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hello, love!
fallon | masterlist | writing tag | ao3 | taglist signup | pixel cafe regular | anniversary event | 🇵🇸
current fandoms: demon slayer, jujutsu kaisen
recent works:
great minds | itadori yuji x reader first birthday | transfem gojo x reader keeping warm | obamitsu x reader
don't really take requests, but i'm always happy to talk headcanons & such in asks!
updated 12/11
#about me#icon by bloompompom (me & toru!!!)#blog header by fittsythesnail (it's me & my boys!!!)#pinned pics from pinterest#divider by saradika-graphics
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✿﹒🪻.*name: caspian/robin * ➔﹒**pronouns: he/they **﹕☂️ꜛ﹒ ◎﹒🍓﹒*18*﹒∇﹒☆
CRITERIA • leave me alone if you fit basic dni criteria (racist, sexist, anti-LGBTQ+), support incest/abuse/pedophilia ships, fetishist, drama starters, and/or NSFW-only. • don't repost/steal any of my work (edits or moodboards) • spam likes/rbs are OK. • dni/f if you're under 15
(if I knew you before that age it’s fine 🫶🏻)
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#robin’s void 🪐/#robin posts ✉ - original posts #robin reblogs 🪐 / *ੈ✩robin’s reblogs 🎧 - all my reblogs #robin edits 🌙 - any edits I post here (usually found on yt/tt by the same name + vxmplvrrq) #robin's ask box 🪐 - answering asks
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OTHER
YT (misfittq) TT (edits: misfittq & vxmplvrrq ; shifting: caspianshifts) Carrd Pronouns Page
take care 🎧
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little dove
summary: your first attendance of a huge feast is bothersome, alone and inexperienced as you are. until the eyes of a certain prince won't stop following you.
pairing: oberyn martell x f!reader
word count: 4.5k
warnings: 18+ content; no use of y/n; virginity/innocence kink; implied age gap (oberyn is in his early 40s, reader early 20s); fingering; unprotected p in v; creampie; some biting
a/n: another fic from last summer, hope you enjoy! ; headers & dividers by @/saradika-graphics
follow @palioomfics & turn on notifs for future updates
• masterlist •
Oberyn had been watching her all night already, his dark eyes following the shape of her wherever she went. Between the bustle of the people, her bright orange glowing dress like the sun, rising and settling as she appeared and disappeared, standing around like she didn’t know what to do with herself.
It was adorable, a smirk gracing his features as he watched her wring her hands, smiling sheepishly when someone approached her.
So innocent.
He could see the nervousness on her face from where he sat, the uncertainty, clearly not used to people approaching her.
He could see the heavy rise and fall of her chest, exposed by the deep cut of her garments.
Taking another sip of his wine, Oberyn stood, deciding now was his time.
The festivities had been going on for a while, and even though he had planned on celebrating with a group of people in his bedchambers later, she had thrown those plans into the wind the second he set sight on her.
Something just intrigued him, maybe it was the innocence she seemed to harbour, maybe it was her beauty.
Whatever it was, he had to know more, waiving away another woman that approached him with a polite smile, then walking over to the mysterious woman.
She looked around nervously, playing with the rings on her hands as people passed by her, some stopping to talk to her.
Feeling incredibly out of place at this feast, her first big one, she didn't quite know what to do. Her parents were somewhere, as were her siblings.
The lords trying to speak to her made her feel uneasy, knowing she was supposed to find a possible suitor at some point, but wanting nothing more than to flee this place.
In fact, she was thinking about just leaving, when she was approached again.
Tall, dark haired and handsome. The Prince of Dorne, Oberyn Martell.
She had seen him at his table, stealing a glance every once in a while and looking away when his dark eyes caught hers.
And now he stood in front of her, flashing her a wide smile.
“My Prince.” She said, curtsying as well as she could, perhaps a little clumsily.
Out of everything she had expected to happen today, she did not expect for him to approach her.
“Do you intend to sulk in the shadows all night, my dove?”
She blinked up at him, once again playing with the rings on her fingers.
“I have not been sulking.” A frown graced her face, a slight tremble in her voice. His presence was intimidating, but different from the other people who had approached her. “I have been observing.”
Oberyn chuckled, taking a small step closer to her, watching her step back just a little in return. So close to her, he could practically feel the nervosity radiating off of her, trying to hold eye contact before they moved away again, looking at anything but him.
“Observing by turning down all lords and ladies who approach you?” He said, watching her fingers stop for just a moment, as if she had been caught, before fiddling with her rings again. “I must admit, I have been watching you for a while - you are the only lady not dancing, not talking to anyone. Just standing in your corner, sometimes moving to follow the servants for a drink or something to eat.”
She stayed quiet. Had she been that noticeable? Just by standing around, hoping for a saving grace?
“I assume this to be your first attendance at a feast this big, am I correct, my dove?”
That nickname.
It made her feel warm, a different kind of warmth than the Dornish weather. Running through her in an unfamiliar fashion, her veins like molten metal, a strange feeling moving up her spine..
“Yes, my Prince.” She said, nodding, but not looking at him.
Oberyn noticed how she became more nervous, smirking at the display in front of him.
“My parents have kept me from them for long, I was only ever allowed to attend small ones.” She continued, sighing. “It is quite overwhelming. I am inexperienced in these kinds of things.”
Her words made him inhale sharply through his nose, still smiling.
If she was inexperienced in this, what else was she inexperienced in?
He had wanted her before, but now the desire for her burned even brighter. Oberyn wanted to show her the things her parents have undoubtedly sheltered her from.
To keep their daughter pure for a potential suitor.
“I understand, my dove. Would you perhaps allow me to accompany you to a place more quiet?”
Usually, he did not beat around the bush when it came to a potential partner for the night.
But it was different with her. If he was blunt he would simply chase her away.
She didn’t look at him, thinking about his question.
All the other men and women that had asked before had made her feel uneasy. Unsure why they wanted to whisk her away, promising a better night someplace else.
But the Prince of Dorne? He made her feel different. A heat and a pressure in her abdomen that she never felt before.
She knew of the rumours, that he took many partners, for whatever they did. Yet, as he stood in front of her, charming smile and good looks, she felt herself drawn to him.
Oberyn reached out, placing a finger under her chin and forcing her to look up at him. “I asked you a question, my dove.”
His fingers on her chin made her still, just looking up at him with her big eyes, lips slightly parted. The touch made that pressure worse, breath hitching in her throat.
“My Prince, I’m-” She stumbled over her words, unsure what to answer.
He just chuckled, a sigh leaving him. “You are quite easily flustered, my dove. Come with me, please.”
Holding out his arm for her to take, he hoped she would. Such an innocent, pretty thing. There was something so endearing about the way she was behaving.
She swallowed hard, looking from his face to his arm, hesitating for a moment. Something drew her to him, and after another moment, she hooked her arm into his with a nervous smile.
Oberyn walked her away from the feast, the noises dying down behind them as they walked the long corridors.
“What did the other lords and ladies ask of you, my dove?”
She sighed, glad to be away from the bustle in the halls, but feeling uncertain now, a throbbing at the apex of her thighs distracting her.
“They wished to take me away for some fun. I’m unsure what they meant exactly.” She didn’t look at him, too nervous to meet his dark, piercing eyes.
It was intimidating, she had never been in the presence of a man other than her father or her brothers alone. She knew how to behave, for the most part, but nonetheless was it a little scary.
Oberyn smirked, looking down to her, seeing how she only stared at the floor or ahead of them.
“You did not know what they were implying?” He asked, a bit amused but genuinely curious. “My little dove, you must be younger than I thought or your parents simply were too careless with your education.”
She remained quiet, her cheeks growing hot.
A sense of shame washed over her, that he thought she was too young. It was as if her friends were with her, giggling and whispering because of something she didn’t understand.
And when she asked, they never explained, finding it too amusing to laugh and belittle her.
There was something she was missing out on, and she hated not knowing what.
“My dove, you do not have to be ashamed.” He said, his other hand coming to gently rest on hers. “If you wish, I could show you.”
He had been right about the assumptions of her being a virgin, too innocent for her own good.
Walking next to her, he felt something else besides the desire for her, a need to protect.
As if he was the only one allowed to show her, that anyone else would simply take advantage of this fact.
Now her eyes met his, brows furrowed.
“Show me?” She echoed his words. “How? What exactly?”
Oberyn just smiled, eyes leaving hers to look at the guards standing by the door of his chambers.
He stopped, not too far away from the door, looking back at her.
“Do you wish for me to show you, my dove?” He asked, brushing back a strand of hair, tucking it behind her ear. “If not, I understand.”
She should be wary. Despite him being the Prince of Dorne, she should think about this. But she was curious, so curious about what this thing was that she had been missing out on.
And there was still that feeling inside of her.
“Yes, my Prince.” She said with a small nod. “I am curious, please.”
He chuckled, his knuckles brushing over her cheek. “Please, call me Oberyn, my dove.”
Moving along, the guards allowed them to enter, the heavy door falling shut behind them. Oberyn let go of her arm, walking over to a table to pour himself some wine, then offering her a cup.
She took it with a small nod, taking in his quarters. They were richly decorated, the bed massive.
Just how she would imagine it, if she had ever spent time on that before meeting him.
Taking a sip of her wine, Oberyn laid a hand on her waist with a gentle smile, pulling her closer to him.
“Most people stare when they first come here.” He said, his hand wandering up and down her side. “Don’t be nervous, little dove.”
She nodded, swallowing hard. That was easier said than done, the heat inside her becoming unbearable at this point.
His hand on her side felt like it was burning her, even through the thin fabric of her gown. Like it was hot coals placed on her.
“Have you ever been kissed, my dove?” He asked suddenly, eyes searching hers. Pulling her just a little closer to him.
She shook her head no, slowly. Heart beating in her throat, he was so close to her.
She could feel the warmth of him, twirling the cup of wine in her hand.
“Would you allow me to?”
There was some hesitation inside her, her hands stilling. Should she allow him to? She wanted to, somehow.
Often had she imagined what it felt like, kissing someone.
Her answer came in the form of a nod, her head barely moving.
Oberyn smiled, his hand coming up to cup her cheek.
“Oh, my little dove.”
Despite his growing desire, he moved gently, bending down to place his lips onto hers. The small gasp that left her made him chuckle, his other hand coming to rest on her hip and pull her hips flush against his.
She stiffened beneath his touch, liking the way his lips felt on hers, surprisingly soft, while his beard and moustache tickled her skin. Holding onto her cup tightly, she closed her eyes, humming when he deepened the kiss and she tried to match his movements, clumsy and inexperienced.
When he parted from her, she chased after him, opening her eyes when she couldn’t. Oberyn laughed at that, staying close to her, his thumb brushing over her cheek.
She looked adorable, the way she greedily breathed in air, lips slightly parted. Still too nervous, too stiff.
“What do you think, my dove?” He asked, leaning closer again so their noses were almost touching. “Would you like for me to show you more? There is quite an array of things I could assist you with.”
His fingers curled into her hip, and when she nodded, he only smiled wider.
“I promise to be gentle, my dove. A beauty such as you needs to be handled with care.”
She didn’t know what he meant, but it didn’t matter, because as soon as he kissed her again, more eager this time, her mind went blank.
His hand briefly left her hip to take the cup from her hands, placing it on the table next to them, before it was back, pulling her against his chest and making her gasp.
Letting his tongue glide against hers at the opportunity, Oberyn heard her muffled moan, relishing in the sweet sound.
The way she tried to kiss him back was delightful, so tender and new, trying to keep up with him.
Slowly he manoeuvred her back towards the bed, having to hold onto her waist as her steps became unsure, stumbling backwards once, her cheeks glowing even hotter.
The throbbing only became more intense, and when they reached the bed and he gently pushed her to sit at the foot of it, she squeezed her thighs together, looking for relief.
There was a wetness now that felt foreign to her.
Oberyn noticed, amused at the display.
“Are you aching, my dove?” He asked, his hands coming to the belt tied around his waist.
Aching.
It did hurt, but in a different way. Not like a bruise or a cut.
She nodded. “A little. My Prince- Oberyn, what- I don’t understand what is happening.”
Poor thing. Her parents had done a horrible job to prepare their daughter.
To leave her in the dark at such an age.
She watched him undo his belt, letting it fall to the floor before motioning for her to move further back to the middle of the bed.
“You’re aroused, my dove. You feel the need for cock.” He explained, shedding his robe, then crawling over her. “Have you seen a cock before, little dove?”
Her mouth went dry as she watched him undress, now only clad in a dark orange tunic and his breeches.
Aroused.
Of course. But was she really aroused by him? In need of his cock?
She nodded, and she could see a flash of surprise grace his features.
“In the bathhouses, yes.” She tried to hold his gaze, now hovering over her and letting his hand glide down her side. “From afar.”
He chuckled, leaning down to kiss her cheek, then her neck, hearing the breathy moan spill from her lips, feeling her back arch slightly.
“In the bathhouses…” He repeated in a whisper, still some amusement in his voice. “Yet you don’t know a thing about this… about desire and fucking.”
The word felt vulgar, so close to her ear.
And she felt embarrassed again. That she didn’t know more, that she didn’t understand she was aroused just by him being near her, by him kissing her, by him hovering over her.
“Do you want me to show you, my dove? The thrill of desire?” He asked, still mouthing along her neck, gently, just feeling her as she squirmed, her own hands coming to rest on his broad shoulders. “How to fuck?”
Her breath hitched in her throat when he sucked at the junction of her neck and shoulder, a throaty moan leaving her.
“I- I do not know, Oberyn.” She stammered, fingers digging into his shoulders. The throbbing and the pressure were distracting her, just needing relief. “It hurts, it really hurts.”
His hand moved lower, down her side and to her thigh, gathering her skirts before it dipped below them.
“I can help you, my dove.” His hand wandered between her thighs, finding her dripping already, a soft sound escaping him at the feeling. “Oh, my dove. Wet and gushing like a waterfall and I have barely touched you.”
He sounded pitying almost, his fingers slipping between her folds, raising his head to watch her face when he found her clit.
A hiss left her, looking at him with wide eyes at the foreign feeling. It felt good, strange but good.
“Have you never touched yourself before? Brought yourself to the peak of pleasure?” He asked, drawing slow circles into her clit, with featherlight touches.
She shook her head, trying to keep her eyes open, her legs opening further.
“Never, I didn’t know-”
“You poor thing.” He cooed, kissing her.
When his fingers left her again, she whined in protest, one of her hands reaching out to grab his wrist.
She didn’t even really know what was happening, simply that his touch felt good and that she wanted more.
Needed more.
The burning sensation inside her was so consuming and overwhelming while also hurting her.
“Oberyn, please, continue.” She said, guiding his hand back down but he escaped her grasp.
“Do you know anything about this, my dove? About fucking, the feeling of something stretching you open? Feeling somebody’s naked skin against yours?”
Stretching her open? It sounded painful, she couldn’t imagine how anything could do that, and where.
But she didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to embarrass herself further.
She shook her head again. “No, I don’t.”
He chuckled, his hand coming up to tug one of the straps of her gown down her shoulder, then further down her arm, exposing her breast.
“My little dove, so innocent, so pure.” A sigh left him, watching her face as he touched her breast, just lightly brushing over the hardened nipple. Nothing could have prepared him for just how much her innocence spurred him on. “I will take care of you, just allow me to do so.”
“Please, please, Oberyn.” She whined, desperate. His hand felt good on her, back arching off the bed and into his touch, her head thrown back as she closed her eyes.
This was what she had missed out on, something so good and intense. If only he could touch her again.
Slowly Oberyn undressed her, slipping the garment down her body and kissing each inch of newly uncovered skin. Taking in how she whined and moaned, took in a sharp breath or hissed at the sensation.
She felt exposed, once he sat back and pulled the gown down her legs, his dark eyes raking over her naked form as she laid before him, resisting the urge to cover herself.
So sweet and pure. And he would be the one to ruin her, to taint her beautiful body.
Thank the Gods it was him and not someone else.
“So pretty.” He said, a hand gliding up and down her thigh, the other working open his tunic. “My little dove, all for me to enjoy. I shall show you the heights of pleasure.”
She watched as he shed the garment, exposing his toned torso, the muscles under his skin moving. She was mesmerized, despite having seen this so many times at the bathhouses, when she came to find her siblings or her parents.
His hands moved down to his breeches, opening them just as slowly as he had done with the rest of his clothing.
“It seems as if my little dove has found something she likes.” He chuckled, shedding the last piece of clothing, kneeling between her spread legs, just as exposed as she was.
Cock heavy and throbbing, her eyes were fixed on it.
It was bigger than what she had seen before. But she didn’t know if she should mind that.
“Don’t be scared, my dove.” Oberyn said, moving to hover over her again, one hand on her thigh, his cock brushing against her stomach. “I’ll prepare you to take me.”
“Take me?” She asked, gasping when his hand found that sweet spot again, applying more pressure this time and leaving her breathless.
He hummed against her neck, kissing and sucking on her skin, taking in her sweet sounds.
So adorable, needing to be taught. Not knowing what pleasures awaited her.
His hand moved lower and he felt how she stiffened when one finger pressed against her hole.
“Don’t be scared…” He repeated, slowly pushing a single digit in, groaning when he felt her squeeze around him, her nails digging into his shoulders with a whine.
It felt strange, his thick finger inside of her, moving in and out slowly. Yet it also felt good, her hips rolling on their own, legs opening wider.
“Oberyn-” She moaned, voice breaking, the pressure inside her easing just a little.
His mouth found hers again, continuing to move his finger slowly, his cock twitching at the thought of burying himself inside her soon.
“Tell me how it feels, little dove. You might be ready for another finger soon.”
She whined, concentrating on the foreign feeling, the stretch when he pushed a second finger in.
“It feels good, my Prince- Oberyn.” She breathed, her mind feeling as if it was floating on a cloud, hissing when he scissored his fingers inside of her. “It hurts a little, but it feels good.”
He chuckled, kissing her cheek and down to her jaw, then down her neck again.
“My dove, you feel splendid, gripping my fingers so tight with your sweet cunt.”
Something inside her built, blood hot like molten metal as it rushed through her, building her higher and higher until he took his fingers from her again.
A noise of protest died in her throat, his teeth softly sinking into her shoulder.
He grinned at that, lifting his head to look at her, bringing his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean with a deep hum.
“Finer than any wine.” Oberyn said, positioning himself so his cock was lined up with her. “My dove, I promise to be gentle. It may sting nonetheless.”
She nodded, drowsy and wanting nothing more than this ache to end. He said his cock would help, and so she wished for nothing more than him to enter her where his fingers just had been.
“Please, help me relieve this ache.” She said, feeling him against her, so much thicker than his fingers.
Oberyn watched as he entered her, grunting at how tight she still was, seeing her eyes squeeze shut and take a sharp breath.
It stung, he hadn’t lied about that, his lips finding hers as he pushed in further, muffling her whimpers while he buried inch after inch inside of her.
All the way until he was fully sheathed inside of her, hips flush against hers, one of his hands coming to rest on her thigh, squeezing it gently.
“It hurts, Oberyn.” She breathed when he broke from her, looking back at him, his lips on her cheek again.
“I know, my dove. You will feel better soon, don’t you worry.”
It was so new, the sensation of being filled, of him inside of her and stretching her out just as he had said.
Overwhelming, someone being so close to her, inside of her, his hot skin against hers, his soft lips on her cheeks.
The pain slowly fading into a need, the throbbing returning, as did the pressure.
Her hips moving on their own, making him chuckle, the sound vibrating against her chest.
“Are you sure you wish to continue already, my dove?” He asked, kissing a spot just below her ear that sent a shiver through her. “I cannot stop myself if we do, your cunt is simply too tight and inviting.”
She nodded, whispering a silent please.
So he slowly pulled back, setting a lazy rhythm of shallow thrusts, her dragged out moans like music to his ears, a little symphony written just for him as he drove back into her over and over again.
“You feel perfect, my dove, what an honour to teach you about the pleasures of the flesh.” Oberyn groaned, his hands grabbing her legs and wrapping them around his hips, making her whimper loudly. “You won’t find a nicer cunt than that of this little virgin dove.”
She let him move, rolling her hips, trying to meet his thrusts, that something inside her building again, becoming stronger this time.
If this really was what she had been missing out on, what she had been ridiculed for, she never wanted it to stop now that she had it.
The feeling pleasant as the ache became less and less present.
Oberyn had to hold back to not just drive into her with his entire force, losing himself in how good she felt, but still wanting this to be something good for her, as much as he desired her.
Already knowing he would seek her out again and again, her innocence far from gone, her sounds so sweet in his ears, her hands so soft as they grabbed at him, trying to find purchase on his body.
“My dove, you are close, I can feel you.” He rasped, his movements becoming sloppier, lips dancing over her skin. “You’re close, aren’t you?”
“Close to what?” She asked, words catching on her breath, feeling something but unsure if it was what he meant.
Gods, she was so adorable.
“Oh, you will see, my dove.”
His hand moved between them, finding her clit.
And with just a few movements, something snapped inside of her so suddenly and with such force that all breath left her, a strangled noise catching in her chest as her veins burned, the pressure in her abdomen released.
She was trembling, holding him against her tightly as he kept moving, thrusts harsher now.
“There you are, my little dove, isn’t that wonderful? The heights, the peak?”
It was a pretty sight, her face contorted in bliss and pleasure but also so shocked by what was happening to her, by these new feelings.
She could only whine, falling silent when she heard him grunt deeply into her ear, stilling above her.
Spilling himself deep inside of her before rolling off of her, not separating but rolling her with him so she came to rest on top of him.
She felt exhausted suddenly, the euphoric feelings still coursing through her veins.
And he felt solid beneath her body, catching his breath just as she did, his hands carding through her hair.
“Now, my dove, how do you feel?” He asked, watching her face as she rested on him. “Are you satisfied?”
If anyone had told her just a few hours ago that she would land in the bed of the Prince of Dorne, she would have laughed at them.
But now, it seemed quite nice.
She nodded. “I feel exhausted, but I am very grateful for what you showed me.”
A smile stretched her lips wide, he liked it. She seemed to be less nervous.
He chuckled, one hand wandering down to smooth over her back. Normally he would be far from done, already planning another round of pleasure.
But she truly seemed too exhausted by this. After all, she hadn’t even known about any of this until now.
Her eyes drifted shut, but she was still awake, listening to his heartbeat.
“Oh, my dove.” He said quietly, kissing the top of her head. “There is so much more to show you, I am far from done with you.”
She felt warm at the idea, curious what else there was to discover. Her eyes felt too heavy to open them again, slowly drifting off into sleep on top of him.
Oberyn simply smiled, sighing deeply.
Yes, he was far from done.
There was so much to learn, so much to discover.
And he couldn’t wait to see her face once he began to truly teach his little dove.
#oberyn martell#oberyn martell x reader#oberyn martell fanfiction#oberyn martell smut#oberyn martell x you#game of thrones#pedro pascal#pedro pascal characters#pedro pascal fanfiction#pedro pascal x reader#pedro pascal fandom#pedro pascal smut#pedro pascal x you#pedrostories#my writing
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get the peach(es)
bestfriend!eddie munson x reader
it's the day after chrissy got vecna'd and you and the gang decide to check up on eddie at rick's. he's still in so much distress that you can't help but selflessly stay with your best friend (who you've been harboring a crush on for quite some time) and keep him company. 6k words, not proofread.
cw: the good old friends to lovers trope, eddie is an anxious bean who just needs to be held (by you, ideally), mutual (and not so secret at all) pining, i wrote this with fem!reader in mind (she/her pronouns) but can also be read as gn i guess, fluff, hurt/comfort (for eddie), pet names, mentions of chrissy's death, there shall be kisses and a lot of softness. nothing too explicit but minors are still advised to LEAVE
a/n: totally not self indulgent, that scene of him being so terrified in 4x02 ripped me to shreds so this is my fix-it attempt, trying to still my need to hold him and scratch his head. disclaimer: this piece of writing is based on the ending of that episode, meaning all credits for the setting go to the respective writers. sources to the header images here, here and here. lovely divider by saradika. ok thank you so much for reading byeeee love y'all <3
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The overwhelming need to befriend the satanic metalhead found you at that party at the Wheeler house. You had almost said no to Nancy when she invited you, knowing damn well how the night would end. Steve passed out with a girl on his lap, Robin silently pining after Vickie from some corner of the room while clinging onto the red plastic cup in her hand, Jonathan getting higher than a kite with his old school mates, the younger kids asking you every five minutes if you could give them a ride since you usually were the one staying sober.
Additionally this time, there would be Eddie Munson. This familiar stranger Dustin, Mike and Lucas had met and somehow befriended over the last months, due to them joining his DnD club. "He might come off as a bit intimidating ... but I promise he's super chill and easy going!", Mike had tried to convince his sister, poking the tip of her shoulder repeatedly with a bunch of pleases during lunch break in the editing room of the school's newspaper. Until she rolled her eyes theatrically and agreed to let the ambiguous stranger, which the whole town collectively perceived as not really fitting in (and who you both certainly knew under the not so chill reputation he carried around), attend the celebratory events at Casa Wheeler. Occasion: Karen, Ted and their youngest leaving the house for more than one day, off on vacation.
You'd always kinda stayed out of his ways, used to observe his antics back at school with a silent laugh and this .. intrigue poking at your guts. To you he always stood out, and if anyone asked you'd be hesitant to admit it, but his willingness to go against the flow and not conform to the acceptable standards set by society was honestly impressive. And besides, surely this whole mysterious drug dealer rockstar image must just be a fassade and deep down he's just a dork, right?
His eyes follow you through the living room, an echo of your name crossing his mind repeatedly after having pulled Dustin into a corner for a brief interrogation. He finds it endearing how quickly and almost bashfully you look away every time your curious gaze meets his. As you redirect your focus to the conversation you're becoming engaged in, there's a soft smile creeping onto your lips. Little did he know it would soon start to haunt him in his dreams at night.
"Anything specific you're looking for?"
God, his voice. The close proximity invites your nose to inhale a mix of fresh cigarette smoke, bergamot and sandalwood, allowing you to sense what can only be him standing behind you as you skim through the cabinets of the Wheeler kitchen. You turn your head for your eyes to confirm your assumption and what they find is the deepest brown of round baby cow eyes they've ever met, up so much closer now. The paring of his gaze and plush smile somehow manages to dissolve every little prejudice you've been involuntarily harboring about him. Eddie Munson, the town's freak. Prime reason for the existence of the satanic panic. Drugs. And then you realise that you should probably do the polite thing and give him an answer. "Yeah uh, I was just trying to find the peach syrup", holding his gaze with a small lopsided smile, lost in its warmth which you wouldn't have dared to expect from it, before facing away from him again. He snorts a little, "peach syrup?", pauses to bring a thumb to his upper lip, lightly scratching the skin above as if to wipe something away, before he removes it again and the dimples appear around the corners of his mouth, "that is oddly specific." His response spreads a smile over your face, and the next thing he says widens it, "looks like you have taste though."
You move one step to the side, about to investigate the insides of the next cabinet, the kitchen itself almost empty of people with only three others chatting away in the corner across the island. He follows, undoubtedly trying to stay close, and the heat from the fire he just ignited somewhere inside of you rises to your cheeks. "Thanks, I really like peaches. Especially in my drinks. It adds a little ... kick to my sobriety", you explain, Eddie now quirks an amused eyebrow paired with a lopsided smile at you, and as you get to the last cabinet it dawns on you (and also Eddie) that this household severely lacks peach syrup. An atrocity. Thanks Ted.
After he helped you rummage through the entirety of the kitchen without success but under a lot of small talk, the metalhead vanishes from the function for an hour or so. At least that's what your brain concludes when your vision fails to spot him among the people who are in attendance. Maybe he's selling out of Nancy's bedroom. Maybe he's puking up his insides in the bathroom because he had too much of that weird beer he's been downing all night. Maybe he's banging some random girl in the bathroom upstairs. Or summoning a demon. Or both. At the same time. You once again try focusing your attention back to the conversation you are involved in. Munson already feels so dear to you that the lack of his presence is starting to form an ache in your heart. It's tugging on those strings with how much you already want him near you. Yeah. You're gonna be in trouble with this one.
And then he stumbles into the room from the direction of the front door, an event you're totally unable (and unwilling) to miss. He doesn't look like he just puked, nor sold a whole lot of the stash since you notice it still bulging out the left ass pocket of his black jeans. Instead, as he pushes past the small groups of people socialising – and towards you – while you notice a red net of round fruits dangling from his right hand, and you start to think that his disheveled hair and that rosy tint on his cheeks might actually not be from shagging either. He meets your gaze again as he approaches you with a grin and your heart dares to swell at his attentive gesture (you think you might as well pass away on the spot).
"Have some, peach."
It's not syrup, but you'll take them anyway. And with your next drink, you swallow down not only that peachy sweetness on your tongue, but also whatever this tingly feeling in your chest is.
"Chchhrhch.."
Pause.
"Hey, uh– chrhchhr.."
Silence in your bedroom, the only thing illuminating the space is the moonlight softly falling through the window.
"Chrch– a-are you there?"
You stirr awake from dozing off in your bed, trying to piece together the information your senses are giving you.
Eyes gone dry, you have to blink a few times. Figure out which year it is and so on.
Confusion lies between the static crackle for a moment. That nap after your shift at the diner was necessary. God, you need to fucking quit.
"No I'm sure she'll pick right up, just– hey pleeease b-be awake, goddamn it!–"
Is it already past midnight?
You don't know and you can't tell, the clock on your nightstand still broken. What you do know though is that the familiar voice belongs to your friend Dustin and it's desperately trying to get ahold of you.
They must have found him.
"Dustin? I copy, where are you? What's going on?", you finally grab the device from the nightstand, fully awake and aware of your surroundings now.
You need to know. If he's okay.
There's that all too familiar instant tingle in your chest again, an ache that made itself familiar to you for the first time when he was introduced to you at the one and only Wheeler party several months ago. The dungeon master of Hawkins High's Hellfire club, the lead guitarist of Corroded Coffin and a super chill and easy going guy, to put it in Mike Wheeler's words.
What you didn't expect back then was your heart starting to develop that feeling, that tingle you'd always get to feel when you were in his presence, or like now, when his name is threatening to spill from your friend's lips on the other side of the connection at any moment.
"Aha! See? I told you she'd respond in no time."
You can practically feel Dustin's shit eating grin through the frequency, basking in being correct over Steve Harrington once again. It never gets old between these two.
"Oh my god", Steve's muffled voice is what you can make out vaguely from the off, he's probably palming his face.
"Dustin!", your voice disappears into the device, and your impatience grows with every passing second, hoping he gets the hint.
There's the sound of a door falling shut, leaves rustling under shoes, he must be outside now.
"Alright, okay yeah, so we found him at Rick's and he's really upset and he's been asking for you. I know it's late but can you meet us out here? And maybe, uh, stay with him?"
It's not even worth questioning. You're already wearing shoes. Your biggest hoodie in tow, you stumble into your kitchen with the intention to raid your own snack drawer. Pulling out Eddie's favourite, which you of course had stocked up on ever since hanging out with him at your place had become more of a weekly routine for the both of you.
Ten minutes, you told him. You'd be there in ten.
The drive feels like forever. The longest ten minutes of your life, you think.
You know the route like the back of your hand, having driven along the gravelly road leading from the last intersection before Hawkins' border to the outer world, to the serene woods surrounding Lover's Lake countless times. Eddie would take you here ever so often, for picnics, an occasional smoke after picking up a new delivery from Rick's, cloud or star gazing, listening to Metallica and Tears for Fears on Wayne's old walkman.
The gravel crunches underneath your white reeboks as they land on the ground. You close the door to your car as quietly as possible after you've taken out the bag and your hoodie.
Dustin and Steve are stood outside the boathouse, waving like madmen in the darkness once you come into their periphery.
The younger boy hugs you tightly.
"So glad you could make it", he gets out, the relief palpable through his voice as well as the grip he holds you in for a brief moment.
You look at them both after Steve presses you against him cordially, and breathe out through your nose, making your nostrils flare.
Dustin cracks open the case to you as he starts to ramble about the state in which they found your best friend, "well first he attacked Steve with a broken bottle, we had to put in great effort to convince him that we'd be on his side, and we came to the conclusion that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, basically."
What you want right now goes without saying. Everyone here knows how close you and Eddie are. As friends, of course. No one would think anything different.
Without wasting another second, the boys lead you inside where Max and Robin are knelt on the wooden floor. Heads turning towards the entrance of the room where you're now standing.
The sight of what's offered to your eyes, sitting opposite of them, breaks your heart.
You can see that he's slightly shivering, eyes glassy in the dim lit room. A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips though once his brain grasps your presence, and he can't help anymore but let the water fall once his eyes lock with yours.
The pain that is swimming in those two deep warm brown oceans hits you like a dagger to the chest. Over the months of being friends with him you'd seen him various different states, none of them comparable to this.
"Peach", his shaky voice announces your arrival and the sound of your nickname spilling from his lips cracks through your bones. The bag that's slung around your shoulder drops onto the wood with a dull thud.
Wobbly legs carry him towards you with a gentle shove past Robin and Max. You're once again reminded of your best friend's sheer physical strength as he wraps his arms around you, instantly burying his face into the crook of your neck.
One arm of your own sneaks around his torso, pressing him against you as tightly as your own strength allows you, while your other hand comes up to bury itself underneath the mane and to end up scratching soothingly over the scalp above the nape of his neck.
Eddie lets out a muffled sob, sniffling into the collar of the sweatshirt you threw on in a haste. He doesn't really want anyone to see him like this, certainly not Steve Harrington, so he clutches onto you so tightly that he thinks you might just feel his heavy heart beating anxiously against your chest.
And you do. How could you not with the amount of world he means to you? Like an automatism your other hand rubs slow circles over his back. Comforting him in the best way you could. Not a conscious decision you make.
"Okay so, m'not meaning to ruin the party, in fact I'd love to stay for another round of doom talk, but I really should get home soon, guys", Robin scratches the back of her head after she gets up from her huddled position next to the wooden crate Eddie had been sitting on. Max joins in and agrees, mumbling something about having to move her mom from being passed out on the couch again into her bed.
"Yeah me too, actually. My dad's gonna be fucking pissed. We'll see you tomorrow, yeah?", Steve's voice echoes through the room and you can tell he's already shoved Dustin back outside, itching to drive the kid home.
As Eddie processes having to stay in hiding, added the possibility of everyone leaving without him, his grip on you tightens even more.
"It's okay, Eds", you speak softly, head slightly tilted so your cheek rests on the dark frizzy mop you could call his hair. The skin on his neck and scalp so warm underneath your fingertips as you keep scratching it, emphasizing your presence, "I'll stay."
A soft muffled whimper is what you get as a response, and the way he lets you see him in this state melts your insides to a puddle.
You just need him to be okay.
They wave their goodbyes behind your back, accompanied by mumbles of "see you in the morning", and you can't even bring yourself to turn your head around, fully focused on making the young man in your arms less terrified of the world. A world he was sure was now going to come for him with all its force – in deep conviction of him being responsible for Chrissy's misfortunate end.
The door falls shut and Eddie muffles a quiet thank you into the fabric of your sweatshirt. The skin on your neck is damp with his tears, wet eyelashes tickling every time he blinks.
"It's okay, Eds", you softly keep repeating your words to him while continuously rubbing over the denim of his signature Dio vest in a slow motion, when he feels the urgency to claim the truth into the collar of your sweater about what has happened, "I– I didn't do it, I swear."
As if you would need any convincing.
"Oh no of course you didn't, I know that", you're looking for a way to ease the distress this entire situation is causing him, his quivering voice adding to your desire to soothe him to inner peace, "can I make a suggestion?"
Eddie nods with another sniffle against your collarbone, the round wet tip of his nose brushing against the column of your throat lightly. To his ears, your voice sounds like silk right about now.
"How about we head over to the main house and get ourselves a little more comfortable? Since we're gonna be here for a little longer? My god you probably haven't slept or eaten at all, have you?"
You can feel him nod his head again with a hum this time, and you start to think that the tears might not just be pouring because he just witnessed someone suffer a gruesome death right in front of him, but also due to physical exhaustion.
It makes your heart ache even more, that tingle still present, even more so now. It hurts to see your best friend hurt.
He just needs to be okay. And in that heart of yours there's that little spark of hope that leads you to believe you could be the one helping him with that.
You'd really want that. Be all his to find comfort in, to hold close, to kiss stupid
Stop.
A sigh escapes your lungs at the thought. That tingle, that longing, it's selfish. It familiarly pools in your belly and slowly drips downwards. You push your brain aside. This is about soothing your best friend now.
"C'mon then", you utter softly, encouraging him with your hand to lift his head from where it leans against your shoulder.
For your heart it's almost too much to look at, the hurt still swimming in the glassy big brown irises, his waterline red and puffy. The soft smile returning to his lips causes the wet apples of his cheeks to push up slightly, reflecting the dim light coming from the one torch Robin left you, placed on one of the crates.
He really hadn't been able to close an eye for a single second since he he'd gotten up for school the day prior.
You smile back at him almost bashfully as you slowly create space between your bodies.
Eddie is grateful that it's you who grabs his ringed hand next.
He squeezes yours, hoping to get the message of this meaning something to him across.
And he closely trails behind you as you lead the way.
The house feels empty, like no one's really been here in months. You'd never been inside. The few times you'd accompanied Eddie grabbing stash you'd stayed in his van, waiting. But as far as you now can make out in the darkness, there's a couch with knitted blankets, a little TV with a whole stack of VHS almost rising as high as the screen itself, spilled and spluttered empty cans and papers and wrappings littered all around. Maybe this is why he never let you come inside with him. Keeping you out of this definitely not sterile mess. Along with keeping you out of the business.
In the middle of the living room, you let go of his hand and shuffle one step away from him. He's inside now. Safe. Job done. Doesn't need physical contact. You shouldn't, he's your friend. You feel like something between you would break if you'd go there.
Eddie thinks otherwise, regarding close proximity at least. He promptly follows you into what you believe to be the kitchen where you hope you might find a tea bag or two. He comes up behind you and encases you in his arms as you rummage through the cabinets (feels familiar, hm?), not at all ready to say goodbye to the warmth of your body pressed against his own just yet.
You giggle at the silliness of him putting weight on you just to make it harder for you to reach into the cabinets. It's endearing. And very Eddie.
Twenty minutes later and there's two mugs – cleaned to your best ability – with steaming hot liquid on the sixties wooden coffee table. Next to them a plate filled with the almost equally hot insides of a ravioli in tomato sauce can. Thank Rick for a still functioning microwave.
You drape the knitted blankets over both you and Eddie as you settle into the cushions. The only light existent coming from two lit candles on said coffee table. It wouldn't be too wise setting up the torch you think.
The side of Eddie's face glows in the orange yellow, his wide brown bambi eyes dried after the first grand storm, and there's this tug on the corner of his pink plush lips again. He exchanged his leather jacket for the freshly washed hoodie for comfort and a small part of you hopes he doesn't spill his dinner onto any of it.
You lean back into the backrest of the worn out couch and watch as he eats, a domestic thing you've done a thousand times already, yet you still find comfort in knowing that he's nourishing himself.
Or well, in this case, inhaling the raviolis.
"Thank you Peach", he moves to put the empty plate back on the coffee table and it makes the spoon chink and glide along the edge, "I really needed this."
His voice is a little hoarse, probably from the emotions of the hours behind him. Maybe he has indeed calmed down a little. His hand moves down to your thigh, squeezing.
You give him the most empathetic smile you can bring yourself to display, painfully aware of the blaze that is transpiring through your leggings and seeping into your bones, "it's no big deal, really. I mean it is– uh, being there for you, is."
And he can't bring himself to look up at you. Instead, he stares at the empty plate on that coffee table in front of him.
"And to me as well. It really helps that you're here."
He doesn't bother moving the calloused warmth of his hand from the soft warmth of your thigh. It lights your entire nervous system on fire. In a good way.
And that's when you begin to wonder if everything that has just happened and is still happening right now changes anything.
"I'm so glad it does", is all you're able to get out.
Eddie decides that it's time to lean into your side and wrap his arms around your torso once again, drop his head back to its favourite place with a soft content little hum.
He just needs physical comfort. Of course. Just that. Nothing more, nothing else.
The words are redundant but your mouth articulates them anyway, "try to get some sleep, yeah?"
His back already lifts and falls evenly. You place your hand on the back of his head that rests in the crook of your neck again, scratching through the curls lightly, searching to help him shut off even deeper.
–––––
The candles have gone out by the time your eyelids slowly open. It takes you a moment to recall the location you fell asleep in, and you hope that the nightly darkness the whole room is now filled with hasn't invited any stranger to take advantage of your unconsciousness.
There's a warm hand holding your face, the pad of a thumb tracing over the apple of your cheek softly. It makes its way from the bridge of your nose to the outer corner of your eye, and back. And forth. And back. And forth.
You must have moved to lie down on your back in your sleep, with Eddie's weight still on your body, legs entangled. It's not the first time you've slept like this, there had been movie nights that had ended similarly.
His hand caressing your cheek though, yeah that is new. There's something unspoken in the air this time around. Your stomach is doing flip flops when you realise that he is propped up on his elbow, just .. looking at you. With eyes that don't require light to hint at whatever it is he is trying to say, or maybe not trying at all.
"Eds, what are you doing?", you ask almost in a whisper followed by a lopsided smile, expecting an unserious answer, because he always tends to make a joke whenever he tries to avoid conversing about emotions regarding his heart.
His thumb stops its acrobatics on your cheek, comes to a halt.
"I'm–", he takes a deep breath before he continues, "I'm just so grateful it's you that's here right now."
Your hand comes up to cup his. Brush over his rough knuckles with a thumb of your own. Enjoying the warmth that is seeping from his palm into your skin.
"Yeah, I figured you were gonna be a little opposed to spending the night with Harrington", you laugh, an attempt to turn your nerves into humour.
Eddie snorts a little, "yeah right, it's almost like you know me", he grins and pushes himself even closer to your face than he already is. It doesn't necessarily help in extinguishing the fire that's consuming you whole at this point.
"It's almost like we're best friends and I know what you think of him because every time Dustin or literally anyone else mentions his name around you, you're not necessarily secretive about it."
"Hey, my own worldview is not my fault, it's just– ... he just kinda seems like a douche of the highest order."
"He's quite alright, Eds. Try giving him a chance, I think he'd look great as Coffin's tambourinist."
He snorts again and you feel his breath on the column of your neck next when he dips his head down, nose pressing against the soft skin, his small giggle being swallowed by the collar of your sweatshirt.
Your favourite sound. Ever. Followed by the relieved moan Eddie lets out at the way your other hand is softly rubbing over his shoulder blade. The vibration against your neck makes you twitch as much as being pinned into the couch cushions by his body allows you.
It's soothing as much for you as it is for him.
When he lifts his head, the soft gaze he eyes you with is enough to let the goosebumps erupt. Even in the darkness of the room you can still make out those round buttons that could melt the entire north pole.
"Thank you, Peach, really. I'd be goin' mental right now and probably tryin' to counter that by smoking an equally mental amount of the stash I've been hiding here."
Your heart aches.
"I'm just glad I can be that kind of comfort to you, Eds. You don't have to go through whatever the fuck this is alone."
"I know I'm never gonna be alone as long as you are there."
You almost cry yourself now, his words making your hand travel from his own to his cheek, almost passing out from the way his eyes bore into your own once again.
Eddie isn't sure what it is that is making him feel lightheaded right now. The whole rollercoaster of events of the past hours. Or your words of affirmation. Or mayhaps it is your cute soft hand with that little ring on your thumb which is gently swiping over his damp skin.
That cute soft hand he'd been imagining countless times at night, silently yearning for your eyes to look at him differently, to finally see him in a different light the next time you'd hang out.
Probably a combination of just everything.
You reciprocate his soft half-lidded gaze, hand moving from his cheek to tuck some of his hair behind his left ear, revealing that delicate silver hoop earring you'd gifted to him for his birthday, after having talked your ear off about getting his ear pierced for literal months.
He'd insisted you join him for the appointment, "another metal moment for the books", as Eddie had called it, the need to have his hand held during the stab comically urgent in the way his voice sounded when he called you that day. And in the pace in which he picked you up.
"I'm here no matter what", you respond to his sentiment, that hand that brushed his hair away resting on the side of his neck while leaning the weight of your head into his palm that is still attached to your cheek.
Eddie's confidence reaches a new all time high with the admission of your unconditional support being stirred into the cocktail of hormones and emotions that's been circulating in his bloodstream for a generous amount of time now.
Because then he goes on by saying impossible things.
Impossible things with a slightly less platonic undertone.
"You're so fucking sweet, has anyone ever told you?"
You smile as you shake your head, heat rising to your cheeks once again and you're sure he won't be able to see just how flustered he's getting you (joke's on you he does).
You're also sure he's out of his mind for saying that. Now.
"A shame, honestly. You should scold your best friend for not telling you sooner. Tell him what a fucking idiot he is."
Eddie earns another giggle from you. Music to his ears. Better than Metallica. Okay maybe not but .. pretty fucking close.
"I'll let him know next time I see him", you say with a grin, playing along with pleasure, and you ask yourself why it is only now that you realise just how fucking close his face is to yours.
There is a moment of silence in which Eddie hesitates articulating whatever is seemingly bugging his mind.
"Do you, uh, still like him?"
If you lifted your head just a little your noses would be touching. A silly and utmost redundant question, and yet, Eddie dreads your answer. If the circumstances were different, less dystopian and tragic, you'd seriously wonder what would spark the doubt in your friendship in him, but considering that everyone else would be going to pour their judgement over him, you understand.
Every word exchanged between the two of you at this hour is soaked in mutual infatuation, something the idiots in both of you are slowly starting to fathom as well.
"Of course I do, he's everything to me."
As you say it, you can't help the grin which reappears reliably each time you finish verbalizing your thoughts. It's contagious, you notice.
"And do you think – just hypothetically of course", it's only then he breaks eye contact to clear his throat, "of course", you interrupt him still smiling and cocking an eyebrow at him, "d'ya think it would be okay for this best friend to, uh, maybe...", Eddie pauses, internally watching the ship containing his confidence set sail slowly and ultimately letting the irrational thoughts win for tonight, "would you let him..."
Eddie generally wasn't someone who lacked confidence. It showed in the way he boisterously wandered the halls of Hawkins High, the way his demeanor never changed, his mask never faltered no matter who was around. Except for you. You who he had always granted a look underneath the impulsive, extroverted surface.
"Eds", you try everything in your power to stay calm even though everything inside of you is screaming right now and you're certain you can feel your pulse in your earlobes.
"Would it be just insane of that best friend to kiss you right now?"
You want to squeal and kick your feet, pull him into your face, pinch your own forearm, pass away, leave the house and never return, and stay right where you are forever, buried underneath your favourite metalhead, the parts where your bodies are touching practically on fire, cosy and content.
Instead, the most fond smile spreads over your lips as you try to contain your internal overwhelm.
It's still dark, the only light source being the full moon outside. Eddie's so hopeful of your reciprocation and even more terrified of ruining his entire life at the same time, those deep doe eyes at this point pretty much resemble the shape of the space rock orbiting earth. Rejection from you, his pretty Peach and the Bonnie to his Clyde, would be unbearable.
"I think so," you almost whisper, the hand that's been rubbing over Eddie's back coming up to lightly trace one of his eyebrows with your index finger because you just can't seem to not touch him in some way, "but you should know that I love his insanity."
Your small giggle is being silenced by a soft and cautious kiss from Eddie Munson. Like he doesn't want to break you. Or he's afraid you'll snap out of a haze, slap him and leave if he starts kissing you like he really wants to.
And then it's you who goes for it, you feel at home, right where you belong, you don't think you've ever felt this good. The hand on his jaw tugs him closer softly, pressing your lips to his with a bit more urgency.
It gives him all the confirmation he could possibly need.
That tingle, it grows and fills up your chest and shoots through your entire being, goosebumps and all. Eddie moans and breathes against your lips, tongue dancing over the thin skin, asking for permission.
His ringed hand digs deeper and slowly moves to the nape of your neck, intending to hold you in place, afraid you could slip away from him if he didn't. This blossoming thing between you could slip away from him. If he didn't.
It's so soft, the way his lips touch yours, and before you know it they move to your cheek, to your jaw, down your neck before Eddie comes up again, smiling from ear to ear, to gently bump his nose against the tip of yours and his lips return home with a soft and deep hum escaping from his lungs into your mouth.
Relief floods his veins along with whatever it is you're doing to him. The ability to shut out the insanity of the past hours is what he so desperately wants to cling to for as long as you allow him, even if the dawn will remind him of the horrid reality he's involuntarily become subject to live through now.
"You're making things so much better, Peach, you're so sweet, so fucking cute, so fucking good for me, do you even know for how long I've been dreaming of this?"
Eddie greedily pulls your face into his again, not even giving you a chance to reply and not nearly getting enough of your affection it seems with how fervently his tongue searches for yours.
A gentle collision of skin.
The soft whimpers you let out only spur him on. You not backing away from him, staying with him, letting him be this close to you?
You, the only constant source of consolation Eddie's ever really had.
Life changing.
Soft touches follow soft touches, your thumb traces his jaw repeatedly.
"You don't–", kiss, "for how long–", kiss, "I've been dreaming–", kiss, "of you as well", you breathe against him and Eddie thinks he might be about to resort to sniffling into your collar again with the amount of relief he is experiencing.
You'd let him.
"Yeah?", he presses his nose into your cheek with his eyes closed, smiling from ear to ear, relaxing his entire body into yours as you let him slide inbetween your legs.
"Yeah, you know how much of a sucker I am for peaches", you grin, another peck to his cheek, his jaw, his neck, your hips slowly finding a rhythm against his own.
Eddie groans at your allusion with a wide grin on his face (and the feeling of your warmth against his dick), before pressing his lips against yours again lovingly, "me too baby, me too."
–––
taglist (thought you might be interested): @josephfakingquinn, @ghost-proofbaby, @analogkraken, @wroteclassicaly, @songforeddiemunson, @joejoequinnquinn, @somnambulic-thing, @trashmouth-richie, @eddddiemunson, @ceriseheaven, @userchai
comments, reblogs and other forms of affection towards the author are greatly appreciated thank youuuuu <3
#nora writes#get the peaches#eddie munson#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x fem!reader#eddie munson x you#this took me way too fucking long to finish holy shit#but it's here now#it's here !!!#finally lol#also sorry for the title it makes me cringe but i couldn't come up with anything else for the life of me#oh well i hope y'all enjoy this either way :)#thank u for reading <3
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These are absolutely gorgeous and I may be using them so I'm saving them now.
May we please get some red and black lacey/floral 18+, navigations, & reblog dividers? Youre create them so amazingly.
hi anon! 🖤❤️ thanks so much! I couldn’t figure out how to do both black & red on the same image, and have the text stand out enough. So I did separate ones - hope this is close to what you were looking for!
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[Free] Masterlist Headers & Dividers!
Please consider liking or reblogging if you use 💕
#pulled from canva and colored/arranged by me#dividers#headers#borders#resources#navigation#anons#saradika answers#theme: flowers
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Side Effects of Soldier Boy
Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x f. reader
Word Count: 391
This fic contains: smut, literally PWP, drug use, unprotected sex, dirty talk, swearing, degradation, Soldier Boy doesn't pull out
Summary: Soldier Boy tries to keep you quiet during sex.
Notes: Wake up babes, Jordan discovered a new hottie to write about lmaoo Anyways, I know Soldier Boy is a walking red flag but unfortunately, I see the world through rose colored glasses hadshghsdl This is another submission for @flashfictionfridayofficial's prompt no. 239: Seal it Tight. Lowkey, I've been on a role with these quick fics, I don't want it to stop.
Sex with Soldier Boy was addicting. You would say it was more addicting than the cocaine that coursed your system. The blow was essentially the gateway drug to Ben.
The side effects: uncontrolled moans and orgasms that made your soul leave your body.
The two of you found yourselves in a rundown motel room, where Ben plowed you into the mattress at superhuman speed. His strong hand clasped over your mouth, in hopes to seal your cries of pleasure from the outside world. Considering how cocky of a bastard he is, it was bold of him to assume that simply covering your mouth would keep you quiet.
“Mmm, baby, those moans are so pretty, but so loud.” The supe grunted through clenched teeth. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as Ben’s pulsing cock stretched your walls. You gushed around him, causing each thrust to echo through the dainty room.
“God damn, even this pussy is loud,” Soldier Boy chuckled, making you throb. “Think you want the neighbors to hear me fuck the shit out of you, huh?”
His dirty talk was no help to hushing your moans. Yet, it did push you closer to that sweet release you craved. With Ben being the instigator he is, he knew damn well what he was doing.
The pit in your stomach was growing and it was only a matter of time before it exploded. You pumped your hips up to meet his and he took this as a signal to deepen his strokes until his balls slapped your ass. You were one step away from the edge when Ben removed his hand from your mouth to throw both of your legs over his shoulders.
“Fuck it, let the neighbors hear you. Let ‘em know how much of a slut you are for me.”
That euphoric bliss finally washed over you like a crisp ocean wave. You could have drowned under the wave but a kiss from Ben brought you back to shore. The handsome supe slammed into you one last time before filling you with his seed. He crashed onto the empty side of the bed, fingers lazily tangling between yours. The two of you laid there, staring at the cracked ceiling while catching your breaths. Just as you were coming down your high, you already itched for another hit.
Navigation | Fanfic Masterlist | Soldier Boy Masterlist
header credit: @saradika | divider credit: @firefly-in-darkness
#flash fiction friday#fff239#soldier boy#the boys#the boys series#jensen ackles#jensen ackles soldier boy#soldier boy x reader#soldier boy x female reader#soldier boy x you#soldier boy smut#soldier boy fic#soldier boy fan fic#soldier boy imagine#jensen ackles x reader#jensen ackles x you#jensen ackles x female!reader#jensen ackles fic#jensen ackles fanfiction#the boys fanfic#the boys fic
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Una Noche En Medellín | Javier Pena x f!Reader
summary: a long day playing pretend at a wedding leads to... exactly what you'd expect.
pairing: javier pena x f!reader
ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. javi smoking, mention of a fictional pregnancy, ONE motherfucking BED BABY! mention of previous p in v, fingering, brief f!oral. this is pretty tame, y'all. reader has hair.
wc: 2.4k
an: this is my entry for the summer lovin' challenge thought up by the wonderful @pedgito, @chaotic-mystery and @amanitacowboy <3 i can literally only apologise for this being so late. i scheduled it in the wee hours and got my dates SO wrong.
my brief was a wedding, javi, and the moodboard you can see in the header. this was so much fun, and my first time posting for our fav dea agent - i hope you enjoy!
divider from @saradika-graphics
The fabric of your dress clings uncomfortably to your skin, sweat glistening under the warm lights of the hotel as you step into the elevator. Hair damp at the nape of your neck, thighs chafing a little as you shift on aching feet, you turn from your tired reflection in the mirror back to the closing doors.
You watch, drowsy, as Javi presses the button to the tenth floor, one thick finger lighting up the numbers. The same hands that have been on you all evening, long into the night. Squeezing, holding, twirling. He stands with his back to you now, shoulders tense and squared. If you didn’t know better, you’d think you’d pissed him off.
You slump a little against the mirror behind you as the elevator swoops and glides upwards, watching as he pinches the bridge of his nose.
Neither of you had thought it’d be easy. But neither had you thought it would be so exhausting.
Exhausting to remember the details of your cover, to explain that the reason you weren’t drinking was because you’d recently discovered you were expecting your first child. Exhausting to navigate the knowing looks and slaps on the back, the hands on your non-existent bump, trying to make it look convincing. Following Javier around the room, his hand in yours; whispers pressed into the conch of your ear, your hairline - intel exchanged, wrapped in the pretence of humour and affection. Bodies pressed together in a way that should have been unprofessional, but not in a way that was unfamiliar.
The mission had been a success.
Under fairy lights and between bubbles of champagne, blanketed by the heady heat of Medellín, you’d wound your web. Dancing and talking, sharing cooing compliments with the other guests, letting people watch and believe as you’d kept each other close, the proximity of Javi coming so easy with the thump of bass and threat of danger. Recognising the faces taped and pinned to corkboards in the office, matching voices to crackled radio frequencies, red string to red crosses.
Never standing in one place for too long, never speaking English, never looking surprised, always looking so in love. Draped across his lap with one hand on your hip and the other splayed against the small of your back. Your face tucked into his neck as you relayed information against his jawbone. His kisses to your shoulder as he told you Steve and Carillo were already on their way to the targets’ addresses. Not out of each other’s sight for more than a minute.
It had been so easy it was almost laughable.
The cartel’s informant would be on his way to his hotel, and his impending arrest, now. The rest of the guests, the family and friends, would soon catch wind and begin to disappear, to turn on each other. And it would be like you and Javi were never there. Blending with the disco lights, melting into the shadows.
For now, all you need is some rest.
The elevator bell dings for the tenth floor, and you watch as the doors slide open with a quiet hum. Javi turns his face, barely, to make sure you’re still with him, hand twitching at his side as though he wishes to reach for yours.
It’s hard to turn the performance off.
Instead, he runs a hand through his hair, wedding band glinting in the light, as he steps out into the hallway. You follow, reaching into your purse for the key card, watching the slump of his broad shoulders stride up the hall, the sweat-curled hair at the nape of his neck. You’d been running your fingers through it twenty minutes ago, cooing something about wanting to take him to bed that had only been a half-lie. He’s been warm and firm against you all night, always within reach. There’s not a scrap of your dress or an inch of your skin that doesn’t smell like his aftershave. And you’re not too proud to admit how much that turns you on.
He leans against the doorframe with one arm when you reach your room, lips lifting in a smirk.
You pull a face at him as you swipe the key card and open the door.
‘What?’
He shrugs as he watches you step into the darkness, waiting only a moment before following and flicking on the light.
‘Just - didn’t think you had it in you, cariño. Never thought you could dance like that.’
You scoff at him as he closes the door, leaning against the coolness of the wall to unclasp and take off your heels.
‘Surprises are part of the job, Peña,’ you grin, ‘Didn’t think you’d be so good at pretending to enjoy a wedding reception.’
‘I’ve had practice.’ He quips, unbuttoning another two of his shirt buttons, white linen against the gold of his skin, sweat gathered at the hollow of his throat. Something burns in your chest - wanton and willing.
He flips on another light as you throw your heels to the side, pausing in the mouth of the room before it opens to the sleeping quarters. You press a palm to his warm back, trying to urge him forwards before he speaks.
‘You’ve gotta be kidding me.’
You step from behind him to stand at his side.
Illuminated, glowing in the bedside light before its backdrop of glimmering city lights, is a single, king-size bed; crisp white sheets neatly tucked beneath the mattress.
You bite your cheek, looking at Javi. His stormy brow, his clenched jaw.
‘This was supposed to be a suite.��� You murmur.
You want to be angry. Want this to be the thing that ruins an otherwise successful day. But you’re so warm, so tired. You only want a shower and a place to sleep. And you’ve had many worse places than this to do exactly that.
‘We could call the front desk,’ Javi says, as a yawn pulls at your jaw, ‘See if they can switch us to a room with two beds.’
You shake your head, and he glances at you, surprised.
‘It’s late, and bad for our cover. We can share.’ A small frown teases between his dark eyes. You raise an eyebrow at him. ‘We’re fake married, remember?’
You step past him, smoothing the sheets with your hand. Cool. Soft. You could lie down now and die happy.
There’s the distinctive shnick-whoosh of a lighter behind you, and when you turn, Javi’s face is lit by the soft glow of a cigarette.
‘How could I forget,’ he says, breathing out a rush of blue smoke, ‘When mi esposa has been the life of the party all evening.’
You purse your lips playfully.
‘I thought you enjoyed being my husband, Alejandro.’
A sultry smile softens his features.
‘Sure, cariño.’
You wink at him as he brushes past you, linen against silk. He smells so good. Clean and masculine, something so Javi cutting through it that you can feel that burning move from your chest to pool between your legs.
He breezes through the curtains shrouding the balcony, and you turn into the bathroom, inspecting the array of toiletries, and the towels, fresh and white, waiting for you. You turn the shower on, setting the water to cool before reaching for the zip at the back of your dress. You twist fruitlessly for minutes, but the heat, the dampness of your skin makes the fabric hard to adjust, the zip impossible to catch. A well of frustration rises up your throat, and you clench your jaw.
Hands pressed against the porcelain of the sink, you look into your own eyes in the mirror. Tired, hot. Not too proud to ask for help.
Javi is stood on the balcony, forearms resting against the railing, smoke curling around his strong silhouette. He turns at the sound of the curtains moving behind you, and you smile as he leans back to watch you approach.
His appraising look is appreciative. Sexy.
You turn your back to him, to those eyes.
‘Unzip me?’
You wait for what feels like an eternity. Rocking slightly where you stand, breath catching in your lungs. Every muscle in your body tightened in anticipation.
Goosebumps break out over the small of your back as his fingers trace the line of the zip, up, up to your shoulders. They skim the fabric there, catching your bare skin before settling at the slider. He pulls, slowly. So close you can feel his breath on your neck. Pulls it all the way down so that the dress falls loose at your chest, so it would take only the smallest movement for the garment to drop to the floor.
His palms slip beneath the silk, curving around your waist. On instinct, yours follow, catching and holding them in place as you sigh at the feeling of his nose tracing your neck. His thumbs stroke the contours of your back.
‘Que linda, bebita.’ He breathes, and you fight the moan surging up from your belly. You hum, leaning into him even as you whisper,
‘I didn’t say undress me.’
A short burst of air at your shoulder, a barely noticeable kiss against your hot skin to disguise his amusement.
‘Wasn’t going to.’
It’s your turn to huff a laugh.
‘We can be professional for a night.’
‘We can.’ He murmurs, and the heat of his body behind yours is lost almost immediately. You sway a little, a smile on your lips as you step back towards the bathroom. You know Javi is watching.
He always is.
He told you. That night in Bogotá, bodies pressed against, pressed into each other. Your legs wrapped around his waist, claw marks red-raw up his back as you’d moaned and cried for him. The wet squelch of your cunt as he worked you open, as he fucked you, as he crooned into your mouth how you’d been all he’d thought about since you stepped into the bullpen. So fucking smart, so capable, so sexy. How you’d been driving him crazy - lips crushed against your temple as you clenched around his cock.
That whole night, how good it had been, how heady. No one had ever made you come like that.
You’d not called the next day, having slunk out of Javi’s room some time in the early hours of the next morning. He’d never asked you why you hadn’t stayed. You’d never spoken of it again.
It was stress relief. Never anything more than two people blowing off steam. Never anything more than two people giving into an obvious attraction.
But that night doesn’t seem so far away as you wash away the sweat and soap from your body, as you rinse the shampoo from your hair. Doesn't erase how you feel him watching, how close he feels, even separated by the door.
And though the shower is cool, your blood still runs hot. Pumping and burning with want in your veins, arousal so strong it makes you giddy as you wrap a towel around yourself, leaving the bathroom in a cloud of steam.
Javi is sat on the edge of the bed, naked save only for his boxers. The sight of him takes your breath away.
He's so broad, hard and soft in all the places he needs to be. And he's so pretty. Perfect little pouty mouth, deep, dangerous eyes. There’s no cigarette dangling from his lips, nothing in his hands as he clasps them between his spread knees. You think about sinking down between them, pressing your cheek against the bulge outlined below the smattering of hair at his navel.
You step towards him, and he watches with blown, hungry eyes.
You stop in front of him, still wrapped in the towel. He reads your mind like he always does. In the bullpen, the offices, the field. With a gun or a cigarette or a pen in his hand, Javier Peña knows what you need. He parts the towel, sliding his palms across your naked hips, holding you before him. You can’t breathe, can’t speak. It’s too hot in the room, in your body. You can feel slick sliding against the tops of your thighs, spread right up to your clit. So wet it should be criminal.
Javi clicks his tongue, moving his hands so he can spread you open with his thumbs. He pouts at you, small tilt of his head.
‘Pobrecita.’
You'd roll your eyes if it were any less true, if he weren't swiping one thumb through your wetness, over your clit. You suck a breath in before moaning brokenly. He grins, wolfish, up at you.
‘What were you thinking about in that shower, cariño?’
You smile down at him, eyes half-closed.
‘You.’
He hums, moving his thumb again. You shudder, knees giving a little. His hand at your hip tightens.
‘Good girl.’ He coos.
Your hand flies to his shoulder with a garbled cry as he presses tighter, moving the digit faster. He knows how to work you, knew before he'd even touched you. You're on fire, pussy tightening as your hand travels up his neck, before tangling with the curls at his nape.
That's it.
You can hear how wet you are. The only sounds in the room are the buzz of the city below, your fast breathing, and the movement of Javi’s fingers. He’s building you up to it, astoundingly fast. The sight of him, sat on the edge of the bed, spellbound by what he’s doing to you, the noises you’re making, the sight of you bared to him. Makes you want to touch him, too.
Does that feel good, bebita?
So good, Javi.
But just as it seems so close, as you can feel yourself start to clench and pulse and twitch, he slows. Slows the rhythm of his thumb right down to deep, languid circles, keeping you right on the edge as he loosens the towel and lets it drop to the floor, as he leans forward to reverently press his forehead to your belly. He breathes in deeply, and you flex your hips towards him. He nips at your skin, and you whine as he laughs.
‘I think about it,’ he breathes, voice deep and thick, nuzzling into the crease of your thigh, ‘That night in Bogotá. Tell me you think about it, too.’
You hiccup, nodding. Fisting his short hair.
‘All the time,’ you gasp, ‘All the time, Javi.’
He groans, moving to lick a hot, wet stripe through your folds, right up to your clit. It’s like fire, electricity. Your body jolts against him, every nerve ending bending towards him, flinching into this sweet torture.
His lips are shining with your arousal when he pulls away to look you in your eyes.
‘Let me have it. One more night, in Medellín. Let me have you.’
#summerlovin24#javier pena#javier pena x reader#javier pena x you#javier pena smut#javier pena fanfiction#pedro pascal#pedro pascal fanfic
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Price who returns home to his daughter less inhibited each time.
daddy kink, incest, use of she/her, girl and daughter - characters are very much adults, i always picture price at about 50-55 and reader at about 27-30
Price that slowly starts to come back worse and worse from his deployments.
There's nothing *wrong* with him - oh, for the first time, everything feels right. Nothing really matters anymore, in such a delicious way. John carves lines in the sand with his morals, so easy to wash away when the tide comes - he just redraws them wherever he needs. It's simple, really - honestly, he doesn't know why it was contained to his work life for so long.
His wife, your mother, left him. She saw what you can't - *won't* (maybe it's the naviety of a young adult, maybe it's how shielded you've been by his deployment and your adolecence). Something woven together with bits of a man, a shell for the brutality and hunger inside that consumes him. The ghosts that haunt behind his eyes, sex just a little too rough, sharpened claws and bite wounds smoothed over by his gruff tone and that charming attitude. She abandoned him. But you wouldn't abandon your Daddy, would you?
You coddle him, just like Daddy's little girl should; do anything to make him feel better. Keep the house spotless, wait for him with open arms, and eventually legs, when he comes back home.
Let him fall asleep on the plush fat of your thighs in his big, lonely bed that you just can't stand seeing him spread out and forlorn against. Stiffle your complaints as he ruts between your cheeks, breathing in deeply the scent of sweat and sleep against your neck, and let him fuck the cum back into you during the sleepy morning sex.
He knows, honey, it feels so weird, but Daddy just can't let his baby girl around these other men. You have no clue what they're capable of; the world is full of filthy, uncouth mutts, and John is keeping his prized pet clean. But he isn't cruel. Price knows what a growing girl like you needs, knows that he can't just leave you high and dry with no toys to play with.
It's a mutual exchange, something to satisfy you both. Price uses each hole whenever he wants, and makes sure that you cum each time until you're a sobbing, writhing mess. I mean, what else is your poor Daddy meant to do? So pent up and needy, with his beautiful girl so close in reach. You'll just have to lay down and take every drop his thick cock can give you.
dividers and headers by saradika-graphics
#irresponsible young price that had a kid and ran away to the military to avoid responsibility ftw#also if you argue 27-30 isnt still a young adult that's ur own odd choice of categorising ages /j#cw: incest#cw incest#tw: incest#tw incest#price x reader#john price x reader#price x you#john price x you#call of duty fanfic#cod fanfic#jams shorts
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Pieces of a Woman | One Shot
Text Divider by @saradika-graphics
SUMMARY | Even when his life takes a turn for the worse, Aemond Targaryen endures.
WARNINGS | 18+; Canon Divergence AU; Smut; Insanity; B&C; Gore; Delusions; Miscarriage; Yearning; ANGST
WORD COUNT | 7.2k
A/N | This is my personal favourite out of all the stories I've ever written, reposted with a new header and all that fun stuff! Beta read by the lovely @ewanmitchellcrumbs ❤️
They say madness is a slow disease, and that nobody truly knows when it begins.
They were wrong. Aemond Targaryen knew very well the exact moment the madness had sunk its claws into his wife. He had watched as her once bright and hopeful eyes became empty and devoid of emotion. He had watched as she was pulled into the darkness completely, becoming a shell of the woman she once was.
As much as he wished he could turn back time, he had accepted his fate. He accepted that he would never have his wife back. He would never hold her in his arms again and never get to lay his head on her lap as she embroidered. She would never read to him in her mellifluous voice ever again, despite the fact that he would give everything he had to have her with him once more.
What good was all this power and wealth, if he could not protect his own family? What good was his title as Prince Regent, if he did not have her to stand by his side? If he could not protect his little boy?
His hair, once braided to the side by her deft and nimble fingers with love, remained uncared for, left loose in all its glory. Training his one dark-rimmed, tired eye at the crypt that held the ashes of his heir, Aemond Targaryen let the sadness take him - for when his son’s life was brutally snuffed out, his wife’s very soul had been too.
There was nobody to blame for it all apart from himself.
Ever since their wedding, she had been a steady and calm presence in his life. She was the quiet to his rage, the water to his fire. He had always been a sullen and lonely child that harbored resentment for those who had wronged him, but he felt his heart steadily calm down with every moment he spent in her presence.
It wasn't until he met her that he realized he was lacking love and consideration, both of which he believed had never received before - not like this. She gave him an opportunity to be a better man; one that he took eagerly with both arms.
In return, he was a respectful husband who did his very best. He wasn’t adept at great gestures of love, but he always made sure that his wife woke with a kiss to her hair and his arms enveloping her body. He wanted her to never know loneliness for as long as he lived, he would make sure of it.
For all his reading and knowledge, Aemond was not good at making his appreciation known verbally. Instead, he would bring her huge tomes from the library so he could read to her. These books covered topics that he was passionate about, so everytime he brought one, he was offering up a part of his soul. Who better to give it to than the woman he has sworn his heart, soul and loyalty to?
He needed her. He needed her from deep in his soul, and he needed her carnally, always. She was all that was missing in his life, and now that he had her, he would always need her.
But right now, as her screams erupted through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, Aemond’s heart lurched in his chest, becoming heavier with each passing moment. The babe was arriving, and it would seem that the child was taking her for all that she was. Everytime she groaned in pain, he held onto the railing tighter than ever, as though it would make her pain go away.
They would not let him in, no. Childbirth was a woman’s fight, and the men would have to wait outside - much like the women did when the men went to battle. There was nothing he would not give to hold her hand right now; to tell her that she would be an absolutely beautiful mother, and that all she had to do was summon all her strength and emerge victorious.
As though she had heard his thoughts, her pained wails slowly died down, replaced by the first cries of a newborn. Boy or girl, the babe had an incredibly strong pair of lungs on them, their mighty cries could overshadow even the loudest of thunderstorms. The cries echoed through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, and the servants outside immediately jumped to work. A new royal babe had been born after all - there was work to be done, celebratory feasts to be organized, chambers to be prepared, nothing but the best for a Targaryen.
His mother stepped out of the chambers and laid a hand on his back in comfort. She kissed him on the cheek and smiled in congratulations. “Mother and babe are well, my son. She has made me so proud. The little one is beautiful, he would go on to achieve many great things. Just like you.”
A son. She had given him an heir to carry his bloodline. How would he ever repay her?
He walked into the chambers with speed that he did not know he possessed, his purpose made clear with each stride. The midwives and maids moved to make way for the One-Eyed Prince, and in he went.
She laid in the middle of the chambers, looking like she had braved the worst experience of her life. Her hair was askew, with sweat coating her entire body, her fatigue was palpable. Blood and waters coated the floor, and the chambers smelled like death. The bloody spots on her shift alarmed him, and it concerned him to see his usually happy and energetic wife look so thoroughly worn out. But then she smiled.
Through all her weariness from the challenges of the birthing bed, she had meekly smiled at him - and all was alright in his world again. He held her cheek in his palm and kissed her forehead, heart full from knowing that she was alright. She reached for his other hand, holding onto it like it was the last thing that kept her tethered to reality.
“Are you well, wife?”
The seemingly simple question certainly did not project the waves of concern that had plagued him outside while he waited with bated breath, but she knew. She saw it in the crinkles on his forehead and the widening of his good eye.
“I am now.”
She had braved battle, and had never looked more beautiful to him than she did now. Her voice was hoarse from all the pained screaming, and she certainly had no business being awake right now - but by the Gods, he was the happiest man in the realm.
The maids were done with wiping the blood off of the babe and had handed the boy to her. Aemond knew right then that he would have to compete for his wife’s attention from then on, for his little son had clearly stolen her heart, and his, within moments of his birth.
Her weak voice called out to him once more. “Aemond, husband… look what we made.”
He was exquisite. Aemond reached out to the babe, his son, and his son's pudgy rose finger latched onto his long, sturdy one as he continued to cry. “He has a strong grip. He shall be a storied warrior." She smiles at the possibility, and he cannot help but kiss her hand once more.
"You’ve given birth to a boy as strong as you are, wife.” He watched as she nudged her nose to the babe’s and smiled, her face glistening from sweat and tears. His newborn son’s cries got louder with each passing moment, but despite being a man of silence and solitude, Aemond had never felt more at peace.
“Thank you.”
Aemond would be the first to deny that he was a doting paragon of a husband that the bards would sing about, but he certainly was a good man who loved and respected his wife.
In the days that followed the birth of his child, he had spent every waking moment that he could spare with the pair of them. Both mother and son had the fierce One-Eyed Prince wrapped around their fingers. Between sparring sessions and battling his family’s idiosyncrasies on the daily, his little family had given him quite the reprieve, one that he was infinitely thankful for.
But now, his son is gone, and his wife is too.
“The heirs need to be kept safe. The twins, little Maelor, all three of them,” his mother said.
He may be in the middle of a war, but it was moments like these that seemed hardest to him. Aemond sat quietly by the hearth, in the very same chair where he always rested. His wife used to sit by him or at his feet as she embroidered. Now, her absence was a gaping hole each time he sat.
“Aemond…”
He turned to the sound of his grandfather calling out his name, looking cold and calculated. It did not escape Aemond that he was discussing the safety of his brother's children while he had lost his own child. The irony of it all was stark and jarring.
“Yes,” he curtly responded.
“It is in our best interests that you…” His grandfather paused midway through his words, and Aemond knew well that the man did that only when unsettling news was to follow. “...that you take a new wife. We’re in need of an alliance, and she can be sent to the motherhouse at Oldtown. She will be cared for, she will be fed-”
He saw red. “My son is dead!” The words tumbled out of Aemond’s mouth like shards of glass before he could even comprehend the gravity of his grandfather’s heavy, cutting words.
"My son’s death is on my conscience, his blood is on my hands. I did not do the deed myself, but it certainly feels like I was the one who wielded the knife that killed him.” The people had taken to calling him a kinslayer, and Aemond felt it in his bones everyday - not because of Lucerys Velaryon, but because of how his rash actions had resulted in the death of his little boy.
“My son is dead, and my wife has not been the same ever since. How do you think I can start a new family, with a new woman, when I know very well that I have caused all the grief that has driven my wife to madness? When I caused the death of my own child?”
Aemond Targaryen always made for a menacing sight, but his grandfather was not prepared for the kind of anger that his grandson had kept stored in him - for himself, his wife, and his son. They were not here, and he was angry enough for all three of them.
The Dowager Queen watched the entire conversation unfold, and she held her hand to her chest, feeling her heartbeat become frantic with each moment that she saw her son in distress. She knew how content he was in his wife's presence, and how much he loved her. To watch a child grow and fester in his own resentment - no mother should have to witness it. And yet, the Gods saw fit to give Alicent Hightower the closest view to her son's heartbreak.
“Get out,” he seethed. Otto Hightower took Aemond’s raw and angry words in stride before walking away, his head still held high.
His mother stood in front of him, held his hand and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m sorry, my boy. I’m so sorry…”
She wept until she could not, and it took everything Aemond had in him to not do the same.
When he tossed and turned in his bed in the middle of the night, he would always reach out for her.
She would always welcome his touch and curl into him, her forehead resting on the smooth planes of his chest and her warm breath making goosebumps rise on his skin. He would hold her tight until neither could ascertain where one ended and the other began, and sleep that normally eluded him would come to him faster than anything else.
Tonight, her spot on the bed is empty.
When he woke in a hurry, he noticed the crumpled sheets and the pillows left askew, the only evidence of her having retired to bed alongside him. He quickly rose from the bed and tried to calm his rapidly beating heart, wondering as to where she could have gone at this ungodly hour.
Gods, was she hurt?
He did not have to wait for the divine deities to answer, for his answer came in the form of the sweet humming sounds that he had grown to love. He followed her voice as he walked through their apartments, and it led him to the chamber where his son’s crib was kept. She was sitting next to it in her white shift, her head peeping in as she let her hands rest on the crib. She hummed softly and happily, marveling at how beautiful her little boy looked as he slept - looking much like the man she shared her bed with.
Aemond wanted to ask her to come back to bed immediately. The maesters had advised lots of rest for his wife, given the stress of the labors and the damage her body had taken. But as he watched her and his boy, he knew he couldn’t. He needed a moment to drink in the sight of his wife and son - his entire world, all in one chamber.
He held so much love in his heart for them both despite seeing them only with one eye. Perhaps he’d be able to love them more if he could see them with two.
“He’s going to be there when we wake, wife. Come back to bed.”
She turned to him and smiled, a warm smile that he wished he could brand into his mind for all eternity. “Did I wake you?”
“You did not. Your absence from our bed did.”
She chuckled softly, and he walked over to her. He positioned himself behind her chair and kissed her temple, letting his hands rest on her shoulders. “I don’t think I shall ever tire of looking at him,” She said.
“Hm.” His gaze rested on the sleeping babe, tired from all his crying throughout the day.
“My son, a dragon prince,” She mused. “He’ll be charming, strong and intelligent, just like his father.”
At that, he chuckled darkly and she rose, turning around to face him. Her hand found his cheek and he leaned into her touch, leaving a light kiss on her wrist as he held her hand in place. “What’s so amusing, husband?”
“Charming is not the first word anyone would use to describe me, wife.”
“Well, you are. To me.” Her whispering siren-like voice was like music to his ears.
She reached up on her toes and left a light kiss on his brow, and Aemond was quick to hold her to him by the waist, wanting to have this - this quiet solace - all to himself for a time.
Who was he to argue with the woman around whom his entire world revolved? The very one that held his heart in her hands?
He stands in the middle of what used to be their shared chambers and sighs.
The entire room is covered in pieces of her - fragments of her that he desperately clings to for dear life. Robes and dresses that she had not worn in a long time, but still manage to somehow retain her scent. Quills and ink that she used to write her correspondence with, now left to gather dust. Ten Thousand Ships, her favorite book, one that he had given to her as a name day present, laid abandoned on the bedside table.
This was the very same chamber where he had claimed her. This was where he had first admitted to loving her. This was where she had told him that she was with child. This was where they had spent countless nights talking well into the night, their bodies entwined and voices coming out in hushed whispers and low giggles. This was where they had discovered and learned of the passions of the marital bed, together. This was where their marriage had grown and bloomed.
If he walks a little further, his feet will take him to the adjoined room where his son used to sleep - but try as he might, he does not have the strength for that. Not yet.
He sits by the edge of their bed, the sunlight passing through the windows in streaks of yellow gold. He closes his good eye, hoping for a little time to adjust to the light. Perhaps if he closes it hard enough, he will be able to picture her sitting by the window with her focused eyes trained on her embroidery or one of his books, waiting for him to come back to her after his daily duties.
His nose flares at the unearthly reminder that his wife is no longer his by side. She had been full of happiness and life, and she had brought light into his life. He welcomed it for as long as she was around, but now that she was gone, he closes his eye and avoids it like the plague, much like he does with the sunlight that now warms his skin.
Her world has become dark because of him. How can he sit in the light in good conscience, when he knows he has lost all right to it?
The waves crashed by the shores of Blackwater Bay and she sat on the sands, watching them. She had a book in her hands, and a basket of food that she had the maids prepare for them to take.
Her eyes closely followed her husband as he held their baby son’s hands upright, his little pudgy feet resting over his huge boot-clad ones as he led them forward. The little boy’s gurgling and laughing echoed through the wind, and she took a bite of a juicy apple while holding a book in her other hand.
They were the picture of a happy family, the stories of whom may be immortalized in songs for years to come.
He had not yet begun to walk, and his words were all a blubbering mess - but Aemond Targaryen was not known for being patient. He insisted on guiding his son to his feet so his first steps would come to him quicker, and spoke to him in High Valyrian in hopes that his first words would be in his native tongue.
Her boys had walked all the way toward her with her baby’s toes pressing onto Aemond’s feet harshly. He picked him up and held him then, and his son’s hands landed on his eyepatch. It had become his favorite little plaything these days - the boy took to wrangling it off his father’s head and swinging it with his two fat fingers until he grew tired - that was if he did not notice the sapphire first. By the Gods, if he did, he would insist on taking that off to play with too. His son, like him, had a taste for the finer things in life, it would seem.
“He’s taken well to the waters, I think,” she said. Her fondness for the little lad and her husband was evident in her face as she watched them. Her son had taken to swinging his arms in all directions, occasionally hitting his father’s face.
“Water does not mix with fire and blood. He should not be taking so well to the waters.”
“Suppose he can embrace it all then. Perhaps he’s… special.” She rose to meet her son’s eyes, leaving a kiss on his cheek. The boy smiled, a handful of his father’s alabaster hair in his hands as he pulled. Aemond winced, and she giggled.
“Zaldrītsos…” Aemond murmured, a quiet plea to his son to stop. It fell on deaf ears, but he did not mind. [Little dragon]
A maid had come to inform them that their presence was requested in the keep, and Aemond handed the boy over to her before walking back to give his wife his hand. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles and rubbed her hand with his before leading them away, their steps slow and relaxed.
“We should have another,” she said. Her smile, the source of all his content, was as bright as the sun. “You should take me tonight,” she murmured then, eyes quickly blackened by lust. He watched as the girl with childish wonder transformed into a seductress, and he lost even before he tried - defeat had never felt sweeter.
He could never deny her anything she wanted.
“Do you want me, wife?” He muttered darkly as he halted his steps, turning towards her. He held her by the waist and kissed her brow, waiting for her to respond.
“I always want you,” she murmured, eyes fluttering at the closeness of his lips. Her bright eyes sought his lilac one as the sound of the waves rippled through the air. “I also want to bear you another child. Would you like that, husband? Another little babe for us to love…”
He nodded and kissed her, pouring all his passion into it as he devoured her lips. “You do look beautiful, belly round and full with my child.”
That night, he choked her name out like an urgent prayer while he spilled into her, his peak following soon after hers. He then peppered kisses across her face and neck as the smell of sweat and coupling engulfed them, while she held onto his hair and let her hand wander over it in a soothing manner. He rubbed a hand over her belly, praying that his seed had taken. If not, he would seek her out and touch her everywhere once more - he would never be tired of her.
If another child was what she desired, then she shall have it - for how could he ever deny her?
The burns and injuries had ruined any spirit Aegon may have had as King.
He had watched his brother as he grew into a fierce protector of his family soon after being crowned. Ser Criston had made clear the dangers that they posed to Rhaenyra with their very existence, and it was all Aegon needed to grow into his role as the rightful monarch. However, he had gotten ahead of himself and underestimated his skills as a dragonriding fighter and gotten himself hurt.
Aemond’s role as Prince Regent was something that he slid into seamlessly - he had always known that he was the better fit for the throne after all. His first action was to ensure the safety of his own wife, Helaena and her three children.
“They’ve been moved to our father’s old chambers. Deep in the Holdfast, far away from any possible intru-”
“I know where the chambers are, Aemond. Will you shut up? You’re giving me a headache.” Aegon interrupted, words slurred as he sipped on Arbor Red. The wine sloshed in the cup as it moved in his unsteady hands.
His eyes were trained on his brother, a tired and tested man who was now incharge of running a Kingdom. Aegon knew that the crown was heavy, but it did not compare to the weight of the world that Aemond always carried on his shoulders. It only seemed to have gotten worse since his son’s death and his wife’s isolation.
“Does she fare any better?”
“No.” It is all Aemond wishes to say on the matter.
While he may not want to speak of the family he had lost, Aemond knew that he would protect those he was left with every breath in his body if need be. He may not have been there for his little boy, but he would die before he let a hair on any of his remaining family members’ heads be touched. The regret of being an inadequate husband and father pricked at him like the heat from the bright blaze of the fire in the hearth, and he walked out with purpose.
He knew where he was going next. After all, his feet always carried him to her at nightfall.
When Aemond came home dripping wet from the rain that had drenched him at Storm’s End, he was convinced that he had ruined everything good that he had. He could not imagine a simple scratch on his little boy without feeling angered - how could he expect Rhaenyra to simply accept her son’s death?
He had to get them safe. He had to keep them safe. He had to keep them safe. Safe, safe, safe.
She had just left the babe with the nursemaid and come to their chambers to find a moment of quiet before her son’s inevitable crying began again. Her eyes widened when she opened the door to find her husband completely drenched, looking like he was inviting death with open arms. He may as well have.
“Aemond..” She rushed to him immediately, hands going to his damp hair and clothes. “Gods did it rain on your ride back home? Let me fetch you some clean clothes and something to dry yourself with.” He reached out to her before she could go too far, and she gasped at how cold his touch was.
It was always warm, and tonight it was not.
“Stay, please.”
“I need you to put on something warm first, Aemond. You’ll catch a chill.”
She was too distracted by his wet state to notice the tears mixed with the raindrops. He said nothing as she walked away and brought back fresh garb for him to change into. She quietly bade that he raise his arms and he obeyed, not having the strength to do anything else. Slowly, each garment fell with a wet thwack to the floor and she took to wiping all the water off of him.
His grave silence unnerved her immensely, and she knew something was wrong. She would wait for him to say it.
She dressed him in a linen undershirt and breeches and took him to his beloved chair by the fire, in hopes that it would warm him up and encourage him to tell her of what plagued him. He sat in silence for a long while as she sat cross-legged on the floor, her forehead leaning on one of his thighs while her finger drew mindless patterns on the other.
His hand always reached for her hair when they sat like this, but tonight, that was not the case. She looked up at him with inquiring eyes, and as he caught her vision with his one eye, he did not have the heart to tell her what he had done, but he had to.
“I killed Lucerys Velaryon.” His voice is hoarse and the words are choked out with difficulty, and while the weight of his actions hit him hard, it was harder to watch his sweet wife’s concerned face morph into something else entirely.
“What?”
“He was sent as an envoy. I only meant…” He gulped, and the tears fell freely once more.
She quickly lifted herself up and straddled him, holding his face in both her hands. Her fingers caught every tear that fell in quick succession. “Tell me, go on.”
“I only meant to scare him. I need you to believe me, I did not mean to kill him.”
Her husband was a proud man, and it made her stomach churn to see him sound so broken. She feared that she may not like what she was about to hear, but she had promised to be his other half for all his life, and now he needed her.
He may be fearsome, but he was not a cold-blooded murderer. He did not mean to kill him - but how much weight did his intent hold, now that the boy was dead?
“I believe you. Go on.”
“The dragons…” He let out a hoarse breath and she continued to wipe at his tears with the tips of her thumbs - softness that he right now felt very undeserving of. “Arrax breathed fire at Vhagar and she retaliated, she bit into the dragon’s neck and Luke fell, so did Arrax.”
She felt light headed with worry. How could she stomach the thought of a young boy falling to his death from the skies? How could she, when she was a mother to a little boy herself?
His uncle, Daemon, was going to come for them, Aemond was sure of that. But he could not bring himself to think of much else as he watched his wife digest all that he had told her, never once ceasing to remind him that she believed him, even if nobody else would.
When they rose, Aemond’s anger knew no bounds. The possible consequences ran through his mind as he pushed his desk onto the floor with brute force. The sharp edges of her vanity had drawn blood from the back of his hand as he moved in frustration, and she was quick to hold onto him and remind him of her presence. He was not alone, he had her.
“Take me. Take it out on me.” Aemond could not think straight, and she could not bear to see him hurt himself, any more than he already has. It is this very thought that drives her to take his hand and lay it upon her clothed chest.
He took her from behind that night, hands clutching onto her bouncing breasts. Every string that was stretched had snapped with each rough thrust into her, the sounds of skin slapping skin somehow seeming too rough that night. “We’re going to be fine, wife,” he groaned - and she did not know whom he was trying to placate - her, or himself?
“I will keep you safe, the both of you.”
When he was done with her, she was left looking ragged with dried tear tracks on her face. He wanted to apologize - it seemed as though he hurt everything he touched, and after his now dead Stong nephew, his own sweet wife was his latest victim.
She held him between her breasts that night as they both wept, at a loss for words at what he had done. She did not know how to comfort him or rid him of the guilt or paranoia that his mind now played host to.
What she did know is that her husband needed her, and that she was not going anywhere. So when he suggested sending her and their son away, fearing for her safety, she begged him to let her stand by his side.
“If something were to happen to me, there would be nobody to protect you and our boy.”
“If something were to happen to you, our son and I would much rather follow you than brave many years alone.”
He reluctantly gave in, thinking that an increased guard and his constant presence around them would be enough to keep them unharmed.
How wrong he was.
He had walked away only for a moment.
His wife had wanted to eat some cake during the night - he suspected that she was with child again. Little did he know that it was the last moment of their happy marriage. The sight that he had walked back into was something that would never fail to haunt him.
Dead guards, a whole litany of them. His wife in her bloodied white shift, holding onto their son’s decapitated body. All the light in her eyes had dimmed as he stood frozen in place, his eye widened at the harrowing sight before him.
She wailed as she clutched the corpse to her chest, with no care for the injuries on her own body, or the blood of their babe that was now mixed in with her own.
“My boy, my precious boy…”
The rest of the royal family soon followed and his mother pulled her away from the babe’s lifeless body. He fell to the floor with no one to hold him, and Aemond could do nothing but watch. Aegon’s angry calls for his nephew’s head to be brought back along with the killers slipped into one ear and slipped out the other, and he went numb as he realized that the consequences of his actions had caught up to him.
Him, he could understand. But his sweet wife, his little son? What had they done?
A son for a son.
The rational part of his mind would have argued that Luke’s death probably left Rhaenyra feeling the same tragedy that he was faced with - but he was anything but rational in that moment. His fists clenched as his knuckles met the wall, and Aegon had to physically restrain him from walking out to catch the rats himself.
“She needs you. She needs you. She needs you. Listen to me, Aemond!”
Helaena had collapsed onto the chair entirely, repeating ominous words that he did not register at all.
“Blood and Cheese. Blood and Cheese. Blood and Cheese.”
Aegon had gone to join in the hunt for his nephew’s killers, and she kept rocking herself back and forth at the sight of the blood that now painted the walls and floors of her brother’s chambers until she was led away. Aemond stood, all alone in a pool of his son’s and wife’s blood.
When the Silent Sisters were led into the chamber by his grandfather, Aemond froze. His wife had held their lifeless son to her breast as she cried, but he could not bring himself to look at him, much less touch him.
Hours later, with patches of his own son's blood soaked through his clothes, he had gone to see her. He held her in his arms as she sobbed through the night, trying to push him away with each firm hit to his chest. Aemond shushed her over and over to no avail, holding her closer each time she tried to separate herself from him. Sometime during that night, her eyes had become lifeless; a deep abyss. The sight of it finally drove him to tears too, with his good eye becoming a glistening violet ring floating in a sea of angry red.
They say madness is a slow disease, and that nobody truly knows when it begins. They were wrong. Aemond Targaryen knew very well the exact moment when the madness had sunk its claws into his wife.
It was right then as he held her, comforting her and apologizing like a madman for tainting her life with his presence.
The moonlight diverged through the stained glass windows that directly faced the room where she now resided. She had been kept in these chambers before their wedding, and she often spoke of how beautiful the lights were when they fell directly onto the corridors, reflecting the colors of the glass that they slid through. He wondered if she still thought the same. He wondered if she even looked.
In the day that followed their son’s death, they had burned their little boy and watched as his body was wheeled around the streets of King’s Landing for their benefit. Aemond had wanted to retch then, but he held his wife tight as the people empathized with the kind princess whose time as a doting mother had been brutally cut short.
She fared worse - she looked dead in her eyes, and he was sure she was lost on the inside too. He did not know if she even sensed his hold on her as she kept muttering their dead boy’s name in a series of weak whimpers.
Two days later, she had lost their second child. He held her from behind and rocked her gently as the blood flowed from between her thighs for hours, the babe coming out in clumps of bloodied skin, having never drawn breath. Every moment of his wife’s torture plagued Aemond’s existence, and he questioned his abilities as a protector while grieving his son and his unborn child all alone.
The Gods were cruel to him in their games. They made him watch as his son’s life was taken, and they took bits of his wife’s mind and soul with each passing day. He supposed that this was the hand that kinslayers were dealt.
It was a slow death for Aemond, and it had begun the day his son was killed. Now he had to watch as his once vivacious wife completely lost hold over all her senses, and lived in a world where he could not reach her.
On some days, she would receive him with love, as though his presence in her life had not destroyed her completely. He would be able to revel in her touch once more, if only to simply be able to remind himself that she was still alive - in body, if not soul. He missed her, his wife, his woman, his entire heart. But his actions had killed her from the inside - did he have a right to his yearning anymore? He did not want to know, for he feared that he may not like the answer.
On other days, she would be the complete embodiment of madness. She would fight the maesters and scream at them, begging for them to let her die and throw herself off the window. She would pull at her beautiful hair, blame him continuously and shriek, mourning the loss of their child.
When she was done, she'd lower her voice and murmur words into the air. Speaking to no one in particular, almost like a ghost, she'd fidget with her dress and say, "His body twitched after they hurt him. My baby boy suffered. Oh, my boy!"
He may not have wielded the knife that removed his head, but his actions caused it. He may as well have killed his son himself. Guilt was not an emotion that Aemond Targaryen knew well as a boy, but it was all he now knew as a grown man.
She would bawl and cry at him to go away. She would scream at him to leave her alone, and blame him for killing her children - and rightfully so. And though it pricked at his heart, he would come back every night.
He wonders how she is feeling tonight. He wishes she was ignorant and unaware, for he is desperate for her touch, her company. It has been weeks. He is brought back to reality when the Maester’s gown billows behind him in the night wind.
“Your Grace.” he bows.
“How is she?”
“Somewhat calmed tonight and not lucid, my prince.” The old man sighs before continuing. “The Princess continues to ask for her little prince. We have given her milk of the poppy, so she may fall asleep soon enough.”
“Hm.”
He is mildly relieved to hear that she is not herself tonight - for it allows him to relive some of their happier days.
In his hand is a book - Ten Thousand Ships, the very one that he had gifted her. He dismisses the maester and his stewards follow behind him. Aemond walks into the room with his mind steeled, ready to be brave - for himself and for her.
“Husband! Come, come!” Her cheery voice is not quite hers, and it unnerves Aemond - her words are not from her heart, and it takes everything in him to not fall to his knees and apologize once more for what he has done to her. “The Maester said our boy’s learning to walk! Did you see him? I was promised that you would bring him tonight! Where is he?”
Gone, where we cannot see him, he wants to say. But how could he, without wanting to throw himself at her feet in regret? “He is tired. All that walking has exhausted him.”
“I suppose, yes! They tried to force me to take that vile concoction once more tonight, I managed to push it away and evade them! Look!” His gaze follows her hand and sees the spilled milk of the poppy on the floor. His wife was a calm and steady woman, and now she was behaving like a child and mistreating maesters.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
“You should not do that, wife. It is not proper.”
He holds her hand and kisses her knuckles, before leaning his head back to look at her. Her hair has not been combed today, and he gently turns her around to run his fingers through her hair, digits trembling at touching her once more. She could come to at any moment and remember who had caused her such distress, and then she would cry until he walked away - the very real possibility rakes at Aemond, so he remains prepared for her to push him away any time now.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
"I know. I drank it the second time. I'm sorry."
He then turns her back to face him and notices the dark rims around her empty eyes. He sighs and lets out a long, heavy breath. If he was drunk enough and she was unaware, he would fool himself into thinking that they were alright. But they aren’t.
“It is time to go to bed, wife. Will you come with me?” I love you, I miss you and I am sorry. Will you come back to me? Please?
He kisses both her eyelids and leads her to the bed in her shift. He gently helps her lay down, following her immediately as he lays next to her. She leans into his hold seamlessly and he tightens his arm around her - it hurts him how despite her madness, her penchant to seek out his touch never changes.
He takes the book from the bedside table, and she squeals. “Will you read to me tonight, husband? I do love it when you read to me. Perhaps a quiet moment between the both of us before the maids bring our son back? You know how he makes a fuss and refuses to give us a moment of quiet!” She laughs, and Aemond holds his tears back once more.
“Of course.” He kisses her temple.
He begins reading and the dry sounds of his throat lull her to sleep in his arms as he rakes his fingers through her hair. When she has completely drifted away from him, he allows himself a moment of thought and kisses her on the lips - watching as she murmurs his name.
He had taken her to wife, and sworn to protect her from any harm that may come her way. In the end, the only one she had to be protected from, was himself. He failed her, and now, he would not rest until he picked up all the pieces and put her back together.
When morning comes, she may still be unconscious of her surroundings and allow him some more time, or she may be lucid and scratch at his face until he leaves her alone. The uncertainty kills him, but he will allow himself to enjoy her tonight.
It was on this very day that he had kissed her for the first time, in the Sept, between the statues of the Mother and the Father. On this day, four years ago, they were married.
And on this day, he continues to read to her because she had asked, even when she had fallen asleep - for how could he ever deny her?
BONUS CHAPTER FOR THIS FIC, HERE.
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Pairing: Sheriff!Nanami Kento x Black Fem Reader
Summary: You have a system, and it's worked perfectly until now. But in this dusty Western town, Sheriff Nanami Kento is making things...complicated.
By day, you're the town's sweet schoolteacher, loved by all. By night? You're the very secret that drives Nanami to sleepless nights and relentless pursuits.
You're drawn to each other, so it makes keeping your worlds separate a dangerous game that you can't help but play.
Rating/CW: slow burn romance, mild intoxication, brief violence, cowboy activities?, fluff, suggestive content, eventual smut, angst, explicit sexual content (eventually). MDNI!
WC: ~12k (strap in, I guess lol)
Author notes: Hello! It's finally here! I had so much planned for this story that I had no choice but to break it into parts. I struggled a little because there was a lot more world-building than I expected, but I'm proud of the result. This will be a slow burn, so please don't expect any smut right off the jump, lol.
Thank you so much, @pmpmyread @rahuratna, not only for looking this over, but for your advice and support! And thank you all for your motivation as I put this together!!
As always, likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated.
Happy reading!
Header: myself (image from pinterest) | Divider: @anitalenia @saradika network tag: @pixelcafe-network
Masterlist | Ao3 | Twitter | Part Two
©mysteria157, all rights reserved. DO NOT copy, plagiarize, reupload, modify, or translate (without permission) my work to other accounts and platforms.
The saloon door creaks open, letting in a blast of scorching summer air that does little to freshen the stale interior. Nanami steps inside, the cool dimness a refreshing difference from the blazing afternoon sun previously on his back. It smells familiar—scents of whiskey, tobacco, and sweat wrapped around camaraderie like an old, worn blanket.
Tired eyes flicker up from cards and empty glasses, recognition dawning on weather-beaten faces. A chorus of solemn nods greets him, a silent salute to their town’s protector. Nanami returns each nod mechanically, his own gaze carefully schooled to hide the bone-deep weariness that threatens to consume him.
His leather boots, caked with the dust of another fruitless chase, thud heavily against the worn floorboards. Each step feels like a defeat, a reminder of always arriving too late or right before his goal slips through his hands, touching his fingertips like a tease.
“Whiskey,” he grumbles as he plops onto a stool, the wood creaking under his weight. “The bottle, preferably.”
The young bartender—who he knows means well—sends a knowing smirk that sets Nanami’s teeth on edge. How many times has he found himself here, drowning his frustrations in amber liquid? Far too many, he thinks, as a tall glass of whiskey appears before him like a mirage in the desert.
Nanami snatches the Stetson hat from his head, slapping it onto the bar with a force that sends a small cloud of dust into the air. His fingers, calloused from years of handling a gun and reins and rope, curl around the glass, lifting towards the bartender in question. The young man simply shrugs as he cleans a cup with a dirty white towel.
“You drank an entire bottle two days ago, Sheriff. Gotta save some whiskey for the rest of us.”
Nanami doesn’t offer a remark because he has been drinking a lot more lately. While he’s never been one to be too many sheets to the wind, lately, consuming until his vision is fuzzy seems to turn off his thoughts. He takes a generous sip, the whiskey burning a familiar path down his throat but doing little to ease the sting of failure. As he watches the strong alcohol slosh in its glass, he gets lost in its color. The flaxen hue morphs into the fluttering of long lashes and mocking eyes, of a form quick and nimble—always just out of reach.
“You’ll catch ‘em eventually, Sheriff,” the boy offers, more out of habit than conviction. He’s seen Nanami here too many times, that frustrated look etched on his face, chasing something far too fast for him.
Nanami huffs an admonishing chuckle. “Maybe,” he concedes, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. “Or maybe I’m chasing the wind.”
He takes another swig, the alcohol doing little to dispel the sour taste of defeat or replace the thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of justice served. But it’s all he has right now. As the waning daylight stretches long and hazy into the sky, somewhere out there, a thief laughs at the law’s futile efforts—at his futile efforts.
He downs the rest of his whiskey, slamming the glass on the counter and ignoring the eyes of patrons who dart up to him from the mild disturbance.
“More,” he demands, sliding the glass across the counter to the bartender. As he watches the whiskey pour, he wonders, not for the first time, if he’s lost more than just a criminal in this endless game of cat and mouse. His integrity, his purpose, his peace of mind—all sacrificed on the altar of justice. And for what? A town that still suffers, and a thief who dances just beyond his grasp.
While the whiskey offers no answers, it at least dulls the ache of what he can’t achieve. But that comes at a price. As his mind fades from the present, it ruminates on the past. On how he grew increasingly disillusioned with his responsibility to protect. It broods on that fateful day when a bullet tore through his dear friend’s body, losing momentum enough to strike Nanami’s badge with a dull thud—a cruel reminder of how close he’d come to joining Haibara, and how utterly he’d failed to protect him.
For a time, he disappeared, carving a new life miles away on his family’s ranch. It was quiet there, peaceful and free of the failure he feels now on a daily basis. But eventually…it wasn’t enough. It was one too many desperate souls who stumbled upon his doorstep, knowing that he would be the only one to help, that he finally decided to come back.
Not that it’s made any difference.
Nanami’s reputation precedes him—the best sheriff this side of the state, a lone wolf who gets results. His name alone makes outlaws think twice before darkening his town’s doorstep. Or at least, it used to.
These past few months, a shadow has been making a mockery of him. A bandit, cloaked in night and silence, slips through his fingers like smoke. Jewels, coins, and the like—all vanish under the cover of darkness, present one morning and gone by the time the sun rises again.
The most maddening part? It’s a woman. He’s caught glimpses—the curve of a hip, a mask of charcoal smudged behind alluring eyes, a whisper of a deep laughter on the wind. She’s a riddle wrapped in black leather, a ghost that haunts his waking hours and torments his dreams.
In all his years, he’s never encountered a more elusive creature.
He lifts his glass, ready to down the contents and ask for more when the rays of sun catch, making the amber gleam like a beacon. The flash of light makes him turn to the saloon’s grimy windows, eyes squinting against the sudden blinding glare.
That’s when he sees you.
Framed by the dusty window pane, across the street, you stand in the golden rays, a vision that seems to part the haze of whiskey and self-pity that’s been clouding his mind. Your smile always seems to make his breath catch; it’s warm and genuine and lights up your face when your smooth lips curl at anything you hear. Right now, he sees it as you bid farewell to your students. They swirl around you like an autumn breeze, their laughter permeable through the glass.
The pink-haired boy—Yuji—who loves to follow Nanami around, wobbles from around the schoolhouse, both hands on the reins of your beautiful Palomino Morgan mare, Buttercup, as he yells to you with a toothy smile.
Nanami blinks, realization slicing through his slightly alcoholic haze like a sharp knife. He’s lost track of time, nearly forgetting his daily ritual that you both share. With a muttered curse, he pushes away from the bar, throwing a few coins on the wood and leaving the half-empty glass behind.
The sudden brightness of the outdoors makes him wince, eyes adjusting to the shift, but never leaving your form. With a soft click of his tongue, Nanami’s handsome chestnut stallion, Flint, nickers at his approach on the side of the saloon, nuzzling his master’s cheek as Nanami strokes his mane and grabs his reins. The horse’s hooves kick up small clouds of dust with each step, matching the steady rhythm of Nanami’s spurs. As he crosses the dusty road, he hides his gaze beneath the shadow of his Stetson to take you in fully.
Nanami’s seen many pretty women in his lifetime. Delicate desert flowers that bloom and wither with the changing seasons. And for the sake of not being the hopeless romantic that Deputy Gojo makes him out to be, you are different. From the moment he laid eyes on you, stepping off that dusty stagecoach with determination set in your jaw and hope shining in your eyes, he knew you were something else entirely. It took him weeks to even speak to you.
Your hair, usually neatly pinned back for teaching, has come slightly loose after a long day with energetic children. A few curly strands dance in the hot breeze, catching the sunlight. Your dress, modest but well-fitted, flows down your body in pale blue, the hem slightly dirty from the grass and dirt. You stand with a posture that commands attention—an undeniable grace in the way you move and Nanami is victim to the call of your hips when they sway.
There’s a smudge of chalk on your cheek, dusty white against smooth brown skin that glows in the sun, and the slight furrow in your brow makes the side of his lips flinch to fight a smile. You’re tired—happy to have another day with children, but ready to get home and relax. You’ll probably take a bath, brush Buttercup’s mane, and try a new pie recipe. It’s little details about you that he’s learned over the years since you moved here, the small moments you’ve both shared that seem to make his heart pound faster than what it should when he’s near you.
Your beauty isn’t just the curve of your cheek or the curl of your lashes. It’s the gentle patience in your voice as you help a struggling student. It’s in your laugh, rich and uninhibited, ringing through his ears when he has the blessing to be near you. It’s in the fire that burns in your voice from ranting about yet another student leaving school to help his family’s farm, a passionate frustration that both terrifies and mesmerizes him.
The sun in this small town is unforgiving, but it paints you in hues of amber and gold, careful with its rays so as not to burn you. Nanami realized a long time ago that ‘pretty’ doesn’t begin to cover you. You’re breathtaking, in every sense of the word. A force of nature wrapped in pale blue calico and lace, stealing his breath and his weary heart with each passing day.
You ruffle Yuji's hair, taking the reins from him and nudging his shoulder to move him along, smiling as he takes off down the street towards his home. Sensing his approach, you finally turn to meet his gaze.
For a moment, Nanami feels exposed. Surely you can’t see the slight cloudiness in his irises from the whiskey? Hopefully, you can’t smell the alcohol that carries in the wind from his breath. Your smile only widens, a hint of knowing in your eyes, and his heart skips in his chest, missing a beat.
“Sheriff,” you greet him, a harmonious voice carrying a note of warmth that bubbles like hot oil in his belly. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten.”
Nanami clears his throat, fighting the rush of blood to his cheeks. “Never,” he manages, one hand resting on his horse’s flank.
“Still in the whiskey?” you tease, lifting an elegant brow. “My, my Sheriff, I didn’t imagine you to be the man.”
It’s easy for you to slice him open and leave him exposed to the open air, vulnerable. Nanami has never been one to be caught by surprise, but you always have him on his toes. In a gesture as old as the West itself, Nanami reaches up and removes his Stetson, holding it respectfully to his chest.
It’s a mechanical response, born from years of ingrained politeness from parents that have long gone, but it’s also more than that. The removal of his hat is an unspoken apology, a show of respect, and a moment of vulnerability all rolled into one.
He falters, unsure and throat tight as he struggles for something to say. To prove to you that he’s a good man and not the drunkard he feels like the mornings after a failed chase. He’s sure he looks like a schoolboy caught in mischief. But as he opens his mouth to defend himself, you chuckle, a rich timbre that makes the bubbling in his belly drip in thick rivulets down his pelvis.
“I’m only teasin',” you insist, stroking Buttercup’s mane, a mischievous smile doing little to help Nanami’s resolve.
Relief washes over Nanami’s face and he visibly relaxes, still not used to just how much you kid with him when you’re both together. He can’t bring himself to answer you or admit that drinking was exactly what he was doing. So he simply clears his throat, offering a gentle pat to your horse.
“Shall we?” he offers, moving to help you mount.
You nod, holding your breath as Nanami’s strong hands encircle your waist. With seemingly effortless strength, he lifts you onto Buttercup’s back, watching to ensure you’re secure before returning to his own horse. He swings himself up onto the saddle with ease, sliding his Stetson on carefully parted blonde locks. Side by side, you begin the ride home, your horses falling into a comfortable trot.
You never speak much, content to bask in your surroundings as you both walk together, but to him, just being close is everything he could ask for. He wishes he could whisk you up onto his horse and nuzzle his nose into the soft skin of your neck as you recall your day. He wishes he could smell the lavender soap you bathe with and the rosemary oil from your silky strands that he’s seen you buy at the general store. When he’s around you, he wishes for so much—he wants.
But an unmarried woman and man, both of position no less, would only garner gossip that he refuses to make you the center of. And his job is a dangerous one, filled with brutality and misery, of justice that seems to never be fulfilling, and he won’t be a man that leaves you in pain when he’s unable to come home.
As you both walk, the familiar sounds of the town surround them—the distant laughter of children, the creak of wagon wheels that pass them on the dirt road, the rhythmic sounds of hoofbeats and the occasional jingle of Nanami’s spurs, the smell of fresh-baked bread that floats in the cooling breeze, mingling with the earthy scent of dust and grass.
“How were the children today?” Nanami asks, trying to break through the self-inflicting resignation that clouds his mind.
You smile, launching into a story about Yuji's latest escapade with a frog in the classroom. Nanami listens, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he imagines the always enthusiastic boy causing a fuss. He marvels at the way your eyes light up when you talk about your students, the passion evident in every word.
As you speak, Nanami can’t help but think of all the times over the years he’s wanted to ask for more. To invite you for dinner, to teach you to shoot on the acres of his ranch, to ask for a dance at the town social when you’re sitting alone, clapping along as Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara scuttle wildly in the lantern-lit barn. The words have been on the tip of his tongue countless times, but he always swallows them back. Content to tell himself he’s doing something noble even as every fiber of his being screams the opposite.
Your laughter pulls him from his thoughts, guttural and melodic in the air, and he realizes he’s missed part of your story. It feels like a crime to not be fully in your presence.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” he asks, feeling the flush return on his cheeks. His mind has only wandered off for moments, but already your house is in view, the front door signaling another end to a conversation with you. Another walk over, another day done. But you’re safe, and for now, that’s enough for him.
“Sheriff, do you actually listen to me when I speak?” you begin, playful in your accusation.
“Of course I—”
“Or you just like hearing me speak?” you interrupt, a smirk growing, mirth sparkling in beautiful eyes that always make his throat dry. “I didn’t realize my voice was so alluring.”
Nanami chuckles softly, dismounting Flint when you reach the gate on the side of your one-story house. “I’m not sure I can answer truthfully, ma’am.”
You hum, pursing your lips as you smooth the invisible wrinkles off your dress. He refrains from tracing the movement of your hands as they ebb and flow generous curves that rest beneath the fabric. “So you just like me then?”
I do.
Is what he wants to answer. Because he wants, and wants, and wants.
Instead, he guides you down from Buttercup, savoring the meat of your waist between his fingers, the warmth of your body in his hands. He waits patiently as you guide her through the gate and inside the stable behind your house. When you return, he can’t help but note the subtle disappointment in your eyes, the way one side of your lip pulls in as you bite into it. He wonders if his own face conveys the same, if you can see the subtle sag in his shoulders of having to leave you so soon.
“Same time tomorrow?” you ask, eyes simmering with what he wants to think is hope.
“Because I like to hear you speak,” he unwittingly teases, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, ma’am.”
As he moves to mount his horse, you’re transfixed by the fluid grace of his movements. He places one scuffed boot in the stirrup, strong corded hands gripping the saddle horn as he swings himself up and onto the Flint’s back like it’s nothing.
Atop his chestnut stallion, Nanami cuts an impressive figure. His sheriff uniform fits him perfectly. A tailored deep blue shirt with long sleeves rolled to his elbows and tucked into denim around a lean waist. A sturdy brown leather vest creased from long days under the sun emphasize his broad shoulders. On one side of his chest rests a gleaming tin star, a symbol of authority and responsibility with a bullet-sized dent beneath the words that signify him. On his left hip, a lasso is coiled neatly, ready for action at a moment’s notice. On his right, his gun rests in its leather holster—a weapon you’ve seen him use a few times—and a constant reminder of the dangers he faces to keep the town safe.
The late amber light casts a warm glow over his features, highlighting the strong line of his jaw and the tiny creases at the corners of his eyes—a man who’s seen both laughter and hardship. Laughter he gives you when he can, hardship he refuses to indulge. His Stetson sits low on his brow, casting a shadow over umber eyes that make his gaze seem even more intense as he looks down at you.
No matter how many times you are both together, you are always struck by how handsome Nanami is. Rugged and weather-worn, yet with a gentleness in his eyes and kindness in his warm voice that makes your heart flutter. He’s the embodiment of everything a cowboy should be—strong, capable, and undeniably attractive.
As if sensing your admiration, he clears his throat loudly, dramatically, the corners of his lips twitching as you blink back to the present.
You retaliate in the only way you know how. “And stop calling me ma’am, as if we haven’t known each other for a few years.”
You insist on this every single time the title slips past his lips. And like every time before, Nanami smiles softly, reaches up, fingers grasping the brim of his Stetson, and tips his hat to you in a gesture that’s both gallant and a little playful.
“Have a good night, ma’am.”
You roll your eyes, mouth pulling into a small smile, heart beating like a drum in your chest, before you huff. “Goodnight, Sheriff.”
He watches you enter your home, waiting until the door closes behind you before clicking his tongue and shifting his weight, setting Flint into motion. The ride back to his office seems longer somehow, the town sounds a little dimmer as he gets closer, and the alluring smell of fresh bread he noted on the way to your house is now replaced with an enticing whisper of more whiskey now that you’re no longer by his side.
The church bells chime softly as you settle into your usual pew, absentmindedly picking lint off your lavender Sunday dress. You nod politely to Mrs. Watson, the baker’s wife, as she shuffles past with a hand on her youngster’s shoulder. Your eyes, soft and inviting to all who meet them, scan the congregation with practiced nonchalance.
Pastor Roberts steps up to the pulpit, black hair slicked with too much pomade, enormous silver rings on too many fingers, his voice booming through the small church. “Before we begin, I’d like to thank everyone who contributed to our new railroad station fund. And I’d like to give a very special mention to Mrs. Thompson, whose generous donation has brought us significantly closer to our goal. Your generosity truly embodies the spirit of our little community.”
The crowd breaks into genuine praise and applause. Mrs. Thompson, always seated in the back pew in her faded but clean dress, ducks her head modestly with a sheepish smile. Your heart clenches in despair, knowing she works grueling shifts at the general store just to make ends meet, her children practically raised by her neighbors. You’re sure that she’s only going above and beyond so her husband, who works many miles away, can come home often. She probably has nothing left—you just know it—and the thought makes your blood boil.
“Now, regarding the final sum we need,” the pastor continues, clearing his throat, “I’m sure we can count on our more…fortunate members to help us reach our goal.”
From the front pew, Mrs. Jones pipes up, her haughty voice carrying over the congregation. “Oh, we’d love to help next time, Pastor! We would’ve contributed more, but we had an unexpected expense with some…essential purchases this past week.”
She adjusts the luxurious new fur draped over her shoulders, seemingly oblivious to the irony of her words. You glare at the offensive garment, boiling blood now thickening with unquestionable anger.
Like so many other wealthy families in this town, the Jones are always eager to flaunt their excess, parading their luxury with heartless disregard for those who sacrifice their last penny for the common good. Content to take what they want, they turn a blind eye to those who truly need help, their indifference as cold as the coins they keep to themselves.
To others like them, poverty is a personal failing. In their minds, if people like Mrs. Thompson would try harder, work longer, or simply stop being sad and hungry out of sheer will, they too could reach the heights of wealth and respect. Preaching a gospel of bootstraps and self-reliance, willfully ignorant of the walls that keep the poor trapped.
Stepping foot in this sweltering church each Sunday is a test of your patience and resolve. But, you push through, hidden behind a mask of piety. As the pastor’s words fade into a monotonous hum, your attention shifts to the whispered gossip around you, ears poised for information that might prove useful. If Mama was still alive, she’d probably scold you if she knew your true intentions.
“Shameful,” Mrs. Clark mutters to her friend, her tone leaking with disdain and disbelief. “The Jones had enough for that fancy social at their house last week and an entire shipment of new furs, but not enough for something that we were all asked to contribute to? Just shameful, I tell you.”
“And here’s Mrs. Thompson giving what little she has just so her man can come home more often.”
You shake your head as you pretend to join in the gossip, your resolve hardening by the second.
Bingo.
After the service, you linger, making small talk with a widow about her new rhubarb pie recipe, when you spot your target.
“Oh, Mrs. Jones,” you call out, your voice dripping with misplaced sweetness. She turns around to face you, regal in cosmetics, a shade too bright, her fur sitting nicely on her neck even as she sweats like a sinner. “I meant to tell you earlier. Your fur is lovely.”
Mrs. Jones preens, her chest puffing like a peacock, basking in the attention. “Why thank you!” she gushes, dripping with false modesty. “Got them fresh last week. I would love for you to see the rest when I’m back in town. Jimmy and I leave for Millbrook and we’ll be gone for a week or two. It’s so refreshing to meet someone who appreciates fine things.”
You offer a small smile, excitement filling your body of your plans unfolding before you. “You’ll surely be missed. I do hope you have a wonderful time.”
She beams again, red lipstick cracking down the middle. “Make sure you stop by when we return, won’t you?”
You do stop by, but it’s a day after the Jones leave, a shadow among shadows. Buttercup leans into your touch when you brush a gloved hand along her glossy mane. You hop on her back, clicking your tongue to urge her into the night.
It’s further out of town, which makes this better for you—the fewer eyes, the better. The Jones estate looms ahead, dark and silent. You leave Buttercup a few yards away, patting her side as she lowers her head to graze. “I’ll be right back, girl. Just wait for my call.”
You circle to the back of the Jones’ house, glaring at the clean paint and beautiful greenery. A flickering light from a first-floor window catches your attention, and you duck down on impulse—the night watchman, no doubt. The Jones have enough money but spend too excessively to afford a maid. While this is a hindrance you can easily deal with, it’s still a thorn in your side. Patience has always been your ally, but tonight, it’s tested.
You know the town’s law enforcement, led by Sheriff Nanami, has been increasing patrols around wealthy homes because of your activities. The thought of him potentially catching you always sends a confusing concoction of thrill and dread through your veins.
Still, you wait, hidden in the shadows and the lush greenery around you, watching the guard’s routine. He leaves every ten minutes to patrol the house, returns, and scratches the sparse hair of his beard before plopping in his chair. His yawns grow more frequent as the night wears on, but he seems to alert himself with each distant noise. It takes a few more patrols and a few deep breaths to soothe your anxiety when you think you hear hoofbeats in the distance, but eventually, he settles one final time, his chin dropping to his chest as he dozes off, and you make your move.
A few windows over, a trellis catches your eye—perfect. Years of practice have taught you to distribute your weight evenly to avoid creaks as you climb the lattice. At the second-story window, you pause, listening. From your vantage point, the only source of light dimly from the living room below is the guard’s open door. The sound of his distant snores sets you back in action.
With ease, you manipulate the window latch, easing it open slowly to avoid any squeaks. You slip inside, your feet silent as they land on a plush carpet. The lavishness is an immediate assault on your senses—the air tinged with rose and peppermint, your eyes widening at the guest bedroom walls covered in paintings and deer heads. You grimace. Extravagant niceties that those less fortunate would give their soul for the value.
You pause at the top of the stairs, eyes scanning the house around you for anyone else, ears straining for any sound from the guard below or, worse, the approach of patrol outside. Satisfied, you ghost through well-decorated hallways towards the master bedroom. Without a moment to waste, you scan the ornate space. You know to secure your exits, and your entrances, and you smirk when you spot a sturdy chair on the other side of the room.
Silently, you wedge the chair under the doorknob, its back legs lifted slightly off the ground. It’s not the best, but it should buy you precious time if needed. You turn back to the master bedroom, eyes narrowed as you move on to your next step.
You’ve seen it all before, and no matter what, they keep their valuables in the same predictable places. A bookshelf with too much space that you can push against to open a second compartment. A floorboard slightly elevated than the rest. But for the Jones, it’s the garish family portrait above their bed—the same one Mrs. Jones boasted about at church weeks ago. Another unexpected but essential expense.
Your fingers work quickly as you carefully remove the painting, revealing the gleaming safe behind it. You press your ear against the cool metal, your fingertips ghosting over the dial. With precision, you begin to turn it, listening intently for the telltale clicks of the tumblers falling into place.
First to the right, slow and steady. Click. Back to the left, past the first number. Click. Right again, slower this time, feeling for the slightest resistance. Click.
Your breath catches as the final tumbler falls into place, heart racing with the promise of success as you slowly turn the handle. The safe door swings open with a satisfying creak, and inside, illuminated by a sliver of moonlight streaming through the window, sits your prize. Stack of crisp bills and glittering jewels, a physical manifestation of the good that they can do in the right hands.
As you transfer the wealth into your satchel, a floorboard creaks downstairs. You freeze, every muscle in your body taut as a bowstring, lungs seizing in your chest. You hear the rustle of clothing—the guard stirring in his chair. It feels like seconds stretch into an eternity as you wait, hand hovering over the gun on your hip. Just as your lungs scream for air, his snoring resumes, and you exhale slowly, your racing heart gradually steadying.
You’re hyper-aware of every sound as you work. The whisper of the bills, the soft clink of jewels—each seems magnified in the stillness of this gigantic house. You’re nearly finished, only two more stacks, when another creak echoes through the house, this one closer, more deliberate. There’s no settling floorboards from a new house or snoring night guard.
Someone’s here.
Suddenly, the doorknob jiggles violently, a voice on the other side booming through the previously silent house. You know the voice anywhere, one that haunts both your waking hours and your dreams.
Your heart picks back up, ice water filling your veins as the hairs on your neck stand up straight, but your hands remain steady as you gather the last of the valuables and ease the safe closed. Even in the face of being caught, you have to remain calm. It’s what’s kept you unnoticed and alive this long.
You replace the painting, your eyes already scanning the room for escape routes. You can easily go back out through the window, but the trellis you came upon is in the guest bedroom a few doors over. The jump from this window won’t be damaging, but it’ll hurt, and you don’t have time to use your rope to help you down.
Banging erupts against the door, the wood jumping from the force of the assault. “Sir! I’m here!” The night guard’s voice joins in beneath the noise, and you hear his hurried gait up the stairs.
You don’t have time for schematics. Time’s up. You throw the satchel around your shoulder and bolt for the window, only seconds before the door frame splinters from the strength of two men, the chair tumbling across the floor.
“Freeze!” A deep baritone barks, harsh and volatile, but you’re already halfway out the window, your leather boots pressed to the paneling, your hands holding you up like a spider monkey. You can’t help but pause, your wide-brimmed hat and black bandana obscuring most of your features. Coal-smudged eyes, their true color blending with the blackness surrounding them, meet the gaze of the man before you. He’s never been able to get a photo or any sort of evidence from you, not in times like these. He’ll never know who you are. But you know exactly who he is.
Sheriff Nanami Kento stands in the moonlit room, his stance wide and authoritative. Protector of the town, your number one purser, and a man who, despite your best efforts, has made a permanent home in your thoughts.
Mysterious mahogany eyes, usually kind and warm when they look at you during the day, now burn with determination and anger. That gun that you’ve seen him use to shoot targets and make Yuji laugh now points directly between your eyes.
As you look at him—the tension in his broad shoulders as they rise and fall beneath his shirt and vest, the dark circles under his eyes that speak of sleepless nights chasing your shadow—a pang of guilt slithers down your chest. Maybe if you take a small break with your escapades, he could get some sleep. You hate it when he’s tired, especially when you’re the cause.
But these thoughts are dangerous. Over the years, you’ve let him get too close, allowed him to see much of the real you, and now you’re beginning to feel the consequences.
But you can think about this another time; you’ve stayed longer than necessary. Right now, you have a job to finish. With a hitch in your breath, you drop to the ground. You land with a thud, your ankles absorbing the impact. A sharp pain shoots up your right leg, but you grit your teeth and push through it. You can’t afford to stop now.
The wild grass is thick as you sprint through the open fields, the satchel of stolen valuables bouncing heavily against your hip. Your breath slices through your lungs in short gasps, the cool night air burning in your chest. Behind you, you hear the chaos of pursuit. Nanami’s commanding voice mixes with the night guard’s confused shouts, and the sound of boots hitting the ground tells you they’ve made it out of the house.
You ignore the ebbing pain in your ankle, pushing yourself harder, faster. The grass gets taller with every inch you gain, whipping at your leather-clad legs as you tear through the field, the darkness both a hindrance and a shelter. You use the moonlight to guide you, your eyes scanning the landscape for the rock face you left Buttercup at on your way here.
A distant whinny in your ear cues you instantly. You whistle for her sharply, praying your faithful steed is close enough to hear. Her thundering hooves answer your prayers, growing louder by the second as she matches your sprint.
She appears like magic, slowing enough for you to leap onto her back and urge her into a gallop with a click of your tongue and a squeeze of your knees. With your view no longer obscured by the tall grass, you turn back to the disappearing estate, your heart dropping when you spot several riders—Nanami’s men, no doubt—headed toward you.
Gunshots pop through the air, the whoosh of silver bullets whizzing past your ears and missing their mark. But they’re getting closer. You hold your breath, absorbing the minute fear that blooms in your chest as you risk another glance behind you. Nanami is now at the front, his face grim and emboldened.
A snort from Buttercup turns your attention ahead. You fold low over her neck, your thighs contracting and relaxing in harmonious sync with her thunderous gallops. You taught yourself how to ride after Mama died, determined to do whatever it took to make it through the world. You found Buttercup then, neglected and forgotten, a mirror of your own lost soul. Now, years later, you both move as one, you anticipating her every move born of trust and time, she responds to the smallest shift of your weight as if reading your very thoughts.
Up ahead, the path narrows, winding through a rocky formation that makes you pull in your shoulders on reflex, as if you’re squeezing to fit. You guide Buttercup with a slight shift of the reins and a coo to her twitching ears.
There’s a fallen tree a few yards away, blocking most of the path and making it almost impassable. But you know what you can do. With a click of your tongue and a minuscule pressure of your knees into her sides, she reads your message immediately, huffing before launching over the thick oak in a magnificent leap. She lands with grace on the other side, hooves kicking up dirt in victory. It buys you the seconds that you need, but it won’t be enough. Nanami and his men will find their way around, and you need this chase to end. Now.
Ahead, a boulder ten times your size, with jagged edges and thick cracks, creates a fork in the path. You form an idea that is risky but will buy you the time you need to get home safely.
You guide Buttercup down the left path, your hand reaching for the pistol on your hip. You wind up the reins in one hand, squeezing the leather to hold you steady as you swiftly turn in your saddle to face the dusty world behind you. With the change in position, your hips work against the momentum of Buttercup’s stride instead of with it, and your tweaked ankle stings with every slap against her side. But you’ve practiced this before, and your balance is perfect, hand steady even as you move at breakneck speed.
Nanami and his men emerge from the curve of the path, eyes locked on you with deadly intent, and in that split second, you take your shot.
You’re not aiming to kill or even injure—your target is the lanterns that hang from each saddle horn. Amidst the bucking of your hips and the wind that whizzes past your ears, you hold your breath—forcing your heart to slow as your vision tunnels, and your finger squeezes the trigger. Before Nanami and his men can even reach for their guns, the air cracks, gunshots from your firearm hitting their mark to make the lanterns explode. It has its desired effect—their horses are startled, bucking onto their back feet as they whine in fright.
Nanami doesn’t want to, you can tell from the look in his eyes, but he has no choice but to look away. His eyes leave you as he tries his best to console his stallion and the rest of his gang. You take advantage of the chaos and twirl back around, relaxing your hand on the reins and exhaling the painful breath that was lodged in your lungs.
“Good girl,” you murmur, patting Buttercup’s neck as you coax her into a more fierce gallop and disappear into the night, the sounds of pursuit fading behind you. The satchel on your hip bucks with your mare’s kicks, reminding you of a job well done.
Even with the adrenaline of success thrumming through you, your mind always wanders back to the ‘why’ of it all.
When the guilt tries to curl in your chest when you least expect it, you remember Mama’s sunken face as she divided a molded loaf of bread between the two of you. You remember the hollow eyes of your neighbors too proud to beg. You remember the day you and Mama stood outside the general store in your hometown, staring at a display of fresh fruit, its price more than your weekly earnings. You remember being shooed away by the store owner, muttering about “ill-bred women,” lowering the tone of his establishment.
That night after Mama finally fell asleep, you stole for the first time. So skinny that you could slip through the gap in Mr. Thornton’s fence of his apple orchard. You took only one—a small, slightly misshapen apple covered in dirt—fear rattling your bones at the thought of being caught. But its sweetness, shared with Mama the next morning, was everything you could have asked for.
The concept of right and wrong has always been blurred for you. You’re certainly not right in the eyes of the law, or perhaps even in the eyes of God that Mama believed in so much. But when you distribute your spoils in the dead of night, slipping money through house doors. When you see the disbelief turn to joy on a widow’s face because she can feed her children another week. When you watch a frail old man cry over a warm coat that will see him through the winter—you sleep a little better.
The world isn’t fair. You learned that lesson far too soon in your life. But in your own way, with these midnight heists and heart-pounding adventures, you’re trying to balance some sort of scale. It’s not justice…but it’s something. Something that lets you look at yourself in the mirror each morning, that calms the angry, helpless, and hungry child still living in your memories.
Tomorrow, you’ll begin distributing this wealth to those who truly need it. Yuji's grandpa will have enough to buy his grandson new clothes. Mrs. Thompson will have enough to make up for the remaining savings she gave to the church. And come Monday, you’ll greet Sheriff Nanami with a warm smile as he walks you home from a day’s work at the school, your secret safe for another day.
The thrill of every heist, the satisfaction of outwitting the law, the knowledge that you’re helping those in need—it all mingles in your veins like the sweetest whiskey you tease the Sheriff for indulging in. As the stars twinkle overhead as you wash the coal from Buttercup’s nose that hides her white markings, you allow yourself a moment of pride. It’s probably not much in the grand scheme of things, but to someone in this town, it’ll mean the world.
“Did you hear about Mrs. Jones’s place?”
“Ma says the bandit struck again, cleaned them out in seconds!”
You keep your face carefully neutral as you pick up on your student’s conversations that dance on the hot air, but you’re filled with pride and guilt. You can’t help but think of Sheriff Nanami, of the frustration you see etched on his handsome face so often. Even yesterday, those determined eyes flickered with hints of shame. For a moment, doubt creeps in, whispers in your ears like a tease, threatening to unearth everything you’ve worked for.
But then you look at Sarah’s new turquoise ribbon that compliments her wheat-colored hair as she twirls in a circle on the dusty road. You remember Tommy’s gait as he said goodbye to you just minutes ago, no longer wobbly now that his toes have room to move in new shoes.
The whispers of your students and how surprised and elated they were to find money under their doorstep make you steel yourself. Despite the risks, despite the growing complexity of your feelings—it’s always worth it.
Your life is a study in contrasts. Mornings are quiet affairs—a cup of coffee, a soothing hand down Buttercup’s mane as she eats her breakfast, the silence of an empty classroom. Afternoons explode with energy—eager questions, laughter, and the occasional disagreement amongst your students. You think of Mama, how she read to you as a child, planting seeds of knowledge that would one day bloom into your passion for teaching. It’s another way you give back—maybe some form of atonement you aren’t ready to address—but to fill another generation’s head with knowledge is a gift you wouldn’t trade.
Coming to this town years ago was an escape—from the pain of Mama’s death, from the constant fear of your life as a thief. You only meant to stay a few months, take what you needed, give it back to those like you, and vanish. But loneliness has a way of anchoring a soul.
Months became years. A solitary existence morphed into friendships with neighbors and an undeniable connection with the stoic sheriff who walks you home, an unspoken affection blossoming between you.
Years of experience have made you attuned to the whispers in town. You know how much Mr. Fletcher has hidden away in his safe. You know what date and time certain shipments come in and who they are going to.
Lately, though, whispers of a different sort have caught your ear. Tales of a hidden treasure in the old mine outside of town. Yuji talks about it almost every day, how his grandfather is convinced the treasure is real. The town’s cobbler rolls his eyes at the rumor, often grumbling about how the citizens should focus on earning revenue through hard work and no shortcuts. The more adventurous of the town have scoped the plains around this town time and time again. But it’s never bore any fruit.
Even you have dismissed it as just another local legend. But the thought nags at you, a persistent itch you can’t quite scratch. While you do not doubt the well-meaning residents of this town, they may not have your experience. They may not know how to scale a rocky mountain or where to look. But you do.
You’ve spent years justifying your actions, convincing yourself that the end justifies the means. That it’s a necessary evil in a world that turns a blind eye to suffering. To walk away now feels like the biggest betrayal of everything you’ve fought for, everything your Mama taught you about standing up for those who can’t stand up for themselves. Even last night, you went through your routine of reiterating that what you’re doing is for a good cause.
But the twinge in your ankle when you woke up this morning. The bleariness in your eyes from little sleep. The exhaustion weighs heavily on you. The loneliness is more palpable every morning when you roll over to an empty bed. Because you can’t share the darkness of your secrets with anyone. Is it selfish to want a normal life after being exposed to the rotten core of it? To want stability, a future untainted by the shadow of your past, to want love? Or is it more selfish to continue on this path, risking everything—including the hearts of those who’ve come to care for you—for a cause that seems never-ending?
The infinite revolving of these thoughts makes you think twice about those rumors. So…what if the treasure is real? What if there’s enough hidden away to help everyone in town, to right all the wrongs you’ve seen? Enough to let you hang up this hidden life for good, to just be the schoolteacher—no more lies, no more risks, no more seeing the weight of failure in Nanami’s eyes.
Hours later, after your students have long gone, you’re atop Buttercup, having decided an afternoon ride might clear your head. You break through the bustle of town, the sun painting the landscape of open plains. As you crest a small hill, you scan the horizon, absorbing every detail with practiced observation that’s served you well in your double life.
You remember it all from your first few weeks here—a dilapidated shed outside of town, a small lake where wild animals drink from to the north. But with more focus, to the West, you spot unfamiliar rocky terrain. What catches your eye is how the rocks seem to fit together—not stacked with the random chaos of nature, but with an almost deliberate precision. It’s as if the hands of a giant stacked them long ago, their edges now overgrown and softened by wind and time.
If you were to slowly move the rocks over time, you could find an unexplored cave on the other side—not a mine like the rumors claim. Whatever it could be, it’s definitely worth investigating. You make a mental note of its location, your innate sense of direction and topography—honed by years of midnight runs—ensuring you can find it easily again.
As you make one last sweep across the landscape, your ears pick up on the stressed mooing of cows and the yells of men. After riding toward the source for a few minutes, you finally spot the commotion. Mr. Williams’ well-maintained fence is broken with wooden boards sprawled on the plains as a group of cattle amble and run free. They shuffle as fast as their heavy bodies will take them, mooing loudly in distress.
You’ve done some wrangling as a young girl, a grueling job that paid you very little to feed you and Mama, so you immediately hone in on the weak points of the fence and the patterns of the cattle’s movement.
You spring into action, clicking your tongue and squeezing your thighs around Buttercup to make her take off. The wind whips through your hair, loosening curls from your usually neat bun. As you draw closer, your heart leaps in your chest.
There, in the midst of the chaos, is Nanami. He sits on his stallion with an easy grace that makes your mouth go dry. Eyes narrowed with determination, cheekbones glossy with sweat and dirt. His vest is gone, and you note the navy long sleeve that squeezes his thick form, his forearms exposed and veiny. His strong biceps flex as he twirls his lasso, long fingers cinched tight around the base of the noose, wrist twirling in a motion you’ve thought about late at night with your fingers buried deep inside of you.
Gods, he’s handsome. Even that first day when you both met in front of the general store, Nanami reaching down to collect the books you had dropped, you knew then he would be your undoing. He has proven to be the one constant in your mind when you should be thinking about your goal.
He’s the kind of man that you could bring home to Mama, though you’d have to keep a watchful eye on her so she doesn’t flirt herself. He’s the kind of man who can work the fields and protect a town, that can fend off criminals and walk children the school, that can come home after a long day and kiss you until your eyes roll into your skull. That can grunt in appreciation from the fingernails that dig into his back, your legs wrapped around his waist as he buries himself to the hilt and—
“Need a hand, Sheriff?” you call out, shaking yourself back to reality, swallowing the saliva in your mouth. You can think about him later. Right now, that adventurous itch comes to life at the base of your spine. You love being a teacher, but you miss things like this—the thrill of the ride, the tingling sensation of a challenge, and Nanami’s presence all combine to create a heady rush of adrenaline through your veins.
Nanami’s head turns at the sound of your voice, deep brown eyes widening in surprise. The movement of his wrist stops, and his lasso plops on his head, musing perfectly parted blonde locks as the rope smacks the sides of his face. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, yes, but adoration and something more pungent that makes your skin tingle.
“Ma’am, this isn’t exactly—” he starts, but you’re already taking off.
A whistle from your lips springs Buttercup into action, galloping a wide birth around the scattered calves. You free your own rope from your saddle horn, the weight in your hands a comforting reminder of late nights practicing in your stable. You hitch up, bunching your thighs with hidden strength, twirling the lasso once, twice, feeling the perfect balance of it.
Then, with a fluid movement, you send the rope flying towards the calf closest to you. It arcs through the air before finding its mark, settling around the calf’s neck with perfect precision. You ignore the feel of Nanami’s eyes on you as you wrestle to rebellious calf back into Mr. Williams’ yard. The man himself is already releasing the rope and ushering the calf away from the fence that is slowly being repaired by his ranch hands.
“Where did you learn to do that?” Nanami asks when you pace up next to him. The lasso is still haphazard over his head, lips parted in astonishment.
“Are you implyin' that I shouldn’t know how to do that, Sheriff?” you tease, guiding Buttercup in a slow trot around Nanami and his stallion. He fumbles to correct himself, cheeks heating as he pulls at the rope around his neck and shoulders. “Should I only know teachin' and how to care for a home?”
“N-now you know that’s not what I—”
You cut him off with a sharp chuckle, making another rotation around him and his steed, a mischievous glint in your eye. “You’re so gullible.” He throws you a wary look, finally pulling the lasso off his body in a huff. “Now, are you gonna help me, or not?”
You and Nanami fall into sync, working in tandem to herd the cattle back into Mr. Williams’ enclosed space. It’s perfect choreography—when Nanami moves right, you’re already swinging left.
Before long, you spot a flash of white in your peripheral vision. Deputy Gojo leans against the fence, his shock of white hair practically reflective in the sun. He’s been practically absent up until this point and, unlike you and Nanami, seems in no rush to join the action. He eyes you with a charismatic smile, flirtatious in his gaze, but you’re quick to roll your eyes playfully and get back to the task at hand.
There’s a grace to Nanami’s body as he works. His hips roll with each movement of his horse, the rock back and forth, a rhythm hypnotic and alluring. The muscles in his denim-clad thighs flex as he grips his mount, powerful and thick. His face maintains his usually iron-faced composure, focused on the task, but an undeniable beauty to his concentration. The setting sun enhances his features, the shadows accentuate his strong jaw and cheekbones. A bed of sweat traces a tantalizing path down his neck, disappearing beneath a collar that’s three buttons undone.
As you drive a cow forward, Nanami is there to lasso and guide it home. The way he hands his horse, the quiet commands and clicks, the subtle shifts of his body, and the grunts that leave his form when he throws his lasso—it all speaks of a man completely in control, and you find it mesmerizing…and utterly arousing. There’s something primal and enticing about watching him move, about being in such perfect harmony with him. It’s a blaring reminder of the attraction that’s been simmering between you.
At one point, you end up riding side by side, so close that your legs brush against each other. The contact, even through the layers of your dress, is scalding. You steal a glance at Nanami, darting through the disheveled curls in front of your eyes, only to find him already looking at you. Those dark eyes are smoldering—intense with an emotion that radiates from you both and squeezes your throat tight.
As the last cow meanders through the repaired fence, you both are panting from exhaustion, guiding your horses to a slow stroll. Mr. Williams jogs towards you both, followed closely by Gojo, a lazy saunter and an ever-present mischievous look on his face.
“I had no idea you could wrangle so well,” Mr. Williams exclaims, waving enthusiastically as he reaches up and takes the reins of both your horses to lead them towards a water trough. “That was incredible. I have no idea how to repay you.”
You wave him off, trying not to preen under the praise. Gojo's incredibly rare and well-bred snow-white Quarter Horse saunters up to you, the animal indignant in his strides just as much as its owner.
“Well,” Gojo drawls, crystal blue eyes sweeping appreciatively over your form. “Didn’t think a schoolteacher had fine lasso skills. Any other skills I should know about? You can show me at the town festival in a few weeks.”
It’s undeniably forward, enough to make a dignified man turn beet red in anger and a fragile woman faint. But it’s Deputy Gojo Satoru—uncaring of the world that he feels revolves around him.
“Gojo,” Nanami snaps, harsh and biting with an undercurrent that makes your spine straighten. “For once in your life, stop pestering every woman within a few feet of you.”
You can’t help but chuckle, shrugging dismissively and patting Buttercup’s neck as she drinks. “No harm done, Sheriff. I’m sure Deputy Gojo here was just being friendly, weren’t you?” You ask, voice laden with a double meaning that makes Gojo smile warily, suddenly apprehensive. “Though I’d caution against mistaking friendliness for interest. Wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea and end up disappointed…again.”
Gojo's jaw drops, Mr. Williams chokes on a snort a few yards away, and you hear Nanami stifle a harsh grunt that cracks on the edges.
Gojo sputters, pale white cheeks burning, his usual confidence faltering in the night air as he flaps his gills. “I’ll have you know, I’ve never been disappointed in matters of the heart.”
You hum nonchalantly, pursing your lips in disbelief. “Oh? So that wasn’t you I saw sulking behind the saloon last month? What was it you were muttering? Something about Geto turning you down for the second time?”
At the mention of Geto's name, Gojo's blue eyes widens, a squeak eeping from glossy lips. Nanami, unable to contain himself any longer, lets out a bark of laughter.
“I—that’s not—how did you—” Gojo stammers, looking between you and Nanami with wide, suspicious eyes. You simply shrug, glancing at Nanami. There’s a glimmer of amusement there, a shared moment of mirth at Gojo's expense. At some point, Gojo grows tired of entertaining you both, clicking his mouth in annoyance and taking off towards town. You snort at his retreating form, giggling with the rush of excitement of the evening.
When Mr. Williams sees you both off, the night is a cool blanket around you both. The moon sits high, a silver pendant on the velvet black sky, while the stars twinkle like scattered diamonds. For awhile, you both ride in silence, the rhythmic clop of hooves a soothing melody to your turmoil from earlier in the day. The air carries the scent of grass and wildflowers, mixing with the sweat that lingers on your skin. It’s Nanami who breaks the quiet, his deep voice a relaxing current of electricity down your spine.
“He will only take your wit as a challenge,” he muses, mildly amused.
“Gojo will forget all about me the minute Ms. Foxworth bats her eyelashes at him.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle, casting his face in a brief flash of masculine flirtation that makes your heart skip. “And Ms. Foster,” he adds, catching onto your game.
“And Ms. Chamberlain,” you continue, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
“And I’m pretty sure Mrs. Jones,” Nanami finishes, snorting to himself because she’s married, and that’s never stopped Gojo before.
Your eyes meet, scandalous realization settling over you both, and in that moment, the ridiculousness of it all bubbles up inside. Laughter erupts from you first, a released cascade of glee as your head tilts to the night sky. The sound of Nanami’s deep chuckles mingles with your giggles, creating a harmony that seems to resonate in your very bones. It feels good to laugh with Nanami. Just like any other time you spend with him. It takes your mind off the thought of leaving this town—of leaving him—forever.
The night is cool against your skin, but your chest blooms with warmth. You’re about to comment on the beauty of the star-studded sky when you notice Nanami reach into his vest pocket. He pulls out a cigarette, lips wrapping around the filter with a firm but gentle grip.
Your heart sinks, a leaden weight pulling it further down your rib cage. You’ve noticed he only smokes when he’s particularly stressed, and the sight of it now, after such a wonderful evening, makes you frown. You know it’s because of his work, the harshness he sees every day, and his relentless pursuit of the bandit—of you—only makes it worse for him. The remorse gnaws at your insides like a rabid animal.
Doing your best to mask the torrent of emotions threatening to consume you, you aim for a teasing approach. “Stressed, Sheriff?” you ask, quirking an eyebrow and hoping he can’t hear the slight shake in your voice.
Nanami pauses, the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. He looks at you with a flicker of embarrassment, highlighting the tired lines around his eyes that you wish you could smooth away with your fingertips. “Ah, my apologies,” he says, moving to put it away. “The smell—”
You wave him off. “I don’t mind. Not much of a smoker when I need to relax.”
He hums but doesn’t respond, striking a match and cupping large hands around the flame. The brief light illuminates his face, casting shadows across his face. You find yourself transfixed by the way the flame reflects in his dark eyes, like embers in the night.
He takes a long drag, the tip brightening in burnt orange and gold. Nanami exhales, the smoke curling seductively from his nose and into the air, the sight more enticing than it should be. “So, when do you smoke, ma’am?”
His voice is entirely too low, entirely too deep. You playfully glare at the use of ‘ma’am’ for what feels like the nth time since you’ve known each other. You decide to be mischievous, precariously throwing caution to the wind.
“Oh, you know,” you say airily, looking up at the sky as you try to emit an air of faux innocence. Nanami looks at you cautiously, raising a dark blonde eyebrow expectantly, eyes narrowing as he picks up on the teasing tilt in your voice. “You smoke when you’re stressed. I smoke to unwind from a job well done. Preferably, after taking a good man for a ‘ride’.”
Heat simmers beneath your skin as you speak, low and husky and loaded with suggestive humor that surprises even you.
It’s an immediate effect and more satisfying than you could have ever imagined. Nanami sputters, choking on the smoke. His eyes go wide, and crimson erupts up the glimpse of open chest and neck, visible even in the moonlight, spreading to his cheeks in a way that makes you want to trace its path with your lips.
You can’t help but giggle as he coughs. “You make it too easy sometimes, Sheriff,” you say between laughs.
Nanami clears his throat repeatedly, desperately trying to regain his composure. But you catch the corners of his mouth twitching, fighting a smile that makes you bite into your bottom lip. His chest heaves as he takes in deep breaths, and your eyes watch the way his shirt stretches across his wide shoulders with each inhalation.
“You’re trouble, you know that?” he finally manages in a rough voice, glaring at you with a mix of exasperation and fondness that warms you from the inside out.
“So I’ve been told,” you reply with a wink, reveling in the way his breath catches again at your boldness. He shakes his head with a chuckle, turning back to the open plains in front of him.
You notice that some of the tension has left Nanami’s shoulders, his posture relaxed once more. Your guilt eases a little, knowing that, at least for this moment, you’ve managed to lighten his burden rather than add to it.
“Gojo likes trouble as much as he likes wit. Stay away from him and pick someone else.” He pauses, opening his mouth as he weighs his next words with delicacy. “I imagine you have a line of suitors with far more promise than Gojo hoping to escort you to the festival.”
Nanami’s voice is soft, almost wistful, wrapped around an overwhelming cluster of resignation that makes your heart clench painfully in your chest. His eyes are fixed on the horizon as your horses walk side by side, but you can see a tightness around his mouth, a tension in his jaw that speaks volumes.
“I haven’t really paid much attention, to be honest,” you admit, surprised at his sudden remark. You try to keep your tone light and nonchalant, praying he can’t hear the slight tremor, the silent truth that threatens to spill from your lips—that the only man you truly notice is him. Every day, all the time, from sunup to sundown, it’s always Nanami Kento.
Nanami hums thoughtfully, fingering the sharp cut of his jaw. “That fellow from the saloon a few weeks back? He seemed taken with you.” He pulls in a deep drag, sunset orange ebbing to life at the tip.
You can’t help but roll your eyes. The memory of that particular encounter was both amusing and exasperating. “He was three sheets to the wind, Nanami. Claimed to know my drink of choice and got it wrong when he recommended scotch, of all things.”
Nanami exhales a smoky breath, the wisps ghosting around a smirk that makes him look statuesque with the rolling plains behind him. “You prefer moonshine,” he muses, “The kind Kilmer makes, if I’m not mistaken.”
Your heart skips a beat at his casual observation. Moonshine isn’t exactly legal in town, but when the bartender Kilmer works the saloon on Wednesday nights, most of the residents ask for his prized moonshine if no deputies are around. Of all the things for him to pay attention to, your drink of choice seems like such a small, insignificant detail.
You bite the corner of your lip to keep from breaking into a wide smile, belly warm at the thought.
“Not like I can admit to that,” you tease, digging your teeth harder into your bottom lip as the simmering grows in your stomach. “Aren’t you supposed to be upholdin’ the law?”
As soon as the words leave your mouth, you want to snatch them back. You’re aware of how much pressure the sheriff places on himself. How he feels unworthy of the badge on his chest. There has never been a day in your knowing him where you felt he was undeserving. Of the town, of all of its citizens, of you. If you could turn his face to a mirror and stand by his side while you tell him just how deserving he is, you would in a heartbeat.
Nanami’s smile fades slightly, a heavy weariness etching onto his features. He takes another drag and turns his head away as he exhales. “This town is small, and times are hard. Sometimes…moonshine is all someone can afford if they need to get away from the world for a while.” He pauses, his eyes meeting yours in the moonlight. “A good lawman knows when to look the other way for the sake of his people.”
It’s times like these when you admire the man Nanami is. He’s rough around the edges and stern with the law, but he’s also empathetic enough to know when some rules should be lax based on those they affect. Maybe he could think the same about you? Maybe he could understand your self-imposed noble acts and forgive you for causing him so much pain.
Nanami clears his throat, seemingly eager to change the subject. “The man at the general store two months ago? He could hardly string two words together around you.”
“He was at least five years younger than me,” you counter, giggling at his persistence. “Hardly appropriate. What will the town think?”
“That you’re incredibly picky—” he starts, but you cut him off with a playful swat to his arm.
“Or maybe,” you chuckle with a playful roll of your eyes, “they’ll think I have standards. Is that so wrong, Sheriff?”
“Not at all. Though, I can’t help but wonder what those standards might be.”
Oh.
You’re immediately aware of how dangerous this conversation has become. You’ve never flirted so blatantly before, never with such clear intention. The banter between you and Nanami has always been a harmonious push and pull, as natural as breathing, even though you both treat it as a forbidden dance. But this shift now—it’s palpable, exciting, and terrifying all at once. But the night air, the lingering adrenaline from the cattle drive, that pump of electric fire that pulses through your veins when you can feel free for a moment, all of it makes you bold.
“Someone kind,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking any louder might shatter the moment. “Intelligent also helps, dedicated to his work and cares about the people around him.” You risk a glance, hiding beneath the curtain of your curls. Your heart races, each beat echoing the recklessness that coats your tongue with every word. “Someone who notices the little things…like a lady’s drink preference.”
The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. It’s as if you’ve finally given a voice to the undercurrent that’s been flowing between you, transforming your ocean of subtle flirtation into something more tangible, more precarious.
Nanami’s gaze, usually so controlled, molds before your eyes. In the flickering embers of his cigarette, you see something molten, a desire that slides down your body with liquid arousal. His lips purse around his cigarette, your eyes flickering to the muscle that curls around the filter, watching with rapt attention as he inhales deeply, slowly.
When you slide your eyes up to meet his, your breath catches at the still-burning intensity. Your vision tunnels to the reflective desire in his eyes, the moonlight on his face, the tension that crackles between you like lightning before a storm. It’s almost too much, your chest tightening with still stolen breath in your lungs.
But just as quickly, he looks away, severing the connection and turning to exhale a plume of smoke into the darkness.
“He sounds like a fool.”
The tension breaks like a dam, and you find yourself choking on a surprised laugh, chortling at the full smile he shoots your way as if bashful. He seems like a flirtatious teenager, basking in the attention from his crush, and you hold on to the sight—to the way it’s making you feel.
As your laughter fades and he puts out his cigarette on the heel of his boot, the atmosphere shifts again. The sizzling lust that danced around you both softens into something more intimate, more tender.
The moonlight catches in Nanami’s hair, turning the golden strands liquid silver. No longer the pristine part he maintains, the strands fall in gentle tufts around the tops of his ears and over his eyebrows. Your fingers twitch on the reins of Buttercup, itching to reach out and brush those disheveled strands away, to feel if they’re as soft as they look.
Nanami, soft when he speaks again, almost reverent. “You’d be surprised, you know,” he murmurs, looking at you once more. “Just how many people notice you.”
His words sway in the air, loaded with meaning. You find yourself frozen, caught in the earth of his gaze, the sincerity making your throat dry. Even as your hips move with Buttercup’s trot, it feels like the world narrows to just the two of you, eyes on each other as everything else fades into insignificance.
Suspended in time and bathed in moonlight, you wish you could push a little further, draw out a confession, or make a declaration of your own. You want to stretch this moment into eternity, to live in this space where you only exist as a schoolteacher, and Nanami could put his own happiness first, just for once.
But reality intervenes, as it always does, with a painful wave of guilt that crashes over you. The weight of your secrets, of your double life, of your part in his pain, settles heavily on your shoulders like lead. So, instead of the words you long to say, you offer only a gentle smile, letting the serene silence of the night envelop you both.
As the first glimmers of the town’s lamplights come into view, you allow yourself this moment of peace. You bask in Nanami’s presence beside you, in the rhythm of the horses’ hooves, in the soft ‘plop’ of his Stetson against his back with each step. You breathe in the memory of shared laughter and adventure, storing it away like a precious treasure.
It’s dangerous—this indulgence—you know. Every shared moment, every word, every loaded glance yanks you further into a web of feelings you can’t afford to have. But as you ride side by side through the moonlight, you can’t bring yourself to regret it. Not tonight.
Instead, you hold this memory close to your heart, a keepsake against the long, lonely nights ahead. It’s a bittersweet reminder of what could be, in a world where you aren’t who you are—a world that exists only in these fleeting moments under the vast, star-studded sky.
By the time you clamber up to your doorstep, Buttercup is already resting in her stable, and that terrible feeling of guilt and confusion roars to life in your chest. You wrap your hand around your doorknob before turning to look at Nanami. He’s still there, with messy hair and sweaty skin, as he reaches into his vest for another cigarette. Handsome and otherworldly and right there. He catches your stare as he places the filter between his lips, one eyebrow quirking up in concern.
“Everything alright?” he asks, the unlit cigarette dangling as he speaks. “I’m not leaving until you’re safely inside.”
You wish you could relish in his concern, bathe in his care, and savor the warmth that blooms in your chest. But you’re not sure you’ve even earned it.
“I’m goin’, I'm goin',” you joke, cracking the door as you step one foot inside your home, still angled to him.
“Well, hurry along then,” he insists, a gentle demand lingering beneath. He lights the cigarette, cheeks pulled in as he inhales full-chested and exhales a deep plume of smoke. Through the haze that dances around him, you find mischief as he smirks. “Ma’am.”
The laugh leaves you before you can stop it, rolling your eyes at his deliberate use of the title he knows annoys you. With a final wave, you step inside, closing the door behind you.
The laughter dies on your lips as soon as the door clicks closed and you press your forehead against the cool wood, eyes stinging with the promise of tears. The clop of Flint’s hooves slowly fades as Nanami gets further away from you, and the only thing you wish at this moment is to yank open the door and run to him. To run away from your terrifying thoughts and forget everything.
Next week, when Mr. and Mrs. Phillips leave town, you have another heist planned. It should feel promising. Another chance to do good, to make others happy at the expense of your safety. But the thought sits heavy in your stomach, the lightness you felt moments ago with Nanami leaving in a flourish.
That nagging feeling from this morning, the festering loneliness born from your decisions, finally breaks free now that you have nothing else to distract you. It makes everything so much harder now. The thrill that once drove you feels muted now, overshadowed by something else—something warm and achingly intimate that’s taken root in your chest.
You slide down to the floor, back against the door, bottom lip quivering as conflict rages like an inferno within you. Tomorrow, you’ll have to start preparing. But tonight, you can’t help but wonder if your heart is truly in this anymore.
Thanks for reading! I hope to have part two out in a few days!
#mysteria writes#Nanami kento#Nanami Kento x reader#Nanami Kento x black reader#nanami x you#Nanami Kento x y/n#jujutsu kaisen#jjk#jjk x reader#jujutsu kaisen x reader#mysteria157#anime x black reader#Nanami Kento fanfic#jjk fanfic#jjk x black reader#Nanami Kento smut#jjk au#jujutsu kaisen fanfiction#nanami kento fluff#kento x reader#nanami x reader#smut#fluff#jjk fluff#jjk smut#Nanami Kento x you#blk writers#writers on tumblr#cowboy nanami#sheriff nanami
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GENERAL MASTERLIST - SOLO FICS AND TEXT FICS MASTERLIST
Fake text masterlist ->
UNLESS SPECIFIED, ALL MEMBERS ARE INCLUDED. IF NOT ALL MEMBERS ARE INCLUDED, THE NAME IS SPECIFIED.
boyfriend stray kids reacting to you sending them flowers | hyung line | maknae line
gushing over barefaced stray kids in the wrong chat | hyung line | maknae line
best friend stray kids pretending to be your boyfriend for a social event | hyung line | maknae line
text with ex!boyfriend stray kids | SKZ x you | PART 2 Chan + Minho | Changbin + Felix
Boyfriend stray kids dreaming you cheated
Boyfriend stray kids but it’s a secret because he’s your brother’s best friend
nsfw texts with boyfriend stray kids while they’re not alone | hyung line | maknae line
texting boyfriend stray kids in your native language
boyfriend stray kids finding out you’re still in the same friend group with your ex
friend Stray Kids asking you out for Valentine’s Day | hyung line | maknae line
Asking Stray Kids “what are we?” | hyung line | maknae line
Boyfriend Stray Kids being jealous of you
Best friend Stray Kids knowing you had a bad day without you needing to tell him
texting boyfriend Stray Kids about a (fake) dating scandal about them | hyung line | maknae line
texting boyfriend stray kids about the fanmeeting
fiancé stray kids’ dad walking you down the aisle
wearing boyfriend Stray Kids’ clothes in public
texts with boyfriend Changbin
“How did you save me as?” with best friend Stray Kids
Best friend Stray Kids sending you nudes by mistake
Ex boyfriend Stray Kids apologizing and wanting to get back together
Boyfriend Stray Kids comforting you after a bad day at work
Asking boyfriend Stray Kids for nudes
Confessing to a discouraged Stray Kids best friend | Chan | Minho + part 2 + part 3 | Changbin | Hyunjin | Jisung | Felix | Seungmin | Jeongin
Boyfriend Stray Kids standing you up
Texting the wrong number (and it's idol!Changbin)
Boyfriend Stray Kids asking you to meet his parents
Confessing to best friend Stray Kids but they don’t like you back
Best friend Stray Kids asking you out after rejecting you (part 2 of this) | hyung line | maknae line
you’re the one always reaching out to boyfriend Minho | part 1 - part 2- part 3
Boyfriend Stray Kids finding a gift you hid in their suitcase
Asking boyfriend Stray Kids “If an evil witch turned me into a kitten, what would you do?”
Stray Kids group chat | OT8 ->
IN being teased for being affectionate with you | group chat
Group chat with poly!OT8 when you have a migraine | poly!OT8 x you
(Headers and dividers from saradika-graphics)
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Nanami x Reader
cw: sick terminology (our pookie is having tummy troubles), suggestive if you use a magnifying glass, overall fluff
thank you to @/saradika-graphics for the dividers! 💕
Art in header by the talented @nikawa_2ji! 💕
Being sick isn't exactly something that occurs for Kento. Together for seven years, you could attest to him being ill once. A 24-hour fever he overcame in 10. This bout certainly wasn't the case.
Kento went to the bathroom attached to his home office, clinging to what he felt were the last remaining pieces of his spirit while hurling for the third time since 4 am. Throwing his eye patch to hell for all he cared, he took his white t-shirt off, placing it under the running water before wrapping it around his neck. The cool sensation gave temporary relief from the wretched sensation of nausea.
Kento entered the hallway, thinking he was fine, only to begin dry heaving again.
"Ken?" You sat the container of flour down, turning your head to listen. He'd been up for a while, and you assumed he was out for his morning jog and maybe stopping at the market. "Kento? You okay?" Nothing.
"Ugh, fucks sake." he groaned as you heard a thump.
Taking your apron off, you hastily move toward the living room—another spell of retching leads to the hallway instead. The dimly lit hall brought you to your poor husband.
A shirtless, clammy, and disoriented Kento sat against the wall in the darkened hallway. "Hi, dear."
You crouched before him, touching his forehead to check his feverish skin, which immediately alarmed you. You pursed your lips before speaking up, "You're burning up, baby.."
"I don't know what's wrong. My stomach feels like it's being tossed around in a dryer," Kento spoke, taking short breaths between words, his light hair sticking to his forehead.
"We'll figure that out. But let's get you back to bed. Can you get up?" You placed your shoulder under him, and he slowly wrapped his arm around you, boosting himself up. "What have you eaten in the last 24 hours?" As you strolled, he shuffled beside you, his arm slung over your shoulder.
"Well, we had lunch here at the house, and then Itadori-kun and I went for a seafood dinner at a restaurant Kugisaki saw on social media."
Sitting him on the side of the bed so he could lie down, he propped himself against the pillows. "We had some sort of paella and maybe a few too many crab legs."
"Shellfish."
"How do you know?" Bringing his legs up on the bed, you fluffed the pillows behind him and brought the sheets out in case he needed to cover up.
"It seems to be the possible culprit from what you've told me. Or maybe someone handling your food was a bit unhygienic?" You walked to the bathroom, looking for the first aid kit under the sink to fish out a thermometer and anti-nausea medication. Finding it, you made your way back to Kento's side. "Open."
Eyes closed, he followed orders, the twisting pain in his stomach sending a shiver through his body. The beeping of the thermometer made him focus. "What's the verdict?"
"101.1, which means you're in bed until this passes."
A groan left the sickly man's throat. "It'll pass in a few hours, I'm sure.."
"Your optimism is cute," you kissed his head. Just focus on resting. I'll get you some water to start rehydrating, then get things cleaned up." You placed the nausea medication on his bedside. "And if the room starts feeling like a tilt-a-whirl, let one of these melt on your tongue."
The trip to the kitchen was quick, and upon returning with a glass of water, you watched Kento struggle to open the foiled Dramamine package.
You slide the package from between his nimble fingers. "I've got it, honey."
"What about the plans for my birthday? Gojo will be a nuisance if he thinks I'm faking to avoid his party."
"I know you weren't super excited about the party Gojo was planning, but I'll threaten him if he tries to get fly with me."
"My darling angel of a wife, thank you." He opens his mouth, and you place the tablet on his tongue.
"You owe me, Mr. Nanami." With a wink, you get him comfortable in bed, placing another pillow behind him as he begins to doze off. "I'll come check on you in a bit."
Kento wasn't sure when you got your wings, but he appreciated having an angel to tend to him. So patient and willing to be by him. Honestly, he didn't know when you got the halo, either. He didn't think you were a full-blown angel until this moment. "A literal angel, wow-" words slurred, and your wings seemingly much more vibrant to him as he passed out into a deep sleep. Ken promised himself he'd verify the angel allegations when he was more fit for thinking.
Day 3 of the stomach virus showed progress despite a rough start. Kento kept trying to force himself to feel better, thinking cat naps would suffice over a good night's rest. But his nausea was a reminder to take it much slower. He watched you prepare for work: a simple black knee-length dress, nude-colored stockings, and his favorite shoes. "The Manolo slingbacks?" Kento perked up in bed. "You know, I'm feeling much, much better today."
You peeked from out of the bathroom. 'You're supposed to be sleeping, not checking me out."
"My love, I'm feeling better than before."
"That's not how this works. You still have a fever, and rest will help get rid of it."
"I am resting; I'm in bed, having bone broth, and not working."
"If you don't want me to go to work, all you have to do is ask."
He'd be lying if he said he didn't want you to stay. He had not tried his luck the past two days, but today was different. Kento was needy and required more comfort to sleep. Was this the man cold? He thought he was above that.
"Please. I promise I will sleep if you stay home with me today."
Your heels clack against the wooden floor as you go to his side of the bed. "Take your aspirin, eat a few more spoons of porridge, and I'll hold you while you sleep." a gentle smooch on his cheek earns a soft smile from him. "Let me call Gojo and tell him he'll be handling training today."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Nanamin. I didn't know he'd get sick! I ate way more than he did and felt perfectly okay this week." you called Itadori a few days ago to see how he was feeling. He was more than okay, finding him out with his peers shopping when you called.
Now, he sat across from you in the dining room, a gift bag decorated with 'get well soon' craftily written across it sat next to him as he ate another croissant. The teen was worried he'd killed the man just from the restaurant recommendation alone. "Is he going to be okay?"
"Yuuji, nothing you've done is the result of this. The food didn't sit well with him." You take another sip of coffee before reassuring the stressed teen. "He's been resting and getting better the past four days. He'll be better and back on campus by the end of the week."
"Well, can you let him know I dropped by?" Yuuji stuffed the last of his croissant in his mouth before sipping the hot cocoa and dusting his hands on the napkin. "Some of us got together and made a care package. Gojo made him some ladyfingers, Takuma got him some cool handkerchiefs, Nobara bought him one of those spa gel masks for his frown lines, and Fushiguro found an apron that says 'kitchen boss' he thought he'd appreciate… we want to keep his spirits up while he gets better."
"He'll appreciate knowing you stopped by. And the thoughtful gifts." Grabbing a small container, you went to the kitchen in a few paces. "The rest of these are yours. I'll be closely monitoring Nanamin's food intake for a while, and pain au Chocolat won't be helpful." You strategically place the croissants in the container, handing them to Yuuji. "Be safe getting back to campus."
"Will do, Mrs. Nanamin! You're amazing. I'll call to check on him tonight!" The teen hugged you quickly before making his way out of the door.
"Are there any objections?"Nanami looked around, confident there was nobody idiotic enough to-"Wait! Please!" A pale blue-haired worm slithered down the aisle. The guest gasped in shock as the tubular creature began to morph into a human. "Don't go through with this. I love you more than life itself." Mahito stood in front of you, naked with a ring box in hand.Nanami looked at you, eyes wide. "My beautiful bride, please. Please think of the life we're building. I love you so much."" I'm sorry, Ken. I tried hiding my feelings, but my heart is with Mahito." You let go of Nanami's hands, rushing into Mahito's embrace. "Happy Birthday… Nanamin." The wickedness of Mahito's tone brought Kento to his knees.The guests all stood and began to chant, "Over time for eternity," as the church hall slowly faded into a pool of purple liquid.Gojo kneeled next to Nanami. "Kento, it's not the end. You still have me, yeah?.. honey… Ken?" Your sing-song voice was filling his head."Gojo? You sound like my wife."
"Gojo?" confused, you shook his shoulder to wake him. "Kento, wake up."
He sprung up, lungs empty and gasping for air as he looked around.
"You aren't Gojo!"
"Do you want Gojo?"
Profusely shaking his head, "I'd rather not."
"You were having quite the fever dream, it seems."
"It was an absolute hellish nightmare." He grabbed the water from the bedside, glugging it before you took the glass from him, sitting it down. "How long have I been asleep?"
You smoothed his bedhead hair, kissing Kento's temple before lying back with him. "Well, after lunch yesterday, I couldn't wake you up to save my life, but that seems to have been a good thing. Your fever broke. How are you feeling?"
Kento wrapped his arm around you, pushing the covers off with his free hand. A soft huff of comfort released as he felt the midday breeze flow through the room. "Makes sense; I feel so well rested. My stomach feels so much better. But Itadori-kun and I will have our weekly dinners here at home for a while."
"That's more than okay with me. I like it when he visits. I'm always glad to see him, and he also seems happy to come over."
"He'll be happy to know this. Our next dinner is for my birthday; he's been trying his best not to spoil my gift."
"We have plenty of easy-to-digest meals for the next few days while your stomach settles."
"Yes, dear," he playfully retorted. Nothing sounds better than an easy-to-digest birthday dinner," he jested, pulling you into his bare chest.
"Oh yeah. Yuuji brought you a care package. He and a few others put some rather lovely items in."
Eyebrows raised, Kento seemed surprised. "Itadori was here? Not sick?"
You nodded. "Left about an hour ago."
"How am I the only one who got sick?"
"To be fair, the boy likes to eat. And he did eat an ancient finger once, so.." shrugging your shoulders as Kento attempted to stifle a laugh unsuccessfully.
"You bring up a fair point. He can put it away."
Rubbing his belly elicits a quiet hum of a familiar tune. He stops and peers over to you. The rays of the midday sun cast a beautiful golden hue across the bed and onto your shoulders. Kento studied the soft features that structured your face, the feel of your plush leg thrown over his as you hummed the Jimmy Eat World melody. The lack of almost claustrophobic closeness over the last few days has done a number on him.
His rich brown eyes found yours, and warmth crept up the nape of your neck as his lids lowered. "I have something planned for us."
"Something planned?'
"I didn't want you to plan anything for my birthday because I did. It's a birthday and pre-anniversary getaway of sorts. We're going to the hot springs."
Your lips puckered, landing pecks across his chin and neck. "Hot springs? Kenny baby. Do you know how perfect that sounds?"
"Indeed I do. Two weeks of solitude with my angel baby."
"Two weeks?"
"Two. Weeks."
"2 whole weeks?"
"Darling, if you repeat after me again, I'm going to assume you can't hear me."
Getting three consecutive days was pulling teeth. "What did you do to make Yaga go along with two fucking weeks?"
Kissing your shoulder, he brought your hand to his mouth. "Not much." lightly began to kiss each of your fingertips. "We just have to visit the Kyoto campus," He pressed his lips to your wrist to feel your pulse. "For a few days."
"Hm." you squinted as you read between the lines. The exchange event wasn't quite yet, but there were talks of development training that needed a few more grade 1 sorcerers for demonstrations— "You volunteered us for that combat training."
Kissing your palm and making his way up to the crease of your elbow, he wriggles between your legs until hovering over you.
"Nanami Kento."
"Are you going to be upset with your stomach pain-riddled husband? On his birthday, no less. Who loves you more than life itself? Who worships every cell in-"
"I'm getting a new swimsuit," you said, stopping his sweeter-than-honey ramble and kissing his chest. And I'll make sure Gojo reschedules the party, birthday boy."
"And I'll be there with a shit-eating grin the whole night. My wife is getting a new swimsuit for my eyes only. I can sit through 2 hours of Gojo and everyone else. Best birthday ever."
#jujutsu kaisen#nanami kento#kento x reader#nanami x reader#nanami x you#jjk kento#jjk nanami#kento x y/n#nanami fluff#lu.logs
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🧊❄️YASHI'S MASTERLIST ❄️🧊
About Myself and The Blog
Manual Drawing of Divisional Charts: A Beginner's Guide
Excerpts from Old Astro Books
Random Astro Observations
Astro Observations -2
Astro Observations -3
Astro Observations-4
Astro Observations-5
Astro Observations-6
Vedic Placements and Evil Eyes
Past, Present and Future Karma Predictions by Saturn Aspects - Introductory Post
Saturn Aspects and it's Related Karma-Part 1
Saturn Aspects and it's Related Karma-Part 2
D6 Chart: Dissection of 6H
Few Indicators of Past Life Partners in Birth Chart
Indicators of Having Twin Babies
Pushkara Navamsa- A Hidden Gem in D9 Chart
Indicators of Having S*x before Marriage
Rahu-Ketu Dosha and Marriage
Rahu Mahadasha and Weddings
Business and Vedic chart Placements
Some Interesting Vedic Astro Stuff
Moon in the Houses (Part-1)
Moon in the Houses (Part-2)
5H placements and it's related notes
5H pregnancy and children
Agricultural Astrology
Aswini Nakshatra
Saturn in Water Signs
Jupiter-Saturn Conjunction/Aspects: A voice for social causes
Indicators of Marrying within the Extended Family
7H in Birth Chart: Enemies or Lovers?
Rahu in 5H and a Woman's Marriage Plight
Rahu/Ketu stars and The Air/Fire Signs: A Philosophical Perspective
Few Important Factors considered in Marriage Match Making according to Vedic Astrology
Moon signs and lucky colors
Mediocre or Way too good Vedic chart?
Sun in 9H
Names of Solar and Lunar Yogas
Dharma Karmadhipati Yoga
Neecha Bhanga Raj Yoga
Pancha Mahapurusha Yogas- Part 1
Pancha Mahapurusha Yogas- Part 2
❄️ASKS❄️
NOTE: Avoid sending 'asks' abt multiple placements or any detailed asks, I might choose to answer only if it interests me and is short. I answer long ones only if I find it to be unique🩵
Shravana Moon in 5H
Placements that indicate a non-religious personality
D1 and D9 chart
Rahu-Ketu (1-7 axis) in Bhavottama
Multiple personal placements-1
Multiple personal placements-2
Nakshatra Exchange
Others- 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
Random asks-1,2
New Blog Announcement
Divider credits: @saradika-graphics, @dollywons
Header credits: @saradika-graphics
#astrology#blogs#astro placements#birth chart#natal chart#astro observations#astro notes#vedic astro observations#astro community#planets#astrology notes#astrology aspects#astrology placements#sidereal zodiac#sidereal astrology#sidereal chart#astroblr#vedic astrology#astro content#moonchild033#masterlist#asks#vedic astrology observations#vedic chart#vedic astro notes#astro girlies#zodiac stuff#zodiac#zodiac signs
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My Wish (Papa!Gyomei Himejima Drabble)
Header Credit: Pexels & Ufotable Pairing: Gyomei Himejima x Wife!Reader Category: Fluff/Light Angst Tags: Depictions of Childbirth, Mentions of Blood, Babies, New Parenthood, Flashbacks to Infinity Castle Arc/Gyomei's Backstory, Crying, Tooth-Rotting Fluff Word Count: 1k Divider Credit: @saradika Summary: Gyomei does his best to remain strong as you give birth to his firstborn child. A/N: Hello hello lovely people! I've had this idea swimming around in my mind for a while, and I'm so happy I finally got around to it! (Gyomei would make such an amazing dad I just know it). I hope you enjoy! Pt. 2 - Late Night
Gyomei clenched his jaw as you gripped his massive hand with your sweaty palm. He tightly squeezed the string of red prayer beads that was wound in his other hand as you groaned and panted heavily.
"You're doing amazing, my love," he gently reassured you as he ran his thumb over your knuckles. You suddenly threw your head back and released a harsh cry, the midwife cooing as she held your other hand. She gasped when she peeked around the blanket obscuring the lower portion of your body.
"Just keep breathing deeply, (Y/N). I can see the baby's head crowning!" she said as a hopeful expression lit up her face. Gyomei's breath hitched at the news before you began to curse and sob. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze as he placed his lips against your paling knuckles.
"You’re such a strong woman, (Y/N). The strongest one I-“ his voice cut off when you nearly crushed his hand as you screamed. His frown deepened as the midwife patted your face with a wet cloth.
“I-I can’t do it!” you sobbed as your legs shook. Gyomei shook his head as he held your hand up to his cheek, your words resonating with him as he thought back to how he leaned against the wall during the battle at the Infinity Castle. How hope was but a dying flame in his heart as blood oozed from his wounds…and yet, the sound of your voice calling to him within his mind stoked the fire deep within him.
Heavy tears trailed down Gyomei’s cheeks as he could only imagine the pain you were in. He gave your hand another reassuring squeeze as he carefully leaned down and pecked your forehead.
“You can do it, (Y/N). You’re so close,” he encouraged you the same way you did when he was barely hanging on by a thread. He heard you swallow thickly before your breaths grew more quick and ragged.
“You’re almost there, Mrs. Himejima. Just a few more pushes,” the midwife coached you as she prepared to catch the baby. Gyomei held his breath as he awaited to hear the soft cries of his newborn, his heart wildly pounding against his rib cage as he bounced his leg.
You continued to grunt and grip his hand tightly as you strained on the futon. Gyomei’s head perked up when he heard you curse out one more time before the first wailing cries of your baby cascaded through the room.
He could practically feel the midwife grinning as the little one gurgled and cried, your exhausted pants filling his ears as your grip on his hand loosened.
“You did an amazing job, my love,” he cooed softly.
“Yes…now it’s time to start pushing for the other one,” the midwife said. A heavy silence lingered in the room before both you and your husband spoke.
“WHAT?!”
+++
After another hour of grunting, screaming and nearly breaking your husband’s hand, you welcomed another wailing infant into the world. Gyomei gently wiped the sweat from your exhausted features as the midwife checked and cleaned the newborns.
“You did such an incredible job, my dear,” your beloved smiled gently as he wiped your brow. You sighed and gently placed a hand over his wrist. Gyomei smiled as he set the wet rag aside and leaned down, his lips gently caressing the top of your head.
“I bet I look like a mess right now,” you chuckled tiredly. Gyomei hummed as he pulled back and shook his head.
“No, I bet you look even more beautiful than ever, my precious flower,” he sighed and cupped your cheek with his massive, warm palm. His heart fluttered as you leaned into his touch, your skin so soft and smooth against his hand. The midwife cleared her throat as she shuffled towards the other side of your bed.
“Mr. and Mrs. Himejima, meet your new baby girls,” she smiled. Gyomei’s heart lit up as he heard the shuffling of bedsheets and the soft grunts of the two small newborns. You thanked the midwife as she gently handed the cooing twins over to you. Tears welled in Gyomei’s eyes as he knelt at your bedside, his hand hesitantly hovering over you.
“What do they look like?” your husband asked as he tilted his head. He gasped as you gently took his hand and placed it over one of the girls’ heads.
“They both have your hair…and my eyes,” you replied softly. Gyomei sighed with relief as he gently brushed his thumb over the tuft of soft, dark hair on his daughter’s head. A warm, gentle smile crossed his face as he felt his little one lean into his hand.
“They seem quite big for newborns,” he chuckled softly. You giggled and shifted in bed.
“Well, considering who their papa is…” you began. Gyomei felt the tips of his ears burn as his stomach tied into a knot.
“R-Right. I’m...I'm so sorry for making you endure that,” he sighed. You cooed and shook your head.
“It’s alright, Gyo. We both couldn’t have known how big our babies would be,” you reassured him with a quiet chuckle. Gyomei returned your smile before hot tears began to roll down his cheeks. You sighed softly as he sniffed.
“I-I just never thought this day would come,” he swallowed thickly as he folded his hand over his daughter’s head, as if to shield her from the evils of the world. His breath stuttered as he carefully brought his hand over to his other newborn baby, the sound of her cooing as he gently cupped her plump cheek. “After the orphanage, I…I thought bringing children into this world was a curse,” Gyomei confessed with a heavy sigh.
His eyes widened as he felt his little one wrap her soft, tiny hand around one of his thick fingers. He sniffed, his heart melting as he smiled.
“But...I’ve never felt more blessed than I do now,” he murmured softly as his daughter held onto his large finger. His smile grew as you leaned up and pecked his cheek.
“You’re going to be a wonderful father, Gyomei,” you whispered lovingly. Your husband’s heart swelled with an overwhelming warmth as he soaked in the presence of his beloved wife and two new miracles. He smiled and placed a soft kiss on your forehead before giving one to his precious newborns as well.
“And you’re going to be the most amazing mother, my love,” he grinned.
————
Thank you for reading! ❤️
Taglist: @yuhhtricki999 @lavenderbabu @thedevax @famouscattale @spktrgantenk @zombieblogx @mrswhitethornbelikov @migueloharastruelove @galaxy-dusk @samanthashadowriley @theloneshadow24 @xxkay15xx @inspace1 @manlikemilesmyguy @ghostslynx @synamonthy @oharasfilipinawife @scaleniusrm @jotarossshark @acotarobbsessed @8xbygirl @catchmeupimgettingoutofhere @lyrasdrawer @mcmiracles @genma-support-group @rattybimbo @rinyukaa
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#demon slayer#demon slayer fanfic#demon slayer fluff#demon slayer angst#gyomei himejima#gyomei himejima fluff#gyomei himejima x you#gyomei himejima x y/n#gyomei himejima x f!reader#gyomei himejima x fem!reader#gyomei x y/n#gyomei x you#gyomei x f!reader#gyomei x fem!reader
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mutual understanding
Chapter I | Chapter II | CHAPTER III: As curious as a dead cat | IV | V
PAIRING: Kenpachi/AFAB!Reader CONTENTS: AU - Fantasy, Medieval, Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Misunderstandings, Miscommunication, Pining, Explicit Sexual Content, Virginity Loss. WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER: Explicit sexual content, Cunnilingus, First time (I think, kinda). WORDCOUNT: 3221
Summary:
You had assumed you would have been intimate with him on your wedding night, and you were hoping that it would happen anytime soon after that first kiss.
Notes:
FINALLY what probably everyone had been waiting for!
Let me know if you wanna be tagged!
header by me, divider by @/saradika
taglist: @actuallysaiyan @lol-ktr @vrgelivvvv @pennameyoruichiii
@hikariandptakchleb @thebestgirlever2
Kenpachi didn’t make any indication of wanting to touch more than you had allowed him to, only sliding his hands up and down your sides, and that was a relief that night you kissed for the first time.
You started to reconsider it as the days went by.
Spending more time with Kenpachi had actually opened your eyes about a lot of things about him that you had misjudged. He spoked crudely, but he simply did so because it was a part of him (and you figured it had a lot to do with his past; since he wasn’t royalty, he probably never had an education). His hardened expression was just natural as well, it did not mean that he was angry all the time. Better yet, it was actually attractive how stoic he was sometimes. You had been a fool for a long time; he wasn’t as cold, distant or violent as you initially assumed. At least not violent towards you, or anyone who couldn’t defend themselves, and that was all you cared about.
You had assumed you would have been intimate with him on your wedding night. Even if that didn’t end up happening at that moment, you were hoping that it would happen anytime soon after that first kiss. You weren’t ignorant about what it was supposed to happen, you weren’t even ignorant about your own body. He had awoken certain sensations that you had never felt, and you were more than curious about what it’d be like to actually lay with someone. And nothing as exciting as doing it with your husband when you had newfound affection for him.
Which made you conclude that you liked Kenpachi more than you would like to admit. Albeit you had jumped to conclusions about him from the beginning; once a little light came through, you saw him differently, and you couldn’t deny it anymore. Especially after you started kissing more regularly, something in your stomach bubbled (besides sexual excitement) every time. And you just wanted, needed, more.
You eyed him as discreetly as possible whenever he got to the bedroom at night, taking off his clothes as he readied himself to sleep. Callous skin for sure, but with curves and dips and defined muscles, with broad shoulders and ample chest. You couldn’t even help yourself but stare at him; you were as curious as a dead cat, but you wouldn’t mind being dead at all if it meant laying with such a man. He was your spouse, after all.
Kenpachi walked in later than usual one night. The colder days had crept in, and snow was inevitable to happen soon. You had insisted he take a bath in the bedroom several times, it was warmer than any other room (you wouldn’t admit to any ulterior motives), but he kept denying it for no apparent reason; he usually was ready to sleep as soon as he walked in.
You stayed in silence for a few minutes, watching him from the bed as he sat down in the chair by the fireplace, taking off his eyepatch and running his hand through his hair before cracking his neck to the side.
“Did you think I had kids of my own?” Kenpachi suddenly asked without even turning his eyes to you, but you couldn’t help but look at him in surprise.
He was talking about Yachiru and the moment you found out about her. You felt your face heat up just remembering it.
“I had no idea what… what to think, if I’m being honest.” You answered vaguely.
“You were shocked when you thought I had children.” He said, looking at you with an amused grin.
“Yes.” You finally admitted, blushing deeper. “I knew nothing about you, so I was surprised!”
“You could’ve just asked.” Kenpachi said with a chuckle. “But it was a funny way to introduce yourself to my men.”
“Please, I could barely look them in the eye afterwards.” You replied, covering your face. The sound of his laugh took you by surprise, and it only made you smile. “What’s the purpose of bringing this up now?”
“Didn’t think my wife who didn’t want to marry me would care about that shit.”
“Any wife would care if her husband was sleeping around!” You complained, rolling your eyes. “Are you mocking me?”
“What do you think?”
When Kenpachi walked over to you, you tensed up in anticipation. He sat beside you on the bed before promptly kissing you, slamming his lips against yours. He never failed to take you by surprise; he was rarely soft or gentle, usually slowing down after a while, but his kisses were always urgent. You hadn’t kissed anyone before him so you could mold yourself to his pace, but you were positive this was just his own personality seeping through in the way he kissed you. If anything, he was always authentic.
You were breathless when he pulled away, and you watched him, dizzy-eyed as he stood up to remove his tunic before slipping beside you on the bed. You stared at him expectantly, and sighed when it was obvious when he just wanted to sleep.
You knew nothing about seduction, so you didn’t exactly know how to proceed; you didn’t want to explicitly ask for Kenpachi to touch you, you had your pride as well. Sighing loudly again, you wished him good night before blowing out the candle in your bedside table, to which he only responded with a grunt.
It took you a while to fall asleep that night, and you were too tempted to get up and take a walk around the castle but quickly gave up on the idea, too nervous to wake Kenpachi up if you were to get out. Though in the few days you had been sharing a bed, it was almost an obvious fact that he slept like a log; you could play the drums and he would not even notice.
When you woke up early in the morning, the first thing you noticed was the snow outside the window, covering the sill. You watched, between sleepiness and wonderment, as small drops of snow slowly fell from the sky, stretching your legs along the warmth of the bed.
“Have you never seen snow?” Kenpachi’s hoarse voice startled you, making you turn to him in surprise.
“It rarely snows in the palace.” You replied, clearing your voice to avoid sounding too sleepy, and pulling the covers over your shoulders when you noticed he was only covering his lower half with the sheets, bare chest completely exposed. “I’ve only seen snow a couple of times.”
He only grunted in response, and you took a minute to watch his face; you almost never got to see him wake up at the same time as you. His hair was just as wild as it was during the day, you’ve seen him comb it yet stay the same, so it must naturally look that messy. You were fond of that look, it just added to his overall aggressive appearance.
The scar down the side of his face always caught your attention. Kenpachi was regarded as the strongest man in the kingdom, but who had been strong enough to harm him?
“You’re staring too much.” He said, fixing his eyes on yours. You immediately felt your temperature raise, and swallowed quietly. “Do I have something on my face?”
“Your scar-”
“Well, I can’t do anything about that.”
“No.” You chuckled as he grinned, equally amused. “How did you get it?”
“A woman gave it to me.”
“A woman?!” You raised your voice in surprise. “She must have been remarkable to have inflicted such harm to you.”
“Yeah…”
When Kenpachi didn’t add anything else, you became nervous, fidgeting under the covers. He was the one who wouldn’t stop staring at you then.
You gasped when he suddenly rolled on top of you, bracing his arms on each side of your head, looking down at you with eyes that turned darker with each passing moment. The heat emanating from his body invaded you, even through the sheets and covers in between your bodies.
“Are you still unwilling?” Kenpachi asked in a surprisingly cautious tone.
There wasn’t any need to clarify what he meant when he asked, and you didn’t need to consider your answer.
“No, I have been… willing for a while now.” You answered, embarrassed yet enthusiastic.
You could have kept talking if it wasn’t for Kenpachi’s insistent mouth covering yours in the blink of an eye. His kisses had always been hungry, as if he was trying to devour you, but you could tell the difference between his usual ones and the kiss he was giving you at that moment. He was excited for you, fervently gliding his lips over yours as his tongue explored the inside of your mouth, swallowing down the little noises you made as he pressed his body to yours.
That was when you felt his erection pressing against your thigh. If you could feel it through all the fabrics, you couldn’t even imagine what his size would be like.
Kenpachi only pulled back to remove the covers, attaching his lips to yours soon afterward. He groaned lowly when one of his hands found your chest, groping your breast roughly through your nightgown and making you gasp as you wrapped your arms around his neck.
Your heart pounded fast inside your chest, too nervous, excited and scared at the same time when he pulled your nightgown over your head, discarding it haphazardly, leaving you completely exposed. The cool air created goosebumps on your skin, and you shivered from trepidation. He stared at you, eyes traveling down your chest and lower, and you felt the need to cover yourself the longer he kept his gaze on you.
A few seconds seemed like an eternity, and you were about to pull the sheets over yourself when he spoke.
“You must be a siren sent to tempt me,” Kenpachi grunted, and you looked at him with eyes wide open. “Look what you fucking do to me.”
The air was knocked out of you when he crashed his lips to yours, pinning you to the mattress with the weight of his body, forcing you to part your legs. His erection was much more obvious as he ground his hips against yours, the fabric of his pants creating friction that you’ve never felt before, making you whimper.
Kenpachi dragged his tongue down your jaw and neck, pressing open mouth kisses every now and then as his hands wandered up your sides to cup your breasts. You didn’t know how a simple touch could ignite a fire within you, but when he swiped his thumbs over your nipples, jolts of pleasure traveled through your body, causing your back to arch.
“You like that?” He chuckled darkly before kissing you, rolling one of your nipples between his fingers.
Your answer was the whine that slipped past your lips as you tried to kiss him back, a difficult task when you felt his other hand wander down your hips to roughly grab your butt. Kenpachi dragged his lips down your chin and neck until he reached your chest, nibbling at the curve of your tit before taking one of your nipples into his mouth.
The sounds that came from your lips were strange. You had made noises when you touched yourself in the past but it was different; you felt more vulnerable when such a man was causing them as he sucked and grazed his teeth on your supple skin, surely leaving marks for days. Closing your eyes, you covered your mouth for a second before Kenpach firmly grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand away from your face.
“I wanna hear you.” He smirked salaciously, sending shivers up your spine. “I’ve been thinking about this for too long for you to be quiet. Be as loud as you want.”
Biting on the curve of your breast hard, you squeaked loudly. You blushed, ashamed of the sound you made, and tugged at his hair, knowing fully well he had done that on purpose. Kenpachi only looked at you with dark eyes and a wicked smile, running his tongue over your nipple and making you gasp.
His lips trailed down your abdomen, making you giggle when his tongue traced your belly button before he got to your hips. He pulled away to part your legs, strong hands holding your thighs, and your entire body burned up underneath his gaze.
“Why do you keep staring at me so much?!” You yelled in a hushed tone.
“Because you drive me fucking crazy.”
The frenzied look in his eyes and the wide grin on his lips made your heart skip a beat.
Maybe you were going just as crazy for him as he was for you.
“This part right here,” He went on, licking his lips as one of his hands glided over your entrance, making you yelp. “It’s calling for me. Do you know how fucking gorgeous you are down here?”
“That-That’s not-! I don’t-!” You stammered, embarrassed and in shock the more he kept talking. Did people talk so much when they had sex?
He laughed boisterously at your reaction, and you gasped when his fingers dipped into your folds.
“It’s your bad luck that you have a lecherous man for a husband.”
When Kenpachi leaned down, burying his face between your thighs, you gaped at him in shock, too stunned to react until his tongue slid over your slit. You whimpered, one hand threading through his hair, unsure of what to do.
Wet warmth glided over your entrance, and it was strange but not unpleasant. It was as if he was somehow worshipping you, especially with the look he had in his eyes, completely clouded by dark lust as he gazed at you. He dragged his tongue over every inch of skin he could reach, even delving between your folds until you felt pleasure pulsing through your veins when he prod your clit.
You moaned, long and loud, as your legs shuddered when Kenpachi pressed the tip of his tongue to your clit again. He chuckled smugly, focusing his attention on that spot, and soon turning your brain into mush. He was persistent and enthusiastic, licking and slurping like a starving man, with no shame about the mess he was making. You were completely drenched in your own arousal and his saliva, slowly dripping down your thighs and onto the sheets.
The sounds that left your mouth were uncontrollable. Even if he hadn’t commanded you to be loud, you still wouldn’t have been able to help yourself. The sparkles that traveled through your body every time his tongue dragged over your clit made you see stars, thighs jolting and attempting to squeeze his head between them if it wasn’t for one of his hands keeping you in place. The heat in your abdomen that had been steadily growing was close to bursting, muscles tightening with every move he made.
When two of his fingers effortlessly slipped inside you, you wailed, tugging harshly at his hair, as if simultaneously asking him to keep going and stop. Kenpachi only laughed quietly against your skin as he started to pump his digits, slow and hard, while attentively licking your clit.
You couldn’t have warned him about your orgasm even if you wanted to, your mind going blank before you felt your release washing over you. You let out a shaky moan when you came, toes curling and body trembling, nothing but pleasure and his name resonating in your head. Your hips stammered against his face as he kept gliding his fingers until you stopped moving, panting once he slid out his digits.
Kenpachi pulled away and you watched him lick his fingers, his leer not subduing even when he had your slick adorning his face. Wrapping one arm around your waist, he leaned down, resting his forehead over yours as he looked deep into your eyes.
“Your taste is so fucking addictive.”
He looked just as feral as he did before, or even more so. You wondered how it was possible that he had the same look on his face as he did when he was enjoying a fight; and how it was possible that it pulled at your heartstrings to see him be like that for you.
You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him hard, humming against his lips when you tasted yourself in them. You felt him smirk into the kiss, returning it hungrily as he rubbed his clothed erection over the damp, sensitive skin between your legs.
Kenpachi hooked his fingers under the waistband of his pants before the booming knock at the door startled you.
“Captain!” Ikkaku yelled while insistently knocking on the door.
“Fuck off!” Kenpachi hollered, making you jump in his arms.
“I can’t, Captain! Official soldiers are here!”
“Tell them to get lost!”
“Ken!” You called for him, cupping his face as he looked at you with unfocused eyes. “This is probably urgent!”
“For fuck’s sake, is the kingdom under attack?!” Kenpachi screamed at the door, making you jolt again.
“No, Captain…” Ikkaku’s unsure voice replied from the other side of the door.
“Then tell them to fucking leave!”
You laughed, pushing at his shoulders to get him off you, though he didn’t budge an inch, only looking at you with the deepest frown you’ve ever seen.
“You should go, it must be important.”
“You can’t be serious!”
When you pressed your hands against his shoulders again, Kenpachi pulled away, sitting up as you pulled the blankets over your body to cover yourself.
“I’ll still be here when you come back.” You reassured him, wrapping your hand around his arm.
You kissed him sweetly, just pressing your lips against his briefly, after all it was a small comfort, you didn’t want to tempt him.
“You better be, I can’t hold back any longer.”
You blinked, surprised.
Funny. Was he ever holding back?
“Captain!” Ikkaku yelled again urgently.
“Shut the fuck up, I’m going!”
You watched, amused, as Kenpachi sat on the edge of the bed, grumbling under his breath before getting up and putting his clothes on. He only spared you one quick glance before walking out the room, slamming the door on his way out.
You sighed, covering yourself with the blankets and furs, staring at the ceiling in awe. You were sticky, sweaty and fully drenched in between your legs, and you had an amazing orgasm yet still wanted more. It had been a difficult decision to convince him to leave when you didn’t even want him to in the first place. You wanted to see him fully bare in front of you as he climbed over your body before taking you. Just picturing a scene like that made your insides tingle.
Was what you just did, sex? You only knew so much, and you couldn’t even believe where Kenpachi’s mouth had been (but you hoped he’d do it again in the future). The main event had been postponed, and while nervousness was still in your mind, a fluttering feeling in your stomach made you excited about seeing him for the next time, the last words he said hanging in the air.
#kenpachi zaraki x reader#kenpachi smut#zaraki kenpachi x reader#kenpachi x reader#kenpachi x you#bleach smut#bleach fics#bleach imagines#my writing
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THE BLUE BUTTERFLY
Fandom: The Last Kingdom Pairing: Sihtric Kjartansson x Reader Settings: Season 2, episode 5 Summary: The summary sucks, but I'll try. After returning from Datchet, Sihtric spends some free time with you, and a group of blue butterflies catch your attention. Word Count: 4K (sorry-) Warnings: Fluff, missing moments, mention of word "whore". There are some minor spoilers from "The Lords of the North" book, so if you're planning on reading them I would advise against reading certain parts. A/N: After being a silent reader for a while and enjoying every exhistent fics on this character, I've decided to write one of my own. The inspiration comes from this post, and after weeks of venting on my terrible writing and fighting the urge of deleting everything, I wrote this! It came out different from what I had imagined, but I'm slightly satisfied. A special thanks to @sihtricfedaraaahvicius, the owner of the linked post, who gently passes me the whole passage from the book, and to @whitedarkmoonflower , @lord-aldhelm and @sylasthegrim for being my amazing beta readers and cheerleaders. I love you, really.
ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE. I APOLOGISE IN ADVANCE FOR MY GRAMMAR AND VOCABULARY MISTAKES.
Header by @whitedarkmoonflower Dividers by @saradika-graphics
READ IT ON AO3
“She says she loves me, lord,” Sihtric told Uhtred in a quiet voice, careful not to raise it too much as they slipped into the forest in the middle of the night.
The air grew cold and thick, the full moon rising brightly into the sky, its pale rays faintly illuminating the surroundings as they filtered through the thick bank of fog that enveloped the area like a heavy blanket. The silence of the night was occasionally broken by the chirping of crickets, the hooting of an owl and the sound of leaves and trampled wood. Felted footsteps crossed the woods, a sign that Uhtred and his men were quietly approaching the village of Datchet.
Everyone was silent and cautious, except Sihtric, who was strangely absent-minded and rather distracted, the thought of your gentle smile and soft touch staining his mind like a woodworm eating the pulp of wood.
"Of course she says that," Uhtred replied quickly, hoping that his disinterested answer would quell Sihtric's desire and return his focus to the mission. But it didn’t have the desired effect; on the contrary, it encouraged Sihtric to speak again.
“I swear. She says she loves me!” the Dane retorted, his voice slightly raised as if he had found the courage to defend his feelings against his Lord, to whom he had sworn his life and his sword, for the very first time.
“Sihtric, she’s a whore,” Uhtred said, a hint of irritation could be heard in his voice.
“No,” again, Sihtric raised his voice, which grew brighter as he continued. “She’s past that,” he added with a newfound confidence, words that were far from a lie.
Sihtric had never been loved, nor had he ever felt it, an emotion of which he knew only the name and little of the meaning. How could he ever have understood such a noble thing when he was born and raised in an environment where there was no love? When the only person willing to give him love had been taken from him by a father who wanted nothing to do with him?
He lived in Dunholm, a fortress that was more of a prison than a real home. Kjartan had never felt a shred of compassion for his bastard son: to him, Sihtric was nothing more than an expendable life, a useless existence to be thrown to the dogs, as he had done to his mother, had Tekil not pleaded for his life and taken him into his servitude.
Sihtric had felt his mental chains crumble on the day he offered his life and sword to Uhtred, and vanish on the day Kjartan died, shattered by the endless blows Ragnar had dealt him while taking Dunholm. But of all the emotions that overwhelmed him that day, the void, the emptiness that the absence of love had brought him was hard to assuage. A void that he tried to fill by paying women for pleasure, hoping that one of them would step forward and mend his wounded heart, feeling that love he was craving for almost all his life. And it was in one of his nights of seeking affection from women that he found you.
When you first approached him, he was completely overwhelmed by the way you carried yourself: your ethereal beauty, your soft voice, your long curls and your big, shining eyes, which drew him to you like a moth to a flame, made him wonder why a woman as beautiful as you had chosen this kind of work. The aura that surrounded you both attracted and intimidated him, and Sihtric thought he was looking at Freya herself instead of a mortal woman.
You took him in your room and both made love that night, soon to be followed by many others, and each time it was the purest of experiences. His rough and trembling hands were soothing against your body while his lips explored every inch of it, savouring you with the utmost respect and devotion as he saw how surprisingly responsive your body was to his touch. Soft kisses and whispers of love parted as your naked forms joined as one, two seemingly different souls in a desperate search for each other, feeding on a love you both sought by others. You desperately clasped at each other when you both reached your high, the bliss of the act made you both dizzy and satisfied.
Sihtric fell in love with you that night and already thought of you as his wife, and when on a cold winter's day a soft "I love you" escaped your lips while reaching your peak, the Dane warrior asked for your hand, tearing you away from the job that robbed you of the dignity you deserved.
“What she loves is your silver,” another voice, Finan, joined the conversation, and soon a chorus of jokes and laughter from the other warriors followed, mocking the naivety of the young Dane. But Sihtric was not to be deterred, and with the most serious expression his face could show, he looked at Uhtred and spoke again, his words echoing in the silence of the forest.
“I wish to marry her.”
Again, Uhtred chose to ignore his words, making Sihtric’s impatience growing inside him.
“Lord, the lady said…”
"The lady said she loves you, but she seems to be making good use of all the silver I gave you." Uhtred blurted out, not raising his voice too much. He could not see him, but could feel Sihtric's jaw clenching and his eyes almost looking down at his feet, as if he had been caught in the act and was awaiting punishment.
“I will help you find a wife,” he told the Dane in a lower voice, never looking over his shoulders, “For now, I wish you to kill Danes and survive the night.”
Then a piercing scream from some of the villagers broke the silence of the night. Finan, the first in line, raised his hand to signal a halt, and Uhtred, Sihtric and the other warriors followed. They spotted two Danes resting by a makeshift campfire behind them, and having successfully neutralised them, Uhtred ordered them to hide and wait, not to attack until they were given the order. Sihtric stood near a huge tree, his back pressed against the rough wood, clutching his weapons and fidgeting with the hilt of his sword as he felt the adrenaline of battle coursing through his veins.
The night was long, and the threat was far from over, but he was indeed following his lord’s advice to survive the night.
Because he knew that after this battle, he would return home, and would find a safe place in your arms.
A new day dawned and winter quietly took its leave of the Saxon lands. The pale rays of the morning sun warmed the earth like an embrace, peeling away the layers of snow and allowing nature to be reborn, blooming with all its colourful vegetation and the intoxicating scent of plants and flowers. Even the animals awoke from hibernation and the warmth of the spring sun allowed them to roam freely in the wild, hunting to feed their young, exploring new places to settle or simply returning like the flock of birds in the sky.
Spring came to Coccham too, and soon the village enthusiastically welcomed the arrival of the new cycle of life. And you celebrated it by sitting by the river, enjoying the warmth of spring, closing their eyes and feeling the wind dance around them, gently ruffling their long curls. The scent of the lake, a mixture of musk, wet wood and grass, filled your nostrils and you let out a long sigh as the bare skin of your feet dipped into the water. This was the time of day you free yourself from your chores and spend some time with your thoughts.
When you first set foot in Coccham, you never felt the struggle to find a home of your own, as Sihtric insisted on welcoming you into his own house, which soon became your little love nest. Uhtred had not yet given you his blessing to marry, but in Sihtric's eyes you were already his lovely wife. He used to spend his silver at the village market, buying you all sorts of jewellery to adorn your pale skin and enhance your beauty. And when his silver ran out, he gave you his arm rings and spoils of war, a reward Uhtred gave him when he thought his services worthy.
The time you spent together was sadly short, as his lord always managed to fill his days with arduous tasks or sending him out on patrol, but as evening fell and you waited for him to come home, he never failed to show you how empty his day was without you. You could read all the love and devotion he felt for you in his timid, mismatched eyes, looking at you like a goddess descended among mere mortals. His calloused hands would always find your soft cheeks, brushing your flesh and lower lips with his thumb before giving you a desperate kiss, feeding on your lips like a hungry predator after a lean day.
And when there were evenings when Sihtric came home, haunted by the thought of leaving you behind while he was on the battlefield, he would sit by your side by the fire, his forehead pressed against yours as hot tears crossed his sharp face, and kiss every inch of your exposed skin as if it were the last thing he could do before reaching Valhalla. You would spend the night cuddling in bed, crying in each other's arms before sleep took you both, and you would wake in the morning with emptiness wrapped around your arms.
Uhtred had left weeks ago, taking Sihtric and the rest of his warriors and sailing to Datchet to secure the Thames for King Alfred. You would usually spend your time in Gisela's company, helping her with the household chores and keeping an eye on her children. But the restless night you were facing had left you with a throbbing headache and a bad mood, and you didn't feel the need for human companionship as much as the immaterial one of your thoughts and emotions.
You had learned over time how stressful and heartbreaking it could be to live with a warrior, and watch him slip silently from your embrace at the crack of dawn. Loneliness had become your silent companion during those long waits, leaving your heart bleeding with pain and your mind filled with imaginary thoughts that would eventually haunt you in your sleep, tossing and turning as false scenarios formed in your mind, your breath itching in your dreams as you saw Sihtric lying lifeless on the ground, no weapons in his hands in your worst nightmares.
You were jolted from your thoughts by two strong arms wrapped around your waist and a soft gasp escaped your lips. Your bare feet came out of the water and were soon planted on the floor, and before you could react the same arms wrapped around your waist, enveloping your petite body in a warm embrace, your back pressed against a broad chest.
Fear clouded your mind as you thought you were trapped under the clasp of a filthy man who wanted nothing from you but the pleasure your body could provide, but when you felt the man's head pressed against your shoulder, you shivered as you recognised the touch of his soft lips pressed against the side of your neck.
"My love," the soft and familiar voice called to you in a sweet chant, soon loosening its grip to allow you to turn around. And it was then that you recognised him: his lean face and sharp jaw, decorated with scars that crossed his forehead and one of his cheekbones, his dark hair cut short at the sides and combed in three braids, the kohl liner around his eyes that seemed to harden a tender and watchful gaze, and that unmistakable tattoo that ran from one side of his head to his neck. All features that could only belong to Sihtric, the Dane warrior who stole your heart from the first moment he laid eyes on you.
You jumped on him, wrapping your neck around your arms and pecking his face with small kisses. Your sudden move caused him to step back, struggling to find the balance and not fall ruinously to the ground.
“You are back!” you happily stated, stepping back a little to admire him. “And without a scratch!”
“I will always find a way back to you,” Sihtric spoke quietly, a small smile forming on his lips as he rested his forehead on yours, allowing his lungs to fill with your scent, a mixture of myrtle, rosemary and wild flowers.
“I looked for you all over the village, I thought I would have found you there,” he continued, taking one of your hands and pressing his lips on your slender fingers, enjoying the softness of your skin.
“I was in no mood to spend my time in the company of others,” you confessed lightheartedly, locking your gaze on his. "Besides, where could a defenceless lady go but to fantasise about her lover warrior by the lake?"
Your witty reply made Sihtric chuckle and shake his head, grabbing your tiny waist with his large hands and pulling you close to him. But when your foreheads touched, too intoxicated by your inviting scent, his smile fell and two dark, troubled eyes extinguished the light they had every time he was near you. A long sigh followed, and you could tell that his mind was tortured as well.
"Sihtric?" you called quietly, the light touch of your fingers on his cheek bringing him out of his thoughts. "Is something troubling you? Are you hurt?"
"No," was his quiet reply, whispered so softly as to be almost inaudible, and before you could question him further, he wrapped you in a long and desperate embrace, burying his head in the crook of your neck. His breathing became shallow and erratic, and judging by his slight trembling, he was on the verge of tears.
“No other woman will be able to replace you. No one,” the Dane thought aloud, preventing you from replying back when his trembling lips captured yours in a needy and desperate kiss, storming your mind with questions you fear there can be no answers to.
Later that day, the sun was high in the sky and a cloudless blue expanse rose over the village. You could feel the sun's rays hitting your skin with an unpleasant heat, but you were glad that there was a soothing breeze in the air, its cool touch like a balm to your skin, which had become slightly red from prolonged exposure to the sun.
Everyone was busy welcoming King Alfred to Coccham, followed by Lord Odda, some soldiers and thengs, and his small army of priests and monks. When they retired to the main hall to discuss urgent matters, you took the opportunity to release Sihtric from his duties, as his presence was not required at that moment, and hand in hand you walked through the gates of Coccham, approached the small harbour and rested on the grass.
When you went outside, Sihtric finally gave you all the answers he had been unable to give you before, too overwhelmed by his emotions: he told you of his mission and the time he had spent in Datchet, and of the many times he had asked Uhtred for permission to marry you, only to be met with indifference or veiled refusal. He even told you how he had proposed to arrange a suitable marriage for him, and the very thought of it made you both feel sick inside.
It was no surprise to you that both the Daneslayer and his warriors frowned upon you; your old profession was a stain on your character that was difficult to wipe away. You were aware of the mischievous glances and veiled comments they made whenever you sat at the same table outside their tavern, to which you always responded with stiff lips and restraint, unlike Sihtric, who, dulled by the alcohol that brought out his dormant impulsiveness, threatened to make the square to anyone who dared offend you. It was your task to calm him down each time, assuring him that it was a temporary situation and that everyone would get used to your presence. But deep in your heart you knew it wouldn't be so.
You sat back in the grass, Sihtric's head in your lap, his eyes closed as he enjoyed the light breeze caressing his face. You stroked his uncombed hair gently, giggling at how soft his hair felt to the touch, while your eyes continued to scan the surroundings, focusing on the men coming and going from the small wooden dock, busy unloading goods from ships or docking others. Then you took your eyes off the water and sighed as you spotted a group of ducks swimming happily in the water, followed by a small group of adorable ducklings squawking loudly.
Suddenly your attention was drawn to a small group of butterflies fluttering along the shore, slowly dispersing into the air, creating a spectacular display of colour. Your jaw dropped slightly, mesmerised by the delicate dance these insects were performing in the air, some allowing the wind to gently transport them from the nearest flowers and feed on their nectar, others resting gracefully on the grass and stretching their bright blue wings a little before continuing their dance. A pleasant warm spread across your chest, feeling a sense of peace and happiness crossing your face.
“They are a beautiful sight,” a kneaded voice brought you back to reality, feeling Sihtric slightly shifting from your lap. His brown eye was open, looking at the butterflies, while his other one was covered by his forearm.
“Indeed,” you spoke softly, gently pressing your lips on his forehead. You could see his cheeks flushing with the brightest red. “They truly are.”
One of the butterflies left its group, approaching you. Sihtric leanend one of his arms, stretching one of his fingers to welcome the insect. He chuckled lightly when he felt your curious gaze over him, and soon his mismatched eyes were locked into yours.
“I have heard stories saying that blue butterflies are meant to bring luck,” he explained quietly, his gaze now shifted again on the insect, which stood in midair, watching his finger. “The longer it stays on your finger, the longer your luck lasts.”
Sihtric waited for the butterfly to pose on his finger, a hint of impatience growing in him as he secretly begged the insect to rest as long as possible and bring you both luck. But it chose not to rest, spreading its wings and turning its attention elsewhere. He let out a frustrated groan, which was greeted by your delicate laugh. Your voice was a melody to his ears.
"Then I guess you have no luck," you said, a slight grin forming at the corner of your mouth, your hand continuing to rub Sihtric's hair in small, circular motions. Your reply caused Sihtric to move from where he was sitting on the grass and look at your face: his dark, loose hair seemed to soften his features, his two-toned eyes lit up at the sight of your smile, making his heart pound in his chest and his breath quicken. His trembling hands rested on your cheeks, rubbing them with the utmost care, afraid that you might break under his rough touch.
"I am lucky, my lady," he whispered, resting his forehead on yours. "A little butterfly may not have given me luck, but the gods have given me you, a far greater blessing than any fleeting luck could provide."
He slowly drew you closer, rubbing the tips of your noses and waiting for your permission. When you nodded softly, sighing at his soothing touch, he locked his lips to yours in a tender kiss, a light touch soon followed by deeper contact. He placed his hand on the nape of your neck, pressing urgently against it, rubbing your exposed flesh in slow, circular motions, his sudden movement making you tremble and a soft moan escaping your throat.
As the kiss deepened and the heat of pleasure engulfed you both, you felt a gentle tickling crossing your hand, causing you to break the kiss. You looked down your hand and a gasp escaped from your lips.
"Sihtric, look!" you called, shaking his arm without hurting him too much, and when you were sure his gaze was fixed on you, you gently raised your hand to reveal the same butterfly as before peacefully perched on your finger. Words were superfluous to describe the surreal moment, and you both stood still, watching in amazement as its shiny wings closed and reopened, both of you secretly telling the insect to rest as much as it could. In this silent exchange of glances and thoughts, it was as if nature had intervened in your path, whispering promises of future serenity and joy amidst the chaos of the world.
You felt Sihtric raising off the ground urgently, and without uttering a word he approached the gates. You gave him a puzzled look, stunned by his sudden move. “Where are you going?”
“To lord Uhtred,” Sihtric turned around and looked at you, a wide smile crossing his face. “I will ask his permission to marry you again.”
“But lord Uhtred already gave his decision,” you replied back, slightly raising his voice as you saw him approaching the gates.
“The blue butterfly.” he replied in a cheerful voice, pointing to the small insect still in your hand. “We have been blessed by luck. I will marry you, my love. I swear I will!”
And it was at that moment that you saw his figure cross the gates and slowly disappear into the distance, leaving you alone. You let out a long sigh, the corners of your lips curling into a small smile, and fixed your gaze on the butterfly, which awkwardly spread its wings, leaving your finger behind before rejoining its group and disappearing into the air.
That butterfly brought you luck. That was what Sihtric thought, while you continued to believe that Gisela's help was behind it all, when Uhtred finally gave his permission to marry you, on the condition that he complete a task for him. Sihtric came back to you, showering your face with soft and urgent kisses, his heart heavy at having to leave you again, but his spirit lifted at the thought that after this mission you would finally be his and his only.
Fortunately, Sihtric didn't keep you waiting too long, for he returned from Skald's Hall a few days later, and by mutual agreement, a small and intimate wedding ceremony was held on Frigga's Day, according to Sihtric's religion and beliefs. His eyes could not stay in contact with yours for too long, your dazzling beauty sending shivers down his spine and dulling his senses, for he could still not believe that the gods had allowed him a glimpse of happiness by sending you on his path. After the exchange of your wedding rings and Sihtric's promise to be the devoted and loving husband you deserve, clutching his Mjolnir pendant in his hands, a kiss sealed the much awaited union, witnessed by the few present and the watchful eyes of the gods.
And when the two of you would sit in the same place years later with your stomach fertile with new life, a blue butterfly would rest on your outstretched finger, bringing good fortune and prosperity to your happy union for years to come.
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#sihtric x reader#sihtric kjartansson x reader#sihtric x you#sihtric kjartansson x you#sihtric fic#sihtric kjartansson fic#the last kingdom fanfic#the last kingdom fic#tlk fanfic#tlk fic
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