard, furious, lowering his gaze to the stone floor beneath his feet.

None of them came up to greet his niece; only little Joffrey ran up to her and burst into tears screaming that she had left them alone.

They resented her for the side she had chosen in their minds.

She was the only reason they were both still alive, he thought with a sneer.

His half-sister, seeing the look on his face and sensing the tension that reigned around them, decided to take pity on them and suggested that they make themselves comfortable in the chamber that had previously belonged to his wife.

He accepted her words with relief.

As they stepped inside he felt a squeeze in his throat − her quarters were modest, filled with her scent, the windows of her room facing the open sea, the sound of which he could clearly hear. He walked deeper in, looking around her chests of drawers and wardrobes, her wooden bookcases filled to the brim with books, before his gaze finally settled on an ornate oak desk.

He swallowed hard imagining her seated figure bent over parchment.

"− is this here? −" He asked casually, running his fingers over the table top, noticing with a pained heart that it was dusty.

A sign of how long she had not been here.

His niece looked at him surprised and blushed, as if the mere mention embarrassed her.

"− yes −"

He sat down in the chair she sat in every time she wished to convey her thoughts to him, to put them on paper, which then flew all the way to King's Landing to reach his hands. He glanced towards the windows, wondering how many times she had deliberated on choosing the right words while observing exactly the same view.

He thought he was touched.

"− we should rest, husband − if that's what you wish, we'll have supper alone −" She said softly, her voice trembling with excitement and joy.

She couldn't believe she was home again.

He nodded, not knowing what more he could answer.

He had felt the tension all evening; his wife had shown him various books she had read over the years, which she had told him about in her letters. He tried to listen to her and nod, stroking her arm with the tips of his fingers as she sat beside him, flicking through page after page of one of the volumes, looking for the quote she had mentioned to him. Her question pulled him out of his musings.

"− uncle − will you tell me what troubles you? −"

He looked at her horrified and swallowed with difficulty − he only grunted, not knowing what he should answer like a child caught in the act.

"I'm tired." He replied acknowledging that this was partly true. She nodded in understanding, he closed his eyelids as her hand gently stroked his cheek.

"Let's go to bed."

He wasn't going to fight her.

He wanted to leave this place as soon as possible and get away from Daemon's disturbing gaze.

His wife pressed her lips together, seeing that he had put a dagger under his pillow before he lay down − however, she said nothing, knowing he might trust her, but certainly not her family.

He lay down beside her, sighing heavily, and closed his eyes, figuring that perhaps when he woke up the next day and realised that tragedy had been avoided due to his decision, his conscience would have a little more mercy for him.

He murmured contentedly as he felt her arms embrace him, cuddling his face between her breasts, the warmth of her body, her scent filling his entire lungs. He tightened his hands on her back, trying to focus only on the touch of her hands, on her fingers combing gently through his hair, on the lullaby she hummed softly under her breath, and from which his eyelids grew heavier and heavier.

When the moon rises

over the dark sky

When you hear from afar

my bitter cry

Know that I long

Know that I long

Know that I long

When the sun rises

over the bright sky

When you hear from afar

my joyful cry

Know that I'm home

Know that I'm home

Know that I'm home

And then sleep fell over him.

His lips clung to her soft, long neck, sweaty from exertion, heavy, drawn-out sighs full of pleasure left his lips as his hips with sure, deep, quick thrusts pounded again and again into her hot, fleshy interior.

"− forgive me − I've missed you − oh, my sweetest −" He breathed out, quickening his pace, sinking his nose into her dark curls, her moans muffled by the pillow she was cuddling her face into. Her body, though different, was just as warm, her scent, though different, was similar to hers.

It didn't matter to him, because she was there for him, because she had forgiven him.

"− I love you − oh fuck, Rhaenys −" He muttered, clenching his eyes, coming inside her at last, experiencing such immense relief that he cursed for another moment, rocking his hips inside her. He swallowed hard, worried that she wasn't saying anything, his fingers took strands of her hair from her face wanting to see her eyes and then he saw it.

Green irises, luscious as grass.

"− is it true? − is she carrying your child? −" He heard her voice as if from afar and suddenly he was standing in front of her in his chamber in King's Landing, feeling his heart pounding like mad, a cold sweat running down his back.

He felt a strong gag reflex and held it back with the remnants of his strong will.

He couldn't get anything out of himself.

What had he done?

"− answer me − is she carrying your child? −" His wife, his Rhaenys muttered in a voice breaking with pain and despair, her cheeks red from tears, her eyebrows arched in rage, in her gaze something he feared most.

Disgust.

"− I − I don't know −" He mumbled, trying to remember what had actually happened, how he could have done it when, after all, he had promised himself it would never, never happen.

He thought about how he hadn't touched her in so long, how he had missed her so much.

When she discovered that he had hidden the truth from her, what his grandfather had planned, that he knew what could have happened to them in the Eyrie but hadn't told her, she hadn't slept in his chamber, hadn't eaten supper with him, hadn't spoken to him or looked at him even though he had tried so hard to please her.

"− don't you know? − don't you know if you put your bastard inside her? −" She mumbled and burst out into a loud, miserable sob, hiding her face in her hands − he looked at her, panting hard, shaking all over, not knowing what he was supposed to say, what he was supposed to do.

"− HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME!? −" She almost screamed, falling to her knees as if without strength, whining loudly like some kind of animal, her whole being trembling and twitching in convulsions − he approached her quickly, kneeling beside her, trying to touch her, but she pushed him away.

"− my beloved − please − I was possessed by madness, I swear − I − I thought it was you −" He muttered, not knowing how he could explain such a betrayal, such humiliation she suffered because of him.

"− you thought it was me? − you fucked another woman and thought it was me? − gods, Aemond, don't touch me! − don't touch me −" She howled, her voice at once enraged, full of pain, suffering and grief, her eyes red with tears, her whole body quivering.

He was the reason for this.

He had done this to her.

"− my Prince − my Prince, quickly, your wife! −" He heard someone shout – he shuddered as he sat by the fireplace, gazing in horror at the figure of the guard who had rushed into his chamber.

As he stepped out into the corridor he heard someone's loud sobs and screams tearing at his heart; as he ran inside he froze noticing the figure of Rheaenyra kneeling on the floor, covering her mouth with her hand − his wife, and her daughter, was hanging from a rope tied to the frame of her bed, which was tightened around her neck, her dark hair covering her bowed head, her feet not touching the floor.

He ran to her trying to lift her, trying to pull her down, but he knew, felt, that it was too late, her body cold, numb, empty.

His face sank into her flesh covered only by the material of her nightgown muffling his loud, desperate scream.

"Uncle! Uncle, please, wake up!"

He opened his eyes and pulled himself up to sit down, panting heavily, feeling his heart pounding like mad – he could see nothing through the tears that one by one ran down his face, his body twitching all over in convulsions as if it had gone into a state of absolute panic.

"− easy, my love − breathe −" He heard someone's voice beside him, her voice – he looked at her as if he didn't recognise her, her eyes wide in terror, her hand stroking his shoulder reassuringly.

"− Rhaenys − Rhaenys −" He mumbled out like a small child calling out to its mother, bursting into sobs of relief and terror that shook his body − he snuggled into her breast, clasping his fingers on her back so tightly that she hissed in pain – however, she did not push him away and her arms enclosed him in a tight, secure embrace.

"− I'm here, my love − I'm here −" She whispered, again and again placing warm, moist kisses on the top of his head, combing her fingers through his hair.

For a moment he merely wept and quivered, unable to catch his breath, trying to calm himself, listening to her whisper, breathing in her scent, enjoying her closeness, the touch of her hand.

It seemed to him that it was hours before he began to breathe normally, before he realised that all he had seen was just a nightmare, that he was lying with his wife in her bed in Dragonstone.

That all was not yet lost.

He swallowed hard and clenched his eyes shut.

"− there's something − there's something I want to tell you −"

[gloomwitchwrites]

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), mutual masturbation, cowgirl position, PTSD episode, suggestive themes, canon-typical swearing, canon-typical violence

Word Count: 5.3k

A/N: Part Eight of Ink & Needle

Simon's pleasure turns to worry. Amelia wants to know Simon's intentions with you. Soap makes an unexpected call.

Chapter Seven // Chapter Nine

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Happiness is subjective.

What makes someone happy? Is it the amount of money they have? Is it the first sip of freshly made tea? Is it the sound of summer rain or the smooth pages of a freshly bought book?

It could be all of those things. And it could be none of them.

Simon knows what makes him happy.

Cracking open a fresh bottle of ink for the first time. The sharpening of the end of a charcoal stick to use in his sketchbook. Johnny’s terrible fucking jokes that Simon pretends to hate but silently loves. And…you.

Simon has you. You are his, and no one can take that away from him. It’s warm under the sheets. Perfect. And that’s because you’re here, with him, just as you’re supposed to be.

Which is strange since Simon hasn’t seen you in three days. And somehow, you’re snuggled up next to him, snoozing beneath the covers. He doesn’t recall you coming over last night, but maybe he had one too many drinks. Maybe it slipped his mind and he was half-awake when you finally arrived back into his arms.

Simon shifts, the bedding moving around him as he turns his face to the left, inhaling deeply. The familiar scent of you seeps into his nostrils, flooding his lungs and senses with peaceful contentment.

This is home. This is where he should be, and where you ought to stay.

Simon sighs heavily, a smile forming on his lips as you respond to him, snuggling into his side. To make room, Simon lifts the arm nearest you, stretching the ache out before slipping it between you and the bed. He drapes it over your shoulders, pulling you even closer to him. Your answer is to rest your leg over his, and for your hand to fall softly against his bare chest. Simon immediately grabs it, bringing your knuckles up to his lips.

He kisses each bone gently before returning your palm to its previous position. You hum softly, the sound pleasing, blood rushing to his groin with his need for you.

This is all Simon wants. This is all he needs. You are in his bed. You are his woman.

Finally. Fucking finally.

Happiness. Simon requires nothing else.

Your fingers draw slow circles over his chest. They trace his tattoos there, following the lines and dips in a lazy, unhurried fashion that lull Simon back into the state between wakefulness and sleep. Simon’s eyelids flutter, then close, reveling in your touch.

Soothed and pliant, your hand travels lower to his stomach. There it pauses to draw little circles, moving back up to his chest and then down again, moving lower to his pelvis, to his—

Simon groans as your hand wraps around the base of his cock. “What are you up to, love?”

Your reply is a muffled giggle, and to stroke him once, twice, three times. Simon’s fingers dig into your skin, pushing for an answer with a possessive grip to your waist. You turn your face into him, lips finding his flesh, brushing against skin as you continue to work him with your hand.

Simon’s eyelids open slightly, and he watches you through his pale lashes. There is a soft, mischievous smile on your lips and your hair is a tousled mess that he wants to run his fingers through. You’re so beautiful like this. And all fucking his.

“I’m pleasing my man,” you murmur, thumb brushing over the head.

There might be sheets covering up the sight of you palming him, but Simon doesn’t need to see to understand your touch. While you’re not working quickly, there is purpose to each stroke, and it’s becoming harder and harder for Simon to ignore the growing pleasure in the base of his spine.

My man is what you said. Simon belongs to you as much as you belong to him. A deep, primal part of Simon flares with pride. He needs to claim you, to fucking ruin you until all you know is his name.

Simon shifts his arm from across your shoulders to over your hips. His hand slides across the curve of your ass, dips between your slightly spread legs to tease the entrance of your pussy with the tip of his fingers. Your little inhale is sweet. Sugar-laced. And Simon lets it rot his teeth.

He fingers slide upward, circle your clit in little circles until your strokes faulter and your hips buck against him. Simon adjusts his hand position so he can fuck you with his fingers as he toys with your clit.

Together. The two of you are together. Your hand continues to palm him, pulling blooms of cum from the slit. While you’re pleasing him, Simon is more attuned to your body surrendering to him, allowing his fingers inside, stretching and prepping that pussy for his cock.

Simon is going to take you. And he is going to fucking enjoy it.

Your body shivers, and you bite down on your bottom lip, stifling the little moan that threatens to leave your mouth. That small sound is delicious even though he’d rather hear you scream for him.

The muscles in Simon’s arms and legs are coiled tight, ready to push you onto your back and spread you wide. He’s going to make a goddamn mess of you.

But it is not Simon that makes the first move. It is not Simon that takes the initiative.

You sit up completely, swinging one leg over his waist to straddle him. You settle yourself in his lap, his cock resting against the inside of your thigh with silent impatience. Instinct has Simon reaching for your hips and thighs, intent on gripping and massaging the skin there.

Yet he does not have the chance.

You are lifting your legs up, bending the knees, resting your feet flat on the bed. Confused at first, Simon’s hands fall away, hovering near your shins. But that confusion quickly disappears when you open for him fully, revealing yourself entirely to his gaze.

Simon licks his lips wanting to taste every bit of your pussy. That stickiness needs to be on his lips and chin. His mouth deserves to worship you, and for you to receive such prayer. You open like a blooming flower, your head tilted slightly to the side as you watch him.

Your gaze is all primal need and wanton lust. It fuels his own desire, charges it to a blistering height. With one hand on your knee, Simon reaches between your spread thighs. You whimper as his fingers run over your slickness. It collects and drips off the tips of Simon’s fingers. Greedily, Simon brings his drenched fingers to his lips, sucking them clean one by one.

“Gonna give me what I want?” murmurs Simon, resting his freshly cleaned fingers on his chest.

“Asking me to sit on your face?” you tease, flexing your hips slightly.

Simon grins. “Breakfast in bed? You’re too sweet to me.” His hand on your knee slides up, grips the thigh, pulls.

You tumble into his arms and Simon snakes his arms around your waist to keep you from escaping. Laughing, you lightly beat on his chest. But you are caught, unable to break free from Simon’s ironclad strength. You submit to him, and Simon flares with pride. Everything he needs is right here.

With your forearms on his chest, you lean forward and present your mouth. Simon eagerly takes your lips, not caring that both of you need to brush your teeth. You smile against his mouth and then draw back a bit. You look just as you did before while curled up next to him, all gentle mischievousness.

With palms flat against his chest, you push back into a seated position. You reach down between your bodies and wrap your fingers around his cock, flexing your hips upward. With just the slightest shift of your hips, the head of Simon’s cock presses to your entrance.

Simon’s hands immediately dart out to grab hold of those hips. In moments, you’re sinking down on him, parting, opening up and welcoming him inside. You’re tight and wet and goddamn perfect as more of him disappears.

The muscles in Simon’s jaw clench, and his left hand leaves your hip to run through his hair. To—

Run through his hair? His…hair.

No mask. No balaclava. You’ve never seen him without it. You haven’t—

“Fuck,” Simons groans loudly as you push down on his chest to flex your hips up and back down on him. You lift, roll, go back down. Again. Again. And again, until you’ve taken every fucking inch of him.

Forget the fucking mask. He’ll deal with it later. Right now, you’re his priority.

Your hands on his chest slide upward and stop at the base of Simon’s throat. You’re not choking him, just pressing on his collarbone, using Simon as an anchor while you fuck yourself on his cock.

Even if you were choking him, Simon could give a shit. Break his goddamn collarbone. Choke him out. He’d love to see you try. You wouldn’t have the strength to do it, but watching you like this above him, riding him and using him for your pleasure is its own sick fantasy.

Simon could get used to this. If this is how you want to start the day, he’ll take it.

“Say my name,” growls Simon, his fingers digging into your flesh. “Say it.”

His dick is glossy, disappearing and reappearing with every bounce and roll of your hips. There is no condom, and that too his strange, like the missing balaclava and the fact that you are in his bed this morning.

Your head falls back, exposing your neck. “Ghost,” you moan, and Simon freezes.

Ghost. Ghost.

You called him Ghost at Riot Room. You called him Ghost when his cock was buried deep inside you. You called him Ghost when your orgasm sent you shaking in his lap, squeezing him until his own end came.

But you don’t call him Ghost now. You call him Simon. He told you to call him that now, and you have ever since.

Your nails dig into his skin. Cutting. Stinging.

“Ghost,” you whimper. This time, there is pain in the way you say his name.

Something is wrong.

Your nails drag away from his throat and to his chest, leaving behind jagged lines of red. Heat flares, but he’s not focused on it. Simon keeps one hand on your hip and pushes himself up to a more seated position. He longer cares or is interested in you fucking yourself on him.

He says your name, one hand reaching for you. There is no pleasure on your face. No joy. There are tears and your eyes are wide open, bloodshot.

The one hand he has touching you sinks into your skin, the flesh melting underneath it like sludge. Simon blinks, not understanding. Why are you melting? Why are you fucking melting?

Simon says your name again, sitting up completely, his arm going to your back to support your rapidly dissolving weight. Because that is what happens. Like ice cream in the sun, your skin disintegrates, and Simon cannot hold on to you.

You slip through his fingers.

“No,” whispers Simon. Then, louder, “No!”

Simon continues to call out to you, almost screaming, his voice laced with agony. It drips from him, but you are unresponsive. Sinking, sinking into murk.

It is growing dark and Simon shoves himself forward in an attempt to salvage the last remaining vestiges of you.

But you are not there. He does not cradle you in his arms. Simon cradles a sniper rifle. All black and shiny. Polished.

There is no bedroom and no warm bed. It is cold, and his breath becomes steam in the air. Simon knows this place. It’s Chicago. And in Chicago, Simon kneeled on the top of a building with this very weapon in hand. At the end of the barrel, in Simon’s sight, is where Hassan and Johnny should be.

But the building is blocked, obscured by a massive figure crouching on the ledge like a stone gargoyle. Simon stares at a skull face. A reaper. Grinning.

It’s teeth and bone face are white and shiny, but between those pearly incisors are flecks of red. Dried blood.

Death grins at Simon.

Mocks him.

The reaper reaches out with one boney hand, gripping the end of the barrel. It opens its mouth, flashing its teeth, then bites down on the firing end. It gnaws on the metal. Chewing, chewing like its teeth are steel.

Johnny is across the street being tossed around by Hassan.

This reaper needs to fucking move. Simon needs to take the shot.

You can’t save Johnny.

But Simon did. He knows he did. This is the past. It’s already happened.

You can’t save him. You can’t save Gaz. You can’t save Price.

Bloody salvia drips around the reaper’s teeth, running down the length of the barrel.

You can’t save them. Just like you couldn’t save your brother. Just like you couldn’t save your mother.

Simon’s finger tightens on the trigger.

“Lt. The window,” crackles Johnny’s voice over the comm channel.

The reaper chomp chomp chomps. Grins.

“The window!”

Dead brother. Dead mother. Dead friends.

Simon pulls back on the trigger.

The shot is an explosion. The back of the reaper’s head blows outward only to become a raging inferno. Flames lick upward, so high it seems impossible. Everything around Simon burns. His back and arms ache, throb, the old wounds opening up to remember just how he got them.

Before the towering inferno is a dark figure. It’s just a man’s back at first. An outline. A silhouette. But he turns, keeps turning, and Simon sees the figure for who it is.

It’s him. It’s fucking him.

The handle of Simon’s favorite knife sticks out of the man’s chest. The man grins, and blood stains his teeth. He wobbles, stumbles, moving closer to the precipice.

This man does not deserve a name. Simon will not speak it, not even silently.

Time pauses in suspense as the man falls backward into the flames. Simon’s back and arms are screaming their own song of sorrow as the nerves in his skin singe. This is the moment. This is the hour. This memory is a brand. A tattoo.

A fucking swamp.

Simon smells charred skin, but he’s not sure if it’s his own or his fallen enemy. The flames rage, widen. Over the crackling of the fire, he hears a gunshot. Then another. Then, another. The sound warps, lengthens, and the flames become smooth like Simon is seeing them through a fogged mirror.

The shot comes again but it’s—it’s not that.

The sound repeats and Simon frowns.

It’s…a dog?

Simon blinks. The flames recede as if suctioned through a small hole. Simon blinks again.

He is staring at a wall. A familiar wall. It’s Simon’s bedroom. He’s in his flat above the tattoo parlor. He is in his bedroom. He is in his bed.

Simon tells himself this. Repeats it.

His cheeks sting and his eyes ache.

A sweeping wave of anxiety rushes up Simon’s back and into his chest, tightening his throat. The sound that escapes Simon is cracked, a choked sob. He leans his elbows on his knees and places his hands over his face.

Breathing. Hyperventilating. Wanting to scream. Needing to rage.

Bravo’s wet nose presses against the underside of Simon’s bicep. Simon does not respond. He does not react. Bravo whines, and forces his way in, sliding his large head under Simon’s arm to rest against his chest.

These episodes are always the worst, the ones that creep up when Simon least expects it. But that isn’t the only thing bothering him. Simon hasn’t relived the moment his entire career ended for almost a year. That memory doesn’t—shouldn’t—bother him anymore. Yet, something triggered it.

He doesn’t want to admit it to himself. He doesn’t want to entertain the idea of why. It’s no coincidence that it started with you and ended with him. That man is dead. Fucking gone. And yet Simon thought he saw him on Monday morning. Just loitering across the street from where you and Simon were enjoying breakfast.

At the time, Simon dismissed it, believing his mind was playing some cruel joke.

Simon’s fingers drag over his scalp and then down his face. Sighing, he finally gives in, falls back against the bed.

Bravo snuggles in close and Simon drapes his arm over the dog’s back. “I’m ace, Bravo. Give me a minute.”

Simon blocks out everything, focusing on steadying his breathing. He doesn’t move again until his hands stop shaking.

Groaning, Simon sits up again, and Bravo leaps off the bed, heading for the open bedroom door. While he aches as he always does, some of the usual pain is numb, like his body is more concerned about his psyche than his physical ailments.

Pushing through the soreness, Simon starts his morning as he always does, moving through his routine as a way to steady his mind. It works…enough. Some of that lingering anxiousness burrows down into his bones. He’ll likely be on edge all fucking day.

It’s Thursday, and Simon hasn’t seen you since Monday morning.

He’s been busy, but he also doesn’t have your damn phone number. If he were still SAS, he’d have your number before you’ve even given it to him. Simon is trying to be better than that. Some things are just habit like when he broke into Riot Room the next morning after you ran from him. Simon was ready to hunt you down and drag you to his bed.

While a piece of him would fucking bark at the opportunity to chase you down, Simon knows better. He needs to do all of this differently. He needs to be careful. To not scare you away or be too overbearing.

In the kitchen, Simon frowns down at his dining table. It’s covered in torn out pages from his sketchbook. After work, he stays up late creating design after design, not particularly liking any of them. He wants them to be perfect for you, but none of them stand out to him, and your approval is the only thing he’s after.

Turning his back on them, Simon glances at his phone, checking the time. It’s still plenty early before he needs to officially open the shop. There is still time for him to go see you.

Simon taps his knuckles against the wood before making a decision.

Fuck it. He’s going.

“Bravo! Get your leash!” calls Simon over his shoulder. Bravo’s nails clack gently against the floor as he retrieves his leash, bringing it to Simon moments later.

The autumn air is cool but not overly so, and the walk to Amelia’s is brief. Amelia is a nice woman, and since going to the pub every Sunday for almost two years, he’s grown to trust her. He’s fixed a few things for her around her house in exchange for vegetables from her garden.

When Simon strides up to Amelia’s front door, he intends to knock, but pauses just before doing so.

It’s early. What the fuck is he doing? Why would you want to see him at this hour?

Bravo whines softly and places a paw against Simon’s thigh. The German Shepard tips his head to the side in question.

“Fucking hell. Fine.” Simon pounds on the door, dropping his hand into his pocket as he waits for an answer.

There is silence, and it only stretches, the seconds ticking by.

Frowning, Simon knocks again. After waiting a full minute, worry slithers into the pit of his stomach.

Why is no one answering the damn door?

Not questioning his next actions, Simon tries the handle. It turns easily, giving way to him.

The door is unlocked.

The door is unlocked and no one is answering.

Simon stares into the silent house. His body and mind slide into that military training, transitioning into Ghost fluidly. He sinks down to one knee and unlatches the leash from Bravo’s collar. Bravo senses this change, his own training kicking in.

In a near silent whisper, Simon gives Bravo your name, tells him to find you, and Bravo does just that. His nose goes to the ground immediately, sniffing everything, moving in erratic patterns until finally backtracking to the stairs.

Simon nods, and Bravo ascends with Simon on his heels.

At a shut bedroom door, Bravo sits, staring at Simon. There is a tingling in the tips of Simon’s fingers and a thudding beat in his chest. Slowly, Simon rests his gloved hand on the doorknob. Turning it silently, he opens the door, anticipation coiling like a snake ready to strike.

The first thing Simon notices is how much this space smells like you. The scent of you rushes into his lungs, and the memory of the dream flares, threatening to pull at his resolve. The next thing he notices is the made bed and how there is no one in the room.

On quiet feet, Simon enters, his boots leaving impressions in the carpet.

No signs of a struggle. Nothing tipped over or seemingly out of place. There is not a thing in this room that should have him worrying like he is. This is ridiculous. Absurd.

It was just a dream. Just an episode. She is fine.

Simon walks around the side of the bed. Draped over the back of a chair is the sweater you wore on Monday. Delicately, Simon slips his hand underneath the fabric and lifts it off the chair, bringing the sweater closer to him.

He gives in to indulgence, pressing the soft fabric against the bottom half of his balaclava. He inhales deeply, shudders, everything in him roaring to life, wanting to seek you out yet equally angry that it’s a garment and not the real thing.

This has your scent on it, unlike the torn piece of clothing he still keeps in his dresser drawer. But Simon isn’t going to take your sweater. He doesn’t need to because you’re already here, back in his life, and wanting him. Knowing that is enough, but it doesn’t explain why the front door is unlocked and that no one answered when he knocked.

Simon returns the sweater to its original spot and starts to turn back toward the door. A muffled pounding sound draws his attention to the nearby window. Frowning, Simon walks up to it, looking out into the backyard.

There, kneeling next to a raised flowerbed, is Amelia.

“Fucking hell,” mutters Simon.

He storms out of the room, taking the narrow stairs two at a time, Bravo racing after him. Simon passes through the sitting room and kitchen toward the backdoor. He’s not quiet about his arrival.

The door nearly flies off its hinges as Simon bursts through it. He stands on the top step of the stairs, hands on his hips as Amelia glances up from her work.

“Simon,” she says, a little surprised yet with a pleasantness to her tone that says she’s happy to see him.

“Your front door is unlocked,” he growls.

Amelia waves him off like it’s not a big deal. “Forgot to lock up after the girls left. It’s only been a few minutes.”

A few minutes. Simon missed you by a few bloody minutes?

Simon bites back all the questions he wants to ask. He wants to know where you are and for how long. He needs specifics.

“An unlocked door invites danger,” says Simon through clenched teeth.

“Oh, I’m sure it does,” replies Amelia, placing one hand on the edge of the raised garden bed. She pushes herself up to her feet before Simon can get to her and assist. “You know all about danger. Don’t you?”

Amelia knows about Simon’s time in the military but she doesn’t know specifics. Simon knows plenty about her though. Not because he looked up information but because of all the times at Dancing Faun when she’d talk his ear off. Amelia married rich, popped out a bunch of kids, and then divorced rich.

Simon crosses his arms over his chest. “I came to see—”

“I know who you came to see,” interrupts Amelia. “She’s not here at the moment. Left just this morning with Evie. Off to Cambridge for a few days.” Amelia brushes past Simon as she removes her garden gloves. “Come inside and have some tea while you’re here.”

Bravo sits patiently at the top of the stairs, tail wagging. Amelia pats the German Shepard’s head politely before heading inside. Bravo doesn’t even wait for Simon. He follows Amelia into the house.

Grumbling, Simon heads up the stairs and into the kitchen, shutting the door behind him. He locks it in case Amelia forgets.

Amelia fills the kettle with water and places it on the stove, turning on the heat. Simon doesn’t sit down. He stands awkwardly next to the table.

She notices and nods at a chair. “Sit.” Simon doesn’t. She arches a single eyebrow, and something in Simon obeys without question. Maybe it’s the motherly stare of disapproval, but he complies.

The chair is far too small for his large frame. Simon has to adjust, spreading his legs enough to not feel cramped.

“Why are they in Cambridge?” The question slips out by accident.

Amelia grabs two mugs from a cabinet and shrugs. “If you don’t know, then it isn’t my place to tell you.”

“Amelia—”

“What are your intentions?” Amelia turns around and faces Simon fully.

Simon blinks, completely surprised by her question. “What?” he asks softly.

“I care about Evelyn. And I care about everyone that she cares about. Including the young woman who you’re…entangled with.” Simon understands Amelia’s meaning without her having to spell it out. “I want to know what your intentions are with her.”

Under the table, one of his hands forms a fist.

His intention is to make you his. For you to be his woman. But Simon can’t say that. Amelia is talking about dating. She is talking about marriage and kids and what the future looks like with you.

And in that moment, Simon realizes that he hasn’t thought about any of those things, at least, not in specifics. He’s imagined waking up to you in his bed every morning. He’s thought about what it would be like to have you to come home to at the end of the day.

But for three long years, the only thing Simon has truly thought about, is how to get you back. Now you’re within reach and Simon hasn’t taken a fucking second to even comprehend where or how this will play out.

Has he completely fucked this up? Has he gone about this wrong?

“Your silence is worrying me, Simon.”

Fuck. Was he silent this whole time?

Simon clears his throat. “We’ve only seen each other twice.” It’s a throwaway answer, and Amelia knows it.

She frowns with disappointment. “It’s not my place to tell you why she’s here. That’s for her to tell you when she’s ready.” Amelia sighs. “And I won’t have you mucking her around only to leave her in the mud after you’re done. I won’t have it.”

Tossing you to the side is not an option. Not having you beside him is not an option. Simon will have you. There is no compromise.

The kettle shrieks and, without looking, Amelia grabs the handle and moves it off the stove. “Are we in an understanding, Simon Riley?”

Amelia uses his full name. She only ever calls him Simon.

“We’re clear,” he replies.

Amelia nods. “How do you like your tea?”

“All done.” Simon turns off the gun and sets it down on the metal rolling tray. He takes a wipe to the freshly done tattoo. “Want a photo before I seal it up?” Simon tosses the wipe into the trash can and glances at the man sitting in the chair.

He shakes his head. “I’m good.”

Simon nods and applies the adhesive bandage over the new ink. It’s perfect work, full of color and intricate lines. He rolls back in his chair, removing his gloves and tossing those in the trash as well. The man in the chair, Leo, adjusts in the seat, sitting up.

At the sink, Simon scrubs his hands. Once done, he grabs a few papers about tattoo aftercare while Leo fishes around in his pockets. When Simon presents the packet, Leo hands Simon his credit card.

With the transaction done, Leo exits, and Simon quickly closes up shop, turning the deadbolts and activating the security system. Bravo still snoozes on the couch, completely oblivious to everything happening around him.

Simon grabs the bottle of sanitizer and sprays down the tattoo chair. In his pocket, his phone buzzes. Simon ignores it, continuing to wipe down the chair. The phone cuts off and starts up a few seconds after it ceases.

Again, Simon ignores it.

Again, the phone rings.

“Fucking hell,” mutters Simon, tossing the paper towel into the trash and fishing out his phone.

MacTavish the screen reads. A brief flare of panic rises in Simon’s chest.

He answers the call, bringing the phone up to his ear. “Johnny?”

“LT!” Simon pulls the phone away from his head, grimacing from Soap’s piercingly happy tone.

“Stop fucking shouting,” snaps Simon. He swallows and cracks his neck. “And I’m not a lieutenant anymore.”

On the other end of the line, Soap makes a dismissive noise like he doesn’t quite care. “You get my package?”

“I did.”

“And?”

Simon smirks behind the balaclava. “I use the mug every morning.”

Johnny barks a laugh. “Oh aye, Lt. Bet you do.” There’s a rustling on the other end. “You up for a visit?”

“A visit?” asks Simon hesitantly.

“Yeah. Need your advice on something. Captain and Gaz are coming too.”

Simon returns the spray bottle to its designated spot. “Why are you calling me instead of Price?”

“Because if Price called, you’d say no.”

Simon pauses near his desk, and glances at the screen of his laptop. “Can I ask what kind of visit?”

There’s a pause on the other end. “Best not to say over the phone. And we haven’t seen you in months. Plus, Ma keeps asking if you’re coming for Christmas.”

Simon grins. “Is she coming, too? Bringing the whole family with you, Johnny?”

“Oi. Fuck off,” he laughs. “Expect us on Saturday.”

The three of them visiting him sits heavy in his stomach. They’ve all come individually, and a few times in a pair, but never all three. It’s only happened twice before. The first time was directly after Simon’s forced retirement. The second time was when the tattoo parlor first opened and they came to support him. Since then, Price, Gaz, and Soap have all come by on their own for one reason or another.

But not together.

That same anxiety from earlier in the day rears up yet again. Whatever needs to be talked about, whatever the three of them need to say to him in person and not over the phone, worries Simon. It digs its claws in.

Another thought nags at him as well, and Simon cannot let it go. He’s not with SAS anymore, and if he was, he’d do this himself. Johnny would help him, would do this for him if Simon only asks.

Simon exhales slowly. “Johnny, I need a favor.”

Soap’s response is immediate. “Anything, Lt.”

“You remember that woman I chased after? The one at Riot Room.”

Soap is quiet a long moment before he answers. “Aye. I remember.”

He’s not proud of what he’s about to do, but fuck it. “Can you find out what you can about her?” Simon rattles off all the information he has and Soap remains silent the entire time.

“I’ll find out what I can and get back to you,” he says after Simon stops talking.

No. Simon is not proud of asking this of him, but Simon is desperate. He needs to know everything about you. It’s habit, and while a small part of him tells him it’s wrong, Simon pushes it down, smothering the objection.

“Saturday then.”

“Saturday.”

Chapter Seven

taglist:

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[wolveria]

What We Did on Felucia - Ch 2

Pairing: The Bad Batch x f!Reader

Series Warnings: Eventual smut, dubcon, slow burn, sex pollen

Chapter Warnings: Sex pollen, vaginal fingering, anal fingering, double penetration, vaginal sex, anal sex, Crosshair and Hunter causing Problems, Tech snuggles, best Echo and Wrecker sandwich

Chapter art here by @binkyisonline as part of @clonebang !

AO3

Echo didn’t waste any time and pulled you over to one of the tables, clearing it with a sweep of his arm. To your surprise, he laid back on the table and pulled you on top of him. You certainly didn’t mind having him beneath you, and he made a choked noise at your sudden wandering hands, frustrated at the thick armor in the way.

And then you understood why he arranged you in this position, and all rational thought fled your mind as Wrecker placed his hands on either side of your hips. You didn’t know whether to rub yourself against Echo or raise your hips in a silent plea for Wrecker to ease the insatiable ache.

So you settled for grinding down on Echo’s covered erection while also arching your back in hopes of what would seem like an invitation to Wrecker.

Echo sucked sharply through his teeth in what might have been a noise of pain but you knew wasn’t, his cock twitching against you. Wrecker’s growl was more impressive, and your hips ached pleasantly as his grip tightened.

“I’m sorry, General,” Echo said, the words soft, and you didn’t understand what he had to be sorry about. Something hard and hot dragged up the confines of your heat, and his name was on your lips in a way that shouldn’t have felt so right.

Echo cursed, his focus on his singular hand holding up his erection, and that just wouldn’t do. You reached down, nudged away his hand, and squeezed your fingers around him. He was even firmer and hotter than you had imagined, and you faintly wondered if they were all like that or if it was just him.

He made another strangled noise as the tip of his cock breached your entrance. Exposed and raw from the chemical, you were unable to hide the wince of discomfort as he stretched you open. Your years of training and high tolerance for pain seemed to have vanished along with your control, but it also didn’t stop you from trying to push down further.

“H-hold on, baby, hold on.”

His affectionate softness drove you to keep trying, but the barrier around your entrance remained stubbornly in place.

“Wrecker, lube.”

“Got it.” His response was all heated gravel, so different from the cheerful, buoyant Wrecker you were used to. “You want me to…?”

“Yeah. She’s too tight.”

“Right, o-okay, yeah—”

Echo could only hold you by one hip, so Wrecker had to grab you by the other to keep you from trying to impale yourself on his cock again. Your frustrated growl turned into a surprised moan as Wrecker’s fingers teased your entrance, slick with lube, and he slid a finger inside you.

“Kriff, you are tight,” he groaned. You were beyond response, hips raised and willing as he continued to breach you. Delicate at first, and then faster, and when he added a second finger, you cried hoarsely against Echo’s shoulder.

Strained and annoyed, Tech said, “Don’t make her orgasm, Wrecker.”

“Yeah, I know, I know.”

“And might I advise you start quickly. Time is a factor, and her sensitivity is much greater than I anticipated—”

“I said I know.”

His growl jumped up your spine, but Wrecker pulled away, the loss of his touch devastating. Echo’s hand went from your hip to gently brush along your shoulder blades, murmuring words of comfort you didn’t quite catch in your state of mind.

And then he jolted under you and made an undignified noise.

“Wrecker!”

“What? Your hand is busy, I’m helping!”

You didn’t have the right angle to see what happened, but you could still sense it, Wrecker slicking Echo’s cock with bacta gel, only letting go when Echo’s leg veered dangerously close to kicking him. With the sudden pleasure afforded by Wrecker’s hands, it was uncertain if the gesture was on purpose or simply a result of Echo being overwhelmed.

You could attest to that. It was getting more difficult to block out their need from your own, your grip on the Force like an oil-coated jelly trying to escape your hands, and you didn’t know how you would outlast the entire squad. You weren’t sure you cared.

Echo guided you down, telling you, “I’ll try to be careful,” in a soft breath, but you pushed, impatient and dripping wet. Even with the tight fit, you managed to take him inch by inch, making it the last half with the assistance of Wrecker holding your hips.

Fully seated on top of Echo, you could barely sit still, phantom throbs squeezing him without your input. His voice was strained and breathless under his helmet.

“You’re so… tight…”

And then, in a startled tone bordered on fear, Wrecker said, “General, y-you’re bleeding.”

You sensed Echo fight through his own haze as he looked between your joined bodies, and he immediately stiffened.

“We need to stop—”

“No,” you panted. “No stopping.”

The dull ache should have been worse, but it was distant, muted. Echo might be the most vulnerable to the chemical aside from you, but you sensed his dubious look even if you couldn’t see it. You looked over your shoulder at Wrecker, pleading.

“Wrecker, don’t stop.”

You sensed his nervousness and his worry, a stark contrast to the intimidating paint on his helmet. But whether he was willing to obey this order or he was too affected to stop, he didn’t pull you off Echo. He slicked his fingers again with the bacta gel, and with unnecessary gentleness, he pressed them against your hole.

The sensation was strange and unfamiliar, but so was Echo’s cock deep inside you, and you pushed back against his fingers. Showing surprising restraint, Wrecker held you still with his other hand splayed along your back, and his fingers slowly pushed inside.

His slow, careful pace was worse than any torture you’d endured before, and you shuddered, unable to stop the whines in your throat, and Echo’s hand replaced Wrecker’s in soothing up and down your back.

Wrecker finally removed his fingers, and even as you could sense his growing need to the point of discomfort, he was still hesitant.

“I don’t want to hurt you…”

“You- you won’t. Just… do it. Wrecker. Please.”

You’d never begged anyone of anything, let alone in front of your men, but it felt right. You would withstand any agony if it kept them a little bit safer. You would die for them, had killed for them, and letting them have your body in whatever way they needed was simply a natural extension of what you were already willing to give them.

Which was… everything.

Wrecker didn’t respond verbally, but the way he held your hips was resolute and full of intention, even as you sensed he was holding back most of his strength. The sudden pressure felt like it was going to split you in half, and something must have shown because Echo gently held the side of your face in his palm.

“Just… focus on me. It’ll be over soon.”

Why would you want it to be over soon? Why would you ever want this to stop. What else existed outside of this moment when—

You sucked in a sharp breath as Wrecker pushed again, his hands massaging the curve of your backside as he tried to lessen the pressure. Each inch was a battle, and when his groin met your hips as he sunk deep inside, you could finally surrender.

You didn’t know how Echo managed to stay so still, not with your walls snug around him or the increasing pressure as Wrecker filled an already tight space. But he had kept his focus on you, trying to hold your distraction away from the impossible intrusion.

But once they were both inside, their control seemed to snap together, all at once. There was not much you could do but brace yourself against Wrecker’s hard thrusts from behind and Echo’s fast rut from below. You were simply a thing to be used, bruising fingers gripping flesh for purchase as they chased their pleasure.

The noises that fell from your mouth were short moans and tortured whimpers as you clung to the precipice, literally and figuratively, your claws sinking into the table on either side of Echo’s head as you fought against a tide that threatened to swallow you.

You could count the orgasms you’d had on one hand, a result of strange, intrusive dreams you couldn’t remember when you woke, panting and shuddering. What would it be like to simply let go and experience the real thing?

You knew Echo and Wrecker would bring you there if asked, without hesitation, but��� then the others would have to… and you wouldn’t even be aware of it happening—

A growl ripped deep through your chest as you squeezed your eyes shut. The image of your men having unimpeded access to your body nearly drove you over the edge, a shocking fantasy that apparently caught your interest.

Another mistake quickly followed; you let your attention stray beyond the table to the other clones. Their expressions might be hidden, but you could see tight fists curled next to thighs and stiffly held shoulders. Their potent need choked the air as they watched two of their brothers fuck you, cloying anticipation as they waited their turn.

Something creaked and then ripped as your claws went through the table, and Echo cursed under his breath, slamming his hips into yours and holding you tight. He throbbed deep inside you, filling you with warmth, and Wrecker followed soon after. They were surprisingly quiet aside from the occasional strained breath and low groans.

“You… are you…” Echo struggled to get out the words, “…all right?”

Before you could respond, Wrecker interrupted with a faint, “Uh-oh,” and then leaned against the wall as he slid to the floor. His body suit covered him now, but he hadn’t had time to replace his codpiece, unconscious as soon as he hit the ground.

Echo’s lax hand slipped from your back. With him still inside you, you carefully pulled off of him and crawled down until your feet touched the cold tile. You braced against the table, a sticky mess, and your legs wouldn’t cooperate, shaking as if the bones had lost their rigidity.

A warm pair of hands touched your shoulders, and you lunged. Tech made a strangled noise and tried to dislodge you from around his neck, unsuccessful. He was warm, the ache between your legs tortuous and empty.

“I was simply going to examine you,” he explained, but you were beyond speaking, burying your nose into the space between the neckline of his suit and his helmet where there was a sliver of bare skin.

“General, please, we can’t yet—”

You dragged your tongue along that hint of flesh and backed him against the wall, maneuvering his thigh between yours and grinding against the thick cloth covering his leg.

Another pair of arms grabbed you from behind and pried you off with Tech’s lack of gentleness, and you snarled and bit at the intruder. Your pointed teeth couldn’t sink into the armored gauntlet, and Crosshair’s voice managed to hold its typical sneer as he said, “Wait your turn.”

“This is hardly my fault,” Tech muttered as he adjusted the pieces of his kit you’d tried to dislodge. You struggled in vain against the arms around you, the use of the Force so far removed from your mind you didn’t even think to use it, and then you didn’t want to as Crosshair’s voice purred close to your ear.

“I’m going to take care of you now, princess.”

The unprofessional nickname in this circumstance sounded absolutely sinful coming out of his mouth, and you no longer fought against him, now arching your back and rubbing your backside against his crotch, frustrated the codpiece was still attached.

“Now, Tech,” Hunter growled. His posture was tight and wound up, and he actually flinched away when you reached out to him. Attention caught between Crosshair and Hunter, you were like a cub who couldn’t decide which toy she wanted to play with next.

“Before she starts biting again,” Crosshair added, his silken tone amused. “Though that could be fun, too.”

You still reached out to Hunter, frustration building as a growl in your throat when he remained out of reach, but your attention was focused back when Crosshair stroked his gloved fingers along one thigh. You opened your legs wider for him, but Crosshair didn’t do much else aside from keeping you in place.

You whined at this new torment, and Tech took the opportunity to move closer, kneeling between your legs. You struggled harder, and Crosshair had to tighten his grip on you.

“How… how is she?” Hunter asked, voice low with worry. The words washed over you, uncaught in your mind, and you hissed and arched your back when Tech pressed a bacta pad between your legs. The cold, wet material was a confusing mixture of discomfort and pleasure, and you whined pitifully.

“The bleeding has stopped,” he said as he removed the bacta pad. “I don’t believe there’s any damage beyond a torn hymen, though we won’t know the true extent until… well, after.”

“Is there anything more we can do?”

You sensed what it cost him to speak, to remain in control, the edge of Hunter’s restraint nearly as frayed as yours, and you tugged at him, snarling this time when Crosshair wouldn’t let you go.

“Could you go a little faster,” he seethed. Tech ignored him and addressed Hunter.

“More bacta gel should be sufficient.”

“Great,” Hunter said through clenched teeth. Tech pulled another bottle from one of the pouches on his belt and handed it to him.

“For you to apply before the, ah… next round.”

Hunter stood before you, but he hesitated when Tech got to his feet and moved out of the way.

“Come on, Hunter,” Crosshair drawled, and you sensed his frustration lined beneath the silky tone. “Don’t get cold feet now. You would have taken her already if we hadn’t stopped you.”

The snarl reverberated up Hunter’s throat, a primal noise that your instincts recognized and strained to give response, but the responses were incompatible. As one part of you wanted to meet the challenge issued, the other part wanted to run—not to escape, but to tempt him into the chase.

You couldn’t do both, and it left you confused and needy. Crosshair’s hand dragged up your chest to rest on your neck, gently cradling your throat.

“If you won’t come over here, I’ll gladly fuck her myself. Feel free to watch.”

Hunter strode forward in an instant, so close his armor almost touched you, and he glared at Crosshair over your shoulder.

“We’re not doing anything until we take care of her first.”

“You’re the one with the bacta.”

Hunter gave him one last silent look before he uncapped the lid of the small bottle. The too-sweet scent of the bacta filled your nostrils, but you focused on the lubricant coating his gloved fingers. Comprehension came slowly as the chemical put a stranglehold on higher thought, but you understood enough to know it meant he would touch you.

“Let me know if this hurts. All right?”

Pain would be welcome so long as his hands were on you, because nothing could be worse than this empty, aching agony.

“She’s no longer in a state of mind to give consent,” Tech said, “so I suggest you apply the bacta quickly and—”

Hunter’s wordless snarl had Tech looking up from his datapad with a surprised blink. He glanced at Crosshair, and you sensed the other clone returning the look with shared concern. Some distant part of you knew you should be worried too, that the chemical would affect Hunter more strongly than the others, but the thoughts slipped from your mind like water through a sieve.

Especially when Hunter cupped a hand over your sex, his bacta-slick fingers finding your entrance. You pushed against his hand, and he made a surprised noise when your walls clenched around his two fingers.

He made a swirling motion with them, feeling along the edges of your channel, and your claws sank into Crosshair’s gauntlet, leaving thin scratches on the Katarn-class armor.

With uncharacteristic gentleness, Crosshair stroked the outside of your thigh and purred encouragements into your ear.

“That’s good. You’re doing well, so well for us.”

You shut your eyes and moaned behind your lips, both at Crosshair’s sultry praises and Hunter’s fingers curling against a particularly sensitive spot. He did it again, as if to test it, and when you fluttered around him, he moved closer and purposefully pumped his fingers in a way that had nothing to do with medical treatment.

“Hurry up,” Crosshair snapped, his own patience sounding threadbare.

“I’m working on it.”

“Kriffing hell, Hunter, it’s not brain surgery!”

Hunter snarled, but he didn’t stop, and Tech noticed.

“Hunter.”

The sergeant’s helmet went at an angle, as if he was coming out of a daze or a dream. Tech exchanged another look with Crosshair, prompting the sniper to speak.

“If you want to take your sweet time, fine by me. But I’m not waiting.”

Hunter growled again, surrendering to the same instincts that drowned out rational thought and left you little more than a beast.

“Perhaps, we should split this engagement into two separate parts—”

“No need,” Crosshair interrupted Tech, and despite the tension in his grip, he managed to keep his tone relaxed and smug. “Hunter can play nice and share.”

Hunter’s glare was obvious even in his helmet, but then his posture stiffened as Crosshair nudged you forward, practically into Hunter’s arms.

“Hold this, will you?”

He offered no further explanation, not that you minded, immediately molding yourself against Hunter and trying to find the latches in his armor, but they remained hidden. You sniffed his neck, nosing at the point where his body suit met his helmet, but it remained sealed against your intrusion, and you whined at being denied.

Hunter still hadn’t moved, he barely breathed, until your frustration got the better of you and you bit his shoulder, sharp teeth sinking harmlessly into the thickness of his suit. He groaned and grabbed your hips, pulling you even closer.

“Good, keep her like that.”

The mystery of what Crosshair was up to was answered when warm, slicked fingers prodded against your hole, Crosshair’s other hand spreading you wider as he slipped inside you. First one, then two fingers, and a shock traveled up your nerves, still just as sensitive even after Wrecker’s large girth had pried you open.

Hunter didn’t give any indication he heard or understood Crosshair, and your focus was torn between Crosshair’s fingers and prying open Hunter’s armor. You managed to snap open the latch to Hunter’s codpiece, satisfaction humming through your veins as you tossed it aside, pulled open the front V of his suit, and gripped his length in your hands. It was hard and hot, and throbbed faintly in your hand as you squeezed.

Hunter made a noise between a long-held groan and a needful whimper, and you were very interested in that—and then Crosshair removed his fingers and nearly dislodged you entirely as he pulled you away from Hunter’s hold.

Crosshair was skilled at getting under people’s skin, and you weren’t excluded from that, but you’d never wanted to rend him apart the way you did in that moment. You snarled and lashed and scratched and bit, and the only reason he wasn’t a bloodied pile on the ground was because his armor took the brunt of it.

“Didn’t figure you for an aggressive lover, princess,” he said, the words teasing but his tone was strained with the effort of keeping you restrained. “Get over here, Hunter, before she kills us both.”

“Yes, she’s approaching the threshold of remaining in a lucid state—”

“This is lucid?”

Before Tech could answer, Hunter was pressed against you, lifting your leg with a hand behind your knee, and you immediately wrapped it around his waist and drew him closer. He groaned as the length of his cock dragged up your heat, but still, he hesitated to go any further, and you sensed the uncertainty breaking through the mindless lust created by the chemical.

You licked your lips and struggled to remember the shape of words on your tongue.

“Please…” you rasped. “It’s… worse. Need… need you both. Now.”

That was all it took; Hunter slid back, adjusted himself to notch the head of his cock against your entrance, and pushed. The relief was immediate, and you went boneless in Crosshair’s arms, arching your back so your hips were at a better angle for Hunter to slide in the rest of the way.

He gave another helpless noise, and Crosshair practically purred in your ear as he stroked your side.

“That’s it. Just like that…”

And then a second intrusion as Crosshair pushed his cockhead against your hole, and you stiffened, not used to the intrusion from either entrance. Hunter was far beyond the ability to speak, but he rubbed your hip encouragingly. Crosshair was less nice, rolling one of your nipples between his thumb and finger before pinching it.

Harsh pleasure sparked down your chest as you arched your back; Crosshair used the change in angle to push upward, pressing his slick length into your warmth, and you and Hunter both moaned at the intrusion.

Hunter growled a “fuck” indicating he had surfaced enough to curse about it. Crosshair, for once, said nothing, leaning the front curve of his helmet against the back of your head.

“Please,” you mumbled, desperate and insensate, little more than flesh seeking relief. “Need…”

“Y-yeah.” Hunter wasn’t better off, his words slurred as if he’d had too many shots of spotchka rather than been drugged in a Separatist lab. “We… we know. We got you, sweetheart.”

You throbbed around him, around them both, and Crosshair was the one to snarl this time, pulling back enough to give a sharp thrust back in, and that broke what little control Hunter had managed to find. His own wildness matched Crosshair’s, and within seconds they were fucking you hard and fast.

Their thoughts and emotions matched their physicality. It had been different with Wrecker and Echo; they had been dragged into their own fervor, but there had been a sweetness to their lust.

There was nothing sweet about this. Your men used you with bestial, primal need, and you were just as caught in the fever, your claws and teeth leaving faint marks in armor that was built to withstand blasters and concussive blasts.

“Been… wanting to do this… a long time.”

“Shut up, Cross,” Hunter panted, but he went ignored.

“She deserves… to hear it.” Crosshair’s fingers dug into your hips, his voice dark and honeyed. “Our pretty little Jedi.”

You whined. A very small, distant part of you wondered what had become of your shame. You were the furthest thing from a Jedi right now, and you’d surrendered too easily. Shouldn’t you have fought harder to avoid this outcome?

You throbbed around them, gasping for breath and sanity.

“S-slow down. You have to, to slow down, or I’m, I’m going to—”

Hunter’s hips stuttered and he pulled you close, bracing his helmet against your forehead, and something hard and strange pressed your entrance. You couldn’t focus, couldn’t look down to see what it was, because he groaned as if he’d been struck in the stomach as he throbbed deep in your gut.

A single curse left Crosshair when he pushed in as far as he could go, his own helmet braced against the back of your shoulder as he shuddered through his orgasm.

You didn’t know how you managed to hold off, their pleasure faintly echoing through the Force; it would have been so easy to let down your barriers and let it wash over you and carry you away to senseless bliss.

But then Hunter pulled out and tucked himself away too fast for you to get a look at him, and he wobbled as if the ground shifted beneath his feet. Crosshair also pulled out with surprising care, and you got the sense he wanted to linger, but then he stumbled back.

“Shit.”

“Tech,” Hunter said, sounding winded as he reached the wall behind him and braced against it. “Make sure she’s all right—”

He slid the rest of the way down the wall, unable to fight off his impending unconsciousness, and Crosshair joined him a few seconds later, stumbling and catching himself on the wall before half-collapsing next to Hunter. He managed to pull himself into a sitting position, leaning shoulder-to-shoulder with the sergeant before he passed out too.

Without them acting as your supports, your knees gave out and you sank to the floor, hunched forward at the intense arousal curdling into a burning agony. The threshold, Tech had called it. You would call it torture.

Warm hands once again settled on your shoulders, and like before, your body acted on its own. This time, there was no one to separate you, and he didn’t stop you from pulling close. In fact, Tech pulled you in first and lifted you in his arms, displaying the strength that was hidden behind his lithe frame.

Burying your head in his shoulder, you couldn’t stay still, trembling and squirming with that awful ache. It was beyond desire; it had become a punishment.

Tech set you on one of the tables, and when he pulled away, you cried out in dismay.

“Please, don’t—”

“It’s only for a moment. I need to dress you.”

“No, no, I need, need you, Tech—"

“I am aware.” His tone was brisk, but his eyes were soft. Understanding. “There will not be time after, and I would prefer the Separatists didn’t find you disrobed.”

Of course, it made sense. Thoughtful and practical, and it was still the hardest thing you’d ever done letting him go. When Tech pulled away, you caught sight of Wrecker and Echo still unconscious next to each other, though all of their armor had been reattached.

Despite being drugged and having to wait until the end, Tech still put the rest of his squad first. And now, he was doing the same for you. Warmth glowed in your chest, different from the haze of lust that clouded everything else.

Tech worked quickly, helping you put on your tunic and robes, wrapping the sash around your waist, your body suit left discarded on the floor. You realized you were going to have sex in your Jedi robes, with nothing underneath.

The desire struck you like a blow, and you were off the table and on Tech again, digging your claws into the cloth that covered his suit. He wore less armor than his brothers, and his eyes widened at the minimal protection between your nails and the flesh of his stomach.

“Ah, yes, we should start.” He cleared his throat. “I would like to lead, if you don’t mind.”

You didn’t mind what he did to you as long as he did it now, and he got the message when you backed him against the wall and attempted to trap his thigh between your legs.

“R-right.” He maneuvered you a few feet away, the progress slowed as you hindered his movements. “Lie down here, please.”

He laid your cloak on the ground like a makeshift blanket, and you did as he asked, bringing him down with you in one smooth motion that he took in stride. Unlike the others, you could clearly view his expressive eyes, how blown the pupils were and his need clearly painted within them. He might have more control over his desire, but he certainly experienced it.

You hooked your legs around his waist and brought him closer, groaning in happy satisfaction from his weight on top of you.

“Allow me,” he said, his voice wonderfully soft.

“Yes… Tech… whatever you want.”

And you meant it, with depths and dimensions he would never know. But that was all right, because right now, you had him.

He reached between you and unhooked his codpiece, pulling down the waistband of his body suit just enough to pull himself out. By the time he lined up with your entrance, you were dripping onto the cloak beneath you, permanently ruining it.

Impatient, you pressed down with your heels on his back, moving his hips forward, and he gave a strangled groan as the head of his cock slipped inside. Your own wetness mixed with Hunter’s come gave Tech a smooth glide, though he was thicker than you anticipated, and you were so full by the time he sheathed himself completely.

His gaze was sharp, focused, and dark as he pulled back and thrust into you again, brows creased in concentration. At first, he was testing with each thrust for your reaction, and then with a few more thrusts, he lost what control he had. He pulled your legs higher so they were just under his arms, and he thrust into you with rapid, pinpoint aim.

And you let yourself feel every inch of him, the pleasure tickling up your spine and shooting down your legs without needing to hold back. It also had the unfortunate side effect of making you babble without any thought as to what you were saying.

“Tech… take off your helmet. I want- I want to kiss you.”

The way his eyes pooled with black, you thought he might actually do it, but his voice was soft as he said, “Not… here. Not like this.”

You didn’t understand. You didn’t understand much beyond this sudden, desperate need to kiss him, and not just him, but the rest of his brothers. To feel their skin against your fur without their armor as a frustrating barrier.

Another source of frustration built inside you, and it turned into panic as you realized its source.

“I can’t… I can’t. Tech, I can’t…”

He slowed his pace to a crawl, his muscles quivering under your touch, but still he asked, “What do you need?”

You nearly sobbed with frustration.

“I don’t… I don’t know.”

You’d never explored this side of yourself before, and you didn’t know what it would take to go over that final edge.

But Tech did, and he pushed his hand between you, his gloved thumb against your clit.

“You can come now, darling.”

His thrusts were slow but deliberate, and as he began to rub your clit, he studied your face like nothing else existed. You never thought you’d be the subject of his calculating scrutiny, but now that you had it, you didn’t want it focused anywhere else.

“You’ve been doing so well for us. But you can let go now. I’ll catch you.”

You came with a cry, the pleasure so blinding all you could see was white. And then you crashed back into yourself, your flesh alive and thrumming, squeezing around Tech as if you were made for it.

His gasp was choked as he buried himself up to the hilt and spilled inside you, his grip bruising as he held your thighs around his waist. He didn’t move until you milked him of every last drop, and you would have kept him like that, pulled close as long as possible.

But weak numbness spread like a cold freeze across your limbs. Tech slipped out of you, rearranging himself and putting the codpiece back in place with clinical efficiency. And then he pulled down your robes and made sure you were covered, and his movements were somehow warmer.

With the consuming lust fading along with the orgasm, a sense of vulnerability replaced it, and you looked up at Tech, helpless to even raise your arms to hold him.

“I’m here,” he said, even though you hadn’t spoken. He laid on his side and pulled you to face him, bracing you against his chest in what could only be described as a protective embrace.

No, it was protective. He didn’t just have his back to the door, blocking you from sight of the entrance, but he had positioned you both as far from the entrance as possible. It wouldn’t stop the Separatists, but it was enough for the glow in your chest to return.

Soon, it became your only source of comfort as the cold darkness dragged you down, and the last of your fading awareness focused on Tech’s fingers threading your hair, his other hand braced against your back as he kept you close. Safe.

Wanted.

Next Chapter

[eirenical]

Let No One Be Forgotten (4,951 words) by eirenical for @fixaidea

Summary:

Ten years ago, an accident left Wu Xie in a coma from which he has not yet awoken. With their Triangle too long broken, Pangzi and Xiaoge are willing to do anything, to sacrifice anything, to get him back.

“A picnic. Picture a forest, a country road, a meadow. Cars drive off the country road into the meadow, a group of young people get out carrying bottles, baskets of food, transistor radios, and cameras. They light fires, pitch tents, turn on the music. In the morning they leave. The animals, birds, and insects that watched in horror through the long night creep out from their hiding places. And what do they see? Old spark plugs and old filters strewn around... Rags, burnt-out bulbs, and a monkey wrench left behind... And of course, the usual mess—apple cores, candy wrappers, charred remains of the campfire, cans, bottles, somebody’s handkerchief, somebody’s penknife, torn newspapers, coins, faded flowers picked in another meadow.” ― Arkady Strugatsky, Boris Strugatsky, Roadside Picnic

Today

“Did we forget anything?”

Xiaoge, still stuffing essentials into pockets of his backpack, slowly shook his head.

“Did you get any sleep this afternoon?”

Xiaoge paused, considered the easy lie for a moment, then slowly shook his head once more.

“You went to go say goodbye, didn’t you. Spent the whole damned day at the research institute hospital sitting at his bedside instead of resting.”

Neither of those were questions, but Xiaoge nodded in response, anyway. He would be ready for tonight. Pangzi understood that, even if he scolded. He would be able to protect them in the Zone better with the memory of Wu Xie held clear and tightly in his mind than with any amount of sleep. Pangzi understood that, as well. Xiaoge had seen Pangzi sneaking out as he’d snuck in, having spent the night in the hospital watching over Wu Xie before going home to get some sleep.

It was good.

They would both need all the memories of Wu Xie they could gather, to do what they had to do tomorrow.

The impossible.

Continue reading on AO3

Notes, tags, and other fic info beneath the cut.

August 24, 2024: This fic was written for @fixaidea for the @pingxie-exchange and is based off a book called Roadside Picnic whose virtues Fixa has been extolling for some time. ;D Anyway, she was right, the book is SO GOOD and I highly recommend it. I've been told you can understand this fic without having read the book, but here's a little help: the basic premise of the book is that aliens have (very briefly) visited Earth and left behind several zones of altered space. Within these altered spaces, the laws of physics do not necessarily always apply and there are also altered objects that humans have since repurposed for their own uses. People periodically visit the zones legally, for research purposes (scientists), and illegally, for profit (stalkers). That should be all you need to know. ^_^

And I'd like to say a GIANT thank you to @bbcphile for an extremely last minute beta and boatloads of encouragement. ^_^

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 盗墓笔记 - 南派三叔 | The Grave Robbers' Chronicles - Xu Lei Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Wu Xie/Zhang Qiling, Wang Pangzi & Wu Xie & Zhang Qiling, Wang Pangzi & Zhang Qiling Characters: Zhang Qiling, Wu Xie (DMBJ Series), Wang Pangzi Additional Tags: Roadside Picnic AU, The Iron Triangle | Wang Pangzi & Wu Xie & Zhang Qiling, Angst, Coma, Angst with a Happy Ending, Whump, Zhang Qiling Needs a Hug, Zhang Qiling Gets a Hug, Cuddling & Snuggling, Kisses, Caretaking, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Alternate Universe, Wu Xie's Curiosity Gets Him Into Trouble... Again, Established Wu Xie/Zhang Qiling

[whumpsoda]

His Word

I <3 hero/villain pet whump

cw: pet whump

———————————————————————

“Go, Hero. You’re free. Go.” This was the most harsh his words had ever been with Hero since his capture.

Hero  stood at the edge of the base entrance, gaping wide eyes at Villain. Villain stood opposite to him, standing tall and intimidating.

“S-sir, please, I-I can be better I pro-”

“Hero, I don’t need you to be better, I need you to be you! You have to go, you want to go! I know you do!” Villain was yelling now, as Hero began to slide to his knees with tear prickled eyes.

“Sir, no I promise, I really, really, want to be with you! I-I need to be with you. I have to serve you, sir. It’s what I’m made for, please!” Hero was inching toward becoming a blubbering mess, pleading in his mind for his owner to use the hypnotic word. 

To use his word.

“Hero, you don’t want to be here, you don’t want to serve. Y-you don’t want any of it and we both know it!” Villain was clutching for life onto both arms, shouting even louder now, fat tears beginning to spill from his eyes. “You’re mean! Y-you always do what you want, an-an’ you don’t like it when people tell you what to do! Especially not me!” 

“Sir, my purpose is to serve you.” Villain paused, enraptured in Hero’s pleading gaze. “I-I like to be obedient, I like to submit to you, sir. It makes me feel so good.” Hero’s eyes glazed over, his pudgy cheeks squishing from his ever-widening desperate smile.

“I love being your pet sir! I love, love, love it!” Hero was shouting now, the most conscious Villain had seen him in weeks. “I-I love how you spoil me, and how- how you give me cuddles! And-and most of all sir,” Hero’s head was pounding from the mixture of sweat, tears, and the nauseating feeling seeping into his brain. “I love it when you praise me. The pleasure I feel is so good! And it makes me so happy to see you happy! Every minute with you feels like heaven, Sir-”

“Hush. Hero.”  

Euphoria seeped into every crevice of Hero’s body upon the holy word being uttered. As Hero’s eyes became fuzzy and far away once again, Villain slumped onto his knees, mere inches away from Hero. Hero’s eyes drooped, the usual weight of them returning upon the feeling of bliss and warmth that enveloped Hero’s soft mind. 

This was when he was at his best. When his mind was foggy and blank, when his body was heavy and soft. He was obedient, docile, subservient. Hero yearned for it, the overwhelming want to submit to Villain. The word made him better, it meant that Villain wanted him. He wanted to be such a good boy for Villain. He wanted to be the best pet possible, one deserving of being owned by a villain as marvelous as the one in front of him.

A moment of silence was broken by Villain. “Hero?” The word was faint, almost unheard.

“Yes, sir?” The words slipped off of his tongue like creamy butter. He wanted a command. He wanted to be good, to show Villain once and for all that this is what he wanted.

“Can…can I get a hug, please?” Villain reluctantly choked out, shaggy hair sticking to his tear-stained face.

Hero was ecstatic from receiving an order, but still lacked the means of understanding why Villain always insisted on asking him to do things. Being obedient was his purpose. The owner was not to ask things of the pet, the owner was to tell.

Hero drowsily curled his arms around Villain’s slender frame tightly. He felt proud knowing Villain liked strong hugs. 

Villain clutched Hero’s body in return, holding onto Hero as if he were to let go the entire world would crumble beneath them.

They sat for a moment, Villain’s face snuggled deep into Hero’s shoulder. Hero could feel the sporadic wet drops of gloopy tears sinking into his chest.

“Sir?” Hero whispered.

“Mhm?” The response was strained. Hero hoped his owner wouldn’t be angry at him for speaking without permission.

“I’m so deeply sorry for yelling at you. It was so bad of me. I’m so sorry sir. I was distraught over the thought of having to leave my beloved owner, but I know it's not an excuse-”

“I love you Hero.”

For a tight second Hero’s throat sucked dry. “I-I love you too, sir. So much.” Both men squeezed firmer to one another. 

“I’m so grateful for you. You-you sent me to get fixed. To be better. I know I used to be bad. I was a-a really bad boy. But you helped me sir,” Villain tensed. “I get to be a good dog for you now, sir. I couldn’t live a better life than this.”

“Hush, please, Hero.” 

Hero was oh so grateful for the use of the mesmerizing word, the way his brain melted to mush and he was so docile and quiet.

Although, it meant Hero had talked far too much. Pets weren’t meant to be heard, he knew that. Sometimes even when he meant to be good, the bad urges got the best of him. Even so, Villain was so kind about it. Villain never hurt him, even when he made the stupidest mistakes. 

Hero was enraptured with Villain. He worshiped the man. All his brain could ever muster up now were thoughts of Villain. 

Villain was his whole world now, and he would never forget it.

[paraliveimaginesblog]

would it be okay to req kiss prompt 17 for satsuki maybe? if so, ty in advance!

Satsuki Ito:

17. Tucking their hands beneath the other person’s shirt, just to watch them break the kiss and gasp in surprise at the sensation of cold/warm hands on their skin.

Maybe you forgot your jacket on purpose.

The weather was in that odd in-between, where it could be warm one moment and cold the next. You swore when you left the house the sun was shining boldly in the sky, the rays warming your skin, giving a warm hug as you walked to the park to meet up with Satsuki. It’s halfway through your perilous journey that it took a turn, the clouds suddenly shielding you, your skin prickling as a cold wind blew and left you rubbing your arms to generate an artificial warmth.

“Satsuki!” You can see the furrowed eyebrows from how far you are, his lovely muscled arms wrapped up in clothing that was suitable for cold weather. You know he’s about to scold you, reaching out to touch your arms and wincing when he feels how cold you are.

“Here, you can have—”

“No way, then you’ll be cold!” You stop him from taking off his jacket, the heat from his face probably powerful enough to withstand these freezing temperatures. “We’ll be inside soon anyway, so it’ll be fine.”

“B-but…” Satsuki felt like a failure of a boyfriend, especially when he tried to remove the jacket again and you stopped him.

“I guess I could use a little…recharge.” He tilted his head, so you continued. “You know, just getting a little warmed up, give my arms a break from how extra cold it is real quick. Open up.”

Satsuki is, again, puzzled by what you might be asking for but luckily you knew better than to wait on him, taking the lead as you unbuttoned his jacket and left his mind racing. You shuffled a little closer, head resting on his shoulder.

“Now wrap your arms around me, but like with the coat, you know?” It took him another second to understand what you were asking for but he fulfilled your request admirably, enveloping you in his jacket as best he could as you snuggled a little closer. When you look up at him you're so close you can't help but lean in for a kiss, his lips lightly brushing against yours before he applied a little more pressure. He was still getting used to it, the whole having a lover who just wanted to kiss you all the time, but it was a feeling that was unbeatable.

You can feel the immediate relief from the cold but, still feeling a little mischievous, you can’t stop your hands from snaking down to the bottom of his shirt.

Satsuki didn’t realize at first, too stuck in his own head about how fucking cute you were and how wonderful this moment was making him feel. Maybe he wasn’t a failure of a boyfriend, and now that his jacket was unbuttoned, he could probably wrap you up in it before you can protest again. His thoughts are cut short when it feels like he’s getting stabbed—not, it was just like when Reo dropped snow down his back when he least expected it.

Your hands squeeze his skin and he lets out a yelp, stumbling back and nearly causing you both to topple over. It would’ve been worth it even if you did, your hysterical giggling at his response leading Satsuki to forgive you for your crimes right away. You could truly get away with anything if you just smiled in his direction, a weakness he would have to cover if he wanted to get anything done.

He’d be sure to force the jacket on you still, thinking he preferred walking without it to the surprise attack of ice cold hands.

[people-are-strange-87]

I wanna hear your engine roar

Part Two

“Mike!” I groaned as I leaned against Nanook’s soft fur, “Mike! Stop it!” He kept poking my side until I finally sat up with a glare. He pointed at the sign that we were approaching: Welcome to Santa Carla. I flipped him off, causing him to stick his tongue out in retaliation. “I’m going back to sleep. Wake me at the house” “Mom! Annie’s going back to sleep” Michael complained, purposely being louder than usual. The only noise in the car was Mom messing with the radio, “Leave her be, honey” I smirked, sticking my own tongue out at him before snuggling against Nanook, intending to sleep.

The boardwalk was relatively busy, letting me lose Michael and Sam quite easily. Mom was looking for a job and Sam always followed Michael around like a lost puppy. I went down to the beach to look for any plants. It gave me an excuse to scope the waves as well. Surprisingly, beneath the boardwalk there were huge areas of sea lavender. I knew I needed six springs to use for cleansing but I needed to account for mistakes in the drying stage so I would get eight. It was important to never take more than you needed. As I took the sprigs, I gave thanks. “Go raibh maith agat as do chabhair” “What are you doing?” A voice took me from beside, turning around I saw four guys standing behind me. One had a bleach blonde mullet and wore many layers; another had an impressive curly mullet and wore a crop top paired with a bright patch jacket; the third had big, teased hair and he had a mesh shirt; the final member had long, straight hair and did not wear a shirt beneath his leather jacket. The shirtless man was clearly of native heritage so I figured he would understand. “I am giving thanks to nádúr for her gifts” The native knelt down and gave his own thanks before taking a knife out of his pocket. He cut finger, allowing a few drops to hit the sand before placing it in his mouth. It had stopped bleeding when he removed it. He offered the blade to me so I held my hand out, allowing him to do the same to me. His friends laughed when I squeaked as he stuck my finger in his mouth.

After a round of goodbyes, I climbed the wooden stairs so I could finally find my brothers. I found Sam first so we headed back to the car to wait. At this point, I just wanted to go home so I could cleanse my room. Who knows what kinds of things Grandpa had let fester in there since Nana died. Michael returned before Mom, he looked rather flustered. I pulled him closer, leaning my full weight against his chest as he hugged me. I had almost fallen asleep when Mom finally got to the car; Michael had to help me into the car.

[renofmanyalts]

⏳/backstory hourglass: for Maati (or any character of your choice)

(Here's the first prompt fill for my modified version of the FFXIVWrite 2023 challenge! As in previous years, I'm clearing out my [oh god 2 year old] backlog of asks. This year, I am aiming to write to two prompts per week, plus an extra credit/bonus day, if I feel up to it.)

For every “⏳” I receive, my muse will openly talk about a bit of their backstory.

Prompt 2: Bark

Who: Maparhi Savaptha, Aynur Savaptha, Hearer Elmott

What: A stranger arrives at Aynur's camp.

Where: The East Shroud, in the area now occupied by Baelsar's Wall.

When: About 30 years ago, early fall

Content notes: Gridania being Gridania

Music: "The Oak" by Spiral Dance (YouTube, Bandcamp, lyrics)

Maparhi woke slowly, scrunching her nose. Outside, the wind danced and tumbled loudly through the slowly-yellowing leaves, playful and purposeful as only autumn wind could be. It was still chilly; only morning. Far too early to get up.

Her mother was not in her usual spot between Maparhi and the entrance, but a comforting warmth still lingered in the furs. She was probably coming right back to bed.

Maparhi was turning to snuggle deeper into the pile of blankets when her skin prickled with the feeling of being watched.

She opened her eyes.

At the open door flap of their home, a strange hyuran man knelt. The sun hung behind him, and she couldn't see his face in the shadow of his wide-brimmed, pointed hat.

Blue. It was deep blue, and so were his robes, and she knew what that meant.

Her heart thumped in her chest, and she tried to shrink beneath the edge of the blanket. Her mother — where was her mother? Maparhi's tail thrashed behind her, trapped under the covers as her ears pricked fruitlessly, scouring the heedless wind for any sign. 

"Don't be afraid, Maparhi," the stranger said, though the rough H went missing when he said it. Although his voice was soft, her name in his mouth made Maparhi startle. When her mother's moccasin-clad feet appeared at his side, Maparhi could see that her fingers were twisted together at her waist, knuckles white.

"But isn't it too soon?" she heard her mother say, quiet, as though fearing to speak the words too loudly.

"Mama?" Maparhi called, hearing her own voice tremble.

"It's al—" Her mother's hands shook as she bit off the word. She muttered something to the man — the Hearer, he must be a Hearer — as she dove past him, pulling Maparhi into her arms.

"I'm sorry, Maparhi," she murmured, the words thick with tears. "I'm so sorry. It's not your fault."

Maparhi clung to her mother's neck, confusion and fear swirling in her chest until she grew dizzy. Outside, the wind gusted around the clearing, tearing leaves from the trees and bowing the grass flat to the earth. The Hearer nearly lost his hat, clapping it to his head with one hand. His eyes grew wide, but he stayed silent.

Her mother was making gentle shushing noises under the wind's howling, fingers combing through Maparhi's hair. "Take a deep breath, beloved. I know, I know, you must be so frightened. But I promise you will be safe, and I promise..." Her mother's arms tightened around her, squeezing her so tightly as if to press her affection into Maparhi's very bones. "...I promise, I love you, always."

It sounded so final, but Maparhi slowly calmed herself in her mother's arms the way she had been guided to do so many times before. She thanked the wind, and she thanked the earth, and bit by bit, she let the tight grip around her heart relax. The gusts calmed. Soon, the wind returned to playing through the leaves as though nothing had happened.

When she emerged from their home, hand-in-hand with her mother, the Hearer — Elmott — introduced himself. Now that she could see beneath his hat, she saw that his face was young, and he had a warm and kindly air. In careful words, he explained what was happening, and Maparhi listened with ears straining toward him, struggling to understand his city accent. She was to come with him to Gridania, to be trained in conjury by Stillglade Fane, because the Elementals had decreed it. 

(At this, Maparhi looked to her mother, flicking her tail to show her puzzlement. Had the wood said anything to her? But her mother simply squeezed her hand reassuringly, though her smile wobbled.)

Hearer Elmott continued his explanation uninterrupted, as though the brief exchange had not happened. Her natural abilities were impressively strong, he said, and this was for her safety — and for the safety of her mother, and of everyone living in the Twelveswood. He was sorry that she had to be taken from her home, but it was necessary so that she could be trained properly, without distraction. He had grown up in the Fane himself, he said, and she would be well-cared-for. 

And that was that.

Nerves still made her limbs shake as Maparhi stood and dressed properly for travel. She was to take nothing with her, the Hearer said, for her every need would be met by the Fane — but as her mother gave her one last hug, she felt a cool weight slip into the neck of her tunic, sliding down until her belt caught it at her waist.

As they traveled west, Maparhi snuck it from her shirt. It was a flat piece of reddish wood, half the width of her small palm, sanded and polished smooth. Into it was carved a tree whose branches and roots spread wide to encompass the whole surface, spilling around the edges. On the other side, nestled between root-tip and leaf, was a hollow that just fit the pad of her thumb.

Carefully, she hid it again, and tried to pretend she did not feel it tapping against her side as she walked in Hearer Elmott's footsteps.

Later, Maparhi would learn that the day she left was her sixth nameday.