#like imagine woman in stem

[wibbly-wobbly-kylie-wylie-blog]

in my considering whether or not to go to medical school era

[dazaislanderer]

been busy bc of school but bc of school i keep drawing these characters in school??? so take this collection of sketches with stupid words around them bc they’re stupid (the one that’s actually properly-ish colored is dazai but with my haircut minus the bangs since irl bangs cant be parted in three ways or whatever) ok time to disappear again for months also idfk what this below is but ill put it here

as usual click things for resolution if interested

[llycaons]

in a hunger games-style scenario I think that the majority of the cql cast would immediately die because 90% of the main cast are 1. bonkers self-sacrificial for their loved ones and 2. incredibly ready to kill themselves in dramatic ways out of despair. when the dust settles jgy will walk out of it wearing a perfect customer-service smile until nhs snipes him from the shadows

[inkskinned]

the thing about some men is that they want you to remember, at all times, that you are underneath them. that with one word or look or "joke", you will stay beneath them. that even "exceptions" to the rule are not true exceptions - the commonly cited statistic that one in eight men believe they could win against serena williams.

women's gymnastics is often not seen as real gymnastics. whatever the fuck non-euclidian horrors rhythmic gymnasts are capable of, it's often tamped down as being not a sport. some of the most dominant athletes in the world are women. nobody watches women's soccer. despite years of dancing and being built like a fucking brick, men always assume they're faster and stronger than i am. you wouldn't like what happens when they are incorrect. once while drunk at a guy's house i won a held-plank challenge by a solid minute. the party was over after that - he became exceedingly violent.

what i mean is that you can be perfect, and they still think you're ... lacking, somehow. i hope you understand i'm trying to express a neutral statement when i say: taylor swift was the possibly the most patriarchy-palatable, straight-down-the-line woman we could churn out. she is white, conventionally attractive, usually pretty mild in personality. say what you will about her (and you should, she's a billionaire, she can handle it), but a few things seem to be true about her: 1. she can write a damn catchy song, and 2. the eras tour truly was a massive commercial success and was also genuinely an impressive feat of human athleticism and performance.

i don't know if she deserves the title of "woman of the year," i'm not debating that in this post. what i am saying is that she was named Woman of The Year, and then an untalented man got onstage at the golden globes and made fun of her for attending her boyfriend's football games. what i am saying is that this woman altered local economies - and her dating life is still being made into a "harmless" punchline. the camera panned, greedy, over to her downing a full glass of champagne. congratulations taylor! you are woman of the year! but you are a woman. even her.

fuck, man. write better material.

a guy gets onstage at a college graduation and despite the fact like half the crowd is made up of women, he spends a significant proportion of it warning these people - who spent possibly hundreds of thousands of dollars on their education - that they were lied to. that the "real" meaning of femininity is motherhood. that they shouldn't rest on the laurels of that education-they-paid-for but instead throw it away to kneel at a man's heel. imagine that. sweating in your godawful polyester gown (that you also had to pay for!), fresh out of 4 years of pushing yourself ever-harder: and some guy you've never met - who knows nothing about you - he reminds you this "win" is a pyrrhic one at best. you really shouldn't consider yourself that extraordinary. you're still a woman, even after years of study.

god forbid you are not a pretty woman, but if you are pretty, you must be dumb. god forbid you are not ablebodied or white or cis or straight or good at swallowing. you must be beneath a man, or else they are not a man. the equation for masculinity seems to just be: that which is not a woman or womanly (god forbid). anything "feminine" is thereby anathema. to engage in "feminine" things such as therapy, getting a hug from a friend, or crying - it is giving up ones manhood. therefore women need to be put in their place to ensure that masculinity is protected.

this is something i have struggled to explain to terfs - they are not doing the work of feminism, but rather the patriarchy. by asserting that women and men must be (on some secret level) oppositional and in conflict, they also assume that being a woman is akin to being another species. but bigotry does not stem from observational truths or clarity - that is what makes it bigotry. there was nothing in my childhood that made me fundamentally different from my brother. we are treated differently nonetheless. to assert there is some biological drive that enforces my gender role is to assert that women have a gendered role. men do not see women as equal to them not because of biological reality - but instead because the core tenant of the patriarchy is that women aren't full, realized people.

we are told from a very young age to excuse misbehavior as a single man's choice - not all men. it is not all men, just that one guy. all women are gold-digging bitches who belong in the kitchen - but if a man is mean, bigoted, or violent to you, it's just that particular guy, and that means nothing about men-as-a-whole. it is only one guy who got mad when you gently rejected him. it is only one guy who warns her this trophy is heavy, are you sure you can hold it? it is only one guy who smashes her face into the cake. it is only one guy talking into a mic about hating our bodily autonomy.

i have just found that they often wait until the moment we actually seem to be upstaging them. you sit in a meeting where you're presenting your own findings and he says get me a coffee? or you run to the end of the marathon and are about to finish first and he pushes your kids out in front of you. you win the chess game and they make some comment akin to well, you're ugly away. we can be the billionaire and get the dream life and finally fucking do it and yet! still! they have this strange, visceral urge to say well actually, if you think you're so great -

it's not one just one guy. it's one in eight.

[el-the-cell]

.

[missmonkeymode]

Thinking about cecelia freeman, the semi self insert girl version of gordon freeman im imagining as the protagonist of hl1 and what kinda story id write about her if it was 2009 and cool to make "its video game story retelling but someone else is the protag" webcomics

[melody-magic]

the thing about Dropout's transmisogyny problem in particular is that it seems to stem from the people at all decision making levels not having trans women as part of their worldview, literally forgetting we exist until we come into their vision actively.

like, let me put it this way. if i sat down to have lunch with brennan lee mulligan, i don't think he'd misgender me once. i think he'd be nice, and respectful, and listen attentively when i tell him what its like living as a trans woman and the difficulties that come with it. i really do! and then as soon as the conversation was over he wouldn't think about trans women again until the next time he saw one or heard about us. he wouldn't think of us when planning his games, when building his stories, or when casting his shows. so at the end of the day, yeah he'd be nice to me, but when he imagines the world, ANY world he can create, people like me do not feature in it unless we are already there for some other purpose, like to be someone's girlfriend, or to make a dick joke.

same with sam reich. when he goes into a casting phase, he and his team's rolodex (or perhaps i should say contact list to be more modern) is full of diversity! we can see it spanned across all the shows! except its strangely empty of one demographic and one demographic only. and when he does cast trans women, they're always drag queens first and trans women second.

there's something matt colville says when he finishes out some videos and livestreams, and while it may be pithy and chessy i think its relevant in this case: "imagine people complexly".

these people dont even imagine us, or consider us. to them, we don't exist, not because they don't believe in our existence, or they haven't seen it, or even because they actively hate us, but they simply dont consider it in any way until it is already presented to them. we are, quite literally, not a part of their vision of the world. how can we get them to imagine us complexly when they can't even imagine us in the first place?

[celuere]

Be quiet.

pairing: Arlecchino x fem!reader

context: being scheduled for one meeting after another has quite the toll on your husband and you. Luckily you finally get more than five minutes to spare <3

cw: Arle has a dick here because I said so, creampie ig??, against a wall, semi-public, almost getting caught, orgasm denial, not proofread, this is kinda short but I still ended up liking it!

I just had this random beam of enlightenment while talking to my bestie about possible scenarios with Arle so here I am. Sharing it with you. (pls everyone give their thanks to Chiara because 80% of my ideas stem from our ranting sessions)

NSFW utc, MDNI!

It was supposed to be an ordinary Thursday filled with one meeting and negotiation after the other. Really. Nothing special. All you had to do was sit next to your husband, look pretty and take notes from time to time.

But of course, after repeating this routine for the third time now, things obviously got boring for Arlecchino. On your way to the next conference she couldn’t help but snake her eyes down your back, analyzing the how the strings of your corset moved with each step, how pretty you looked from behind with your hair being put up and how the strands would loosen up one by one if she dared to fuck you against the nearest the wall.

The both of you still had some time to spare after all. She could turn you into a cute mess right now and you would still arrive on time. The idea sounded all too perfect for her if it weren’t for the busy hallway you were currently walking down.

„Let‘s take a shortcut, dearest.“, before you could argue with her that you were already taking the shortcut, you felt a hand snaking around your waist and guiding you to your right into a quiet hallway. Well, maybe she did know a better shortcut? She frequented the Zapolyarny Palace way more often than you, so who knows?

You passed by a pillar and noticed how your husband‘s head whipped around for the third time now to check your surroundings, „Arle…? I don’t think this is a shortcut-”

„I know.“, and suddenly you found yourself pressed up against the wall, a pair of two strong hands holding onto your waist as Arlecchino bent down next to your head, thumb and index finger playing with the expensive fabric of your dress. Oh you knew exactly why she led you here.

You drew a sharp breath into your lungs, the cold marble wall sending a shiver down your spine as her hands worked your skirt slowly up your thighs. As much as intoxicating the switch up was… you grew anxious. After all you were still out in the open, if someone were to came from your left behind the corner they would easily oversee the scandalous position you were but from the right… you didn‘t even want to imagine the outcome- the drama it would create.

„𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙺𝚗𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚉𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚢𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚢 𝙿𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎“, you quite literally saw the headline already on the next newspaper.

„Doll… You needn’t worry about us getting caught. Nobody would survive the bare sight of you when I‘m burying myself inside that pretty hole between your legs.“, of course she‘d read your thoughts like an open book. One hand sneaking underneath the fabric to caress your underwear, the wet spot already evident to the touch.

A small sigh escaped your lips, hips moving forward on their own to get more friction between her fingers and your already aching clit, „If you want it say the word.“.

„Please…“, you bit down on your lip to hinder a moan from escaping your mouth as she worked her thumb delicately over your sensitive bud. What an evil woman she was.

„Please what? Be specific. You know how it works.“, drawing this out as much as she could by slowly tugging your slip to the side and exposing your already wet pussy to the cold air surrounding you. She wanted to hear you beg for her to fuck you here in this freezing corridor with no one in sight to witness such an atrocious act being committed within the holy palace walls of her Majesty.

„Peruere please- this is embarrassing, just fuck me already before someone actually catches us-”, followed now by the rustling of of metal and leather echoing through halls. It only took her one hand to undo her belt and free her already raging boner from its clothed prison, a low moan fell from her lips at the sensation.

„Was that so hard now…? Be a good girl and turn around for me, hands on the wall.“, the commanding edge in her voice was actually making you want to drop to your knees but you knew better than to disobey her words and so you turned to the wall with already weakened legs.

The cold marble already stung in your palm but that was as quickly forgotten as possible when your husband lifted your dress up just enough for her dick to effortlessly find your pussy. A black hand closed over your mouth to prevent any sounds from maybe alerting nearby security or other staff.

„Such a wet and needy mess for me already. Pathetic.“, she thrusted her hips forward, burying herself with one, swift move inside of you and fuck it felt good when her unoccupied arm wrapped around your waist to keep you upright against her.

„Goodness me… swallowing me up like nothing without needing much preparation…“, cooing right into your ear, Arlecchino pulled her slightly back out only fuck all the way back inside of you, the guttural moan she drew out of you being muffled by her hand.

And there the two of you were. Pressed against a wall without a centimeter of distance between you as your husband spared no efforts to graze that soft spot inside of you with every thrust, every drive of her hips back into yours. The sound of clothes rustling together along with your muffled moans were to be faintly heard through the corridor. Celestia above you prayed that nobody was nearby.

But when did Celestia ever answer your prayers? Certainly not today when Arle‘s movements stilled suddenly inside of you as her head jerked to the right. There were people approaching. According to the the footsteps it was just a pair of two and they didn’t seem like they noticed the filthy sounds that were echoing through hall just mere moments ago. But you were panicking nontheless, trying to get out of Arlecchino‘s tight grip but she didn’t budge the slightest bit.

„Stop moving for the love of it. You‘re not making this easier for us.“, her voice came out as a hiss against your ear. Lord and behold you’re gonna rip her a new one once this is over.

With her tip applying torturous pressure to your cervix, your legs slowly began to shake the longer the both of you had to stand still to wait for the two persons to finally pass by.

„I can’t believe I now have to listen to Pantalone‘s crazy scheming for the next 90 minutes. They surely want to bore us to death.“, that voice belonged to none other than the 11th Fatui Harbinger himself, Childe. It actually couldn’t get any worse from here. If he saw you-

„You think you have it bad? I was just forced to listen to Dottore talk about all kinds of lobotomies for 30 minutes earlier. Everyone in this organization is nuts. Completely insane.“, forget whatever you just thought. Scaramouche is the worse deal here. Now would be the right time for a hole to open up underneath you and swallow you right up.

„Tartaglia and the Balladeer, you‘ve got be kidding me.“, the frustrated whisper against you ear told you that you might be in deep shit.

If it would’ve been ordinary staff, a little Mora were enough to keep their mouths sealed but two Harbingers? And especially the noisiest ones? Pray. That was your only option. Pray that they keep going straightforward or you will never hear the end of it.

„I haven’t seen Arlecchino and her wife since this morning… weird…“, Childe asked his colleague as they actually walked straight past the pillar that was hiding you from their view.

„They‘re probably fucking in some secluded hallway because they can’t stand away from each other for more than a few hours. Disgusting.“, the irony. The sheer irony.

When they were finally out of earshot, your husband didn’t waste another precious second to ravage you right where she left you.

„I‘ll kill him someday.“, she buried her face in the crook of your neck to silent her own low grunts, obviously just wanting to finally finish the job before someone else decides to frequent this path.

And when she released herself inside of you, cock twitching between your clenching walls, Arlecchino didn’t continue for the sake of your own high, earning herself a pained whine.

„A-Are you kidding me-?!“, panting between words, she pulled your slip back over your leaking entrance before fixing your clothes as if she didn’t just made you the the light at the other end of the tunnel. Evil.

She clicked her tongue when she bent down next to your ear again.

„Keep it inside for the duration of the meeting and I‘ll reward you greatly in my office later. You can do that for me, can’t you, my love?“, the heat shot up right to your face as you knew what she was referring to.

As you turned back around to her while she closed up her belt again, you nodded, „I- uh… I-I guess I can try…“.

„I knew I can count on you.“, pressing a kiss to your head like she didn’t just challenge you to keep her cum inside for the next 90 minutes.

The side eye Scaramouche gave your for the duration of the meeting was enough to make you sweat. But you managed.

And lord she did reward you.

[poppy-metal]

MARRIAGE COUNSELING W ART PLEASEEEEEEEE GOD THE DEVASTATION THAT TAKES PLACE ON THAT COUCH

i think about it alot. tashi staying with patrick, her injury never happening. your arts college girlfriend and now you're married and it feels fucking stagnant, your relationship. but neither of you wants to give up. neither of you wants to reveal to the other true feelings.

under the cut because this got long and i have a whole au in my hear around this concept

you're only in counseling because of tashi. because shes still in your lives, her and patrick. and she recommended it to art when they were having one of their 'friend' lunches. and now here you are, because of course art took her advice.

he hasn't said anything, though. despite pleading for this. saying he wanted to save your marriage, that he wanted to love you how you should be loved but he didn't know how.

so here you are, on opposite ends of the couch, with the counselor staring at the empty space between you like that in itself is very telling. you suppose it is, in a way. couples who want to stay together should be unified, shouldn't they? you imagine how it would feel, if art had sat next to you. put an arm around you. squeezed you to his side. would you even be able to relax into him? its been so long since you touched eachother that way.

"so im picking up on some distance here," your therapist says. shes a small woman. almost swallowed by her chair. her glasses are perched on her nose as she gazes imperiously at empty space separating you and art. "not just physical either, though thats rather obviously there. but emotional distance. do either of you wanna comment on that?"

you cut a glance at art, expecting him to speak up since this was his idea - well. tashi's. but he just looks down at his lap, quiet. spins his wedding band around his finger.

you feel an anger so intense it pricks your eyes with tears.

"well, i guess you could start with the fact that coming here wasn't even either of our idea. it was his friends."

and now. here art speaks. his head jerks up and she shoots you an annoyed look. "you don't have to say it like that. you always say it like that. her name is tashi and she is my friend. and it was her suggestion, yeah, but it was a good one."

you look at the therapist - janet. raise your eyebrows in arts direction like, get a load of this guy. your legs cross and you start picking at a stray string from the couch.

"first words of the session and its to talk about another woman."

arts inhale is sharp and you can feel his eyes on you but you dont look at him. you can't. you wont. you're right, anyway. he can try to deny it all he wants but you know - you know what you are to him. you know where all your problems stem. you dont need to be here to make any grand discoveries over a fact you've resigned yourself too.

"i see." janet says. "and art having a relationship with this other woman upsets you."

"everything upsets her." art cuts in, sounding tired. his elbow is braced on the arm of the couch and hes chewing on his thumb in one of his nervous gestures. he always did that, as long as you've known him. he was a nail biter, he'd chew his lips raw, he'd nibble on straws, the ends of his pens. he was either lost in thought or agitated. your guess was the latter. "nothing i do makes her happy."

"is this true? are you unhappy with art?"

your skin feels hot. you shift around in your seat. the attention is all on you, and it feels like you've done something wrong, even though you know its literally janets job to ask questions.

"more like i know I'm not what he wants and that makes me...... really fucking sad."

art knees almost knock against yours as he turns his body to face you, giving you his full attention the first time today. you cant meet his eyes still, so you look at the faded spot on his jeans. light blue, like his eyes. you wonder how hes looking at you. cant make yourself look up to see.

"what." he stops. seems to gather some thoughts. tries again, with a steadier tone. "what are you talking about."

you try not to roll your eyes. your arm flings out limply.

"just that this whole thing is a joke, art." and you let out an exasperated laugh, even though nothing is funny. nothing has been funny or light between you two in a long time. "we're only here because the girl you really wanted to marry, told you to get your fucking shit together. you didn't ask us to come here because you wanted to mend something, you're here to please tashi. because if playing a good husband is a role she wants for you - well, you want to play it right, dont you?"

its quiet after that. in the silence you cant help but think about those early days. when you'd been full of love and light and art seemed to be really happy with you. you'd go on dates to the movies, walk through the park together with your hands swinging between you. laugh together and steal kisses whenever you could. you felt high back then.

it didn't even matter that art had a crush on tashi, because hell, you had one too, at the time. but she'd started dating patrick, and they seemed to mesh well together. they were both so intense and passionate. back then, you'd been alot closer to tashi yourself. patrick too. you remember the way she'd rant about how much she fucking hated him, pacing around your room and calling him every name under the sun. and you'd sit there with eager curiosity, and ask her why she didn't end it then. if he makes you so angry, why stay?

and she'd get this faraway look in her eyes. kind of wistful. kind of sad. kind of happy.

"because he makes me feel fucking alive. hes like a - like a drug or something. i cant quit. its addictive, you know?"

that stuck with you. it still sticks with you. you remember being envious of that kind of passion. youe relationship with art had always been so easy. you dont think you'd ever fought by that point. you loved art. you felt safe with art. but were you addicted to him? if you broke up - would you feel withdrawal symptoms?

sometimes you layed awake at night and thought about starting a fight - breaking up for no reason. just to see if he'd fight for you back, if the missing of eachother would be so intense one of you would cave.

but somehow you knew that wouldn't be the case. thats just not how you and art operated. if you got angry, he wouldn't rise to meet you, he'd back down. if you ended things, he wouldn't chase you, he'd let you go.

patrick and tashi were fire and brimstone and you and art was ice and you were....... dirt. solid. walked upon. dependable and not at all exciting.

when art had proposed to you after college graduation it wasn't spur of the moment as it had been with patrick when he'd swept tashi up with a ring and a elopement to vegas. it was talked about and agreed upon and you knew it was coming.

you still said yes.

"you think," and arts voice has a barely concealed tremble to it that makes you look up, finally. you're shocked to see he looks wounded. so many of his expressions you can count on one hand - and this - this wasn't one of them. his eyes are dark, stormy. "you think i dont care about our marriage beyond what someone else has to say about it? you really think that?"

you hate the sliver of guilt you feel, because its not a crazy thing to feel.

"yeah, i really do."

because well, that's the truth of the matter isn't it? you and your husband stare at eachother. and it feels like you're looking at a stranger. not the man who's freckles you used to kiss. who's fears you knew. who's hands you know every callous of, every divot and fingerprint.

"it seems you two have very different views of how the other views this marriage." janet cuts in, sounding curious. she taps her pen against the open notepad on her lap. "art, would you like to chime in on why you wanted to come here? even at the suggestion of someone else?"

art stares at you for a long moment. his face is unreadable to you. his jaw works before his chest expands on an exhale and he looks away.

"i guess i - i just didn't realize how..... stagnant things had gotten until it was pointed out to me. harshly." he winces, and you wonder exactly what tashi had to say to him. you haven't talked to the other woman for some time. contact fizzling out after your marriage to art. he flicks a glance to you, then away again. "im not the best at being aware of shit going on around me." his hand comes up to rub nervously at his neck. "i guess you could say im good at brushing things under the rug. going through the motions. that sort of thing."

janet nods like this makes sense to her. well, great, you think. you know my husband more than i do.

"you're not a fan of confrontation, are you?"

art actually laughs. a genuine one. one that brings a dimple to his cheek and flashes his teeth. you stare at it, like its an exotic animal, and you wont see it again. quickly you catalog the expression in your memory, so you dont forget what he looks like when hes happy.

"yeah, no." he shakes his head. "but I think thats part of the problem. I've obviously let too much shit get put under the rug and now its so full other people are noticing."

you look down at your hands, lips pressed together. your face burns at the knowledge that tashi and by extension - patrick - know your marriage is in shambles. how embarrassing, to be caught lacking in such a momentous way. to come up short and have your husbands friends know about it. you wonder - does he talk about all the ways you make him miserable with them? does patrick shake his head, say, "she's sucking the life out of you, man." does tashi look at him with pity? like hes some poor abused cat that needs to be let in from the rain?

the rain of your marriage.

the rain of you.

you're the storm. you're the problem. you're not enough. art needs fire. you're not even dirt, you're glass. and you can feel yourself breaking.

"that clearly hit a nerve, my dear." janets voice is soft. soothing. she hands you a tissue and you realize you'd begun to cry. "do you want to explain what you're feeling about what art said?"

"i...."

you dab dab dab at your eyes. sniffle. look around the room, trying to collect your thoughts. they feel like flyaway dandelions. you dont know which of them to grasp.

a warm hand settles over yours in your lap and you startle. its arts hand. warm and calloused and tan, covering yours. the gold glint of his wedding ring winks at you, the engraved words etched into them, "my soft epilogue". a shortened version of your favorite qoute i think we deserve a soft epilogue, my love.

at the time, that's what art was to you. your life before him hadn't been easy. being with art had felt like coming home from a long day and falling into a soft bed. it had felt like being able to land after weeks of being made to fly.

you turned your palm up, so he could slide his fingers between yours. he squeezed your hand.

"i think, i. i think i just think - I'm a failure." your bottom lip wobbles. you look at your enterwoven fingers and it makes you so sad that you haven't done the simple gesture of holding your husbands hand in months. "the two most important people in your life are. are so passionate and loud. and i see. i see how happy they make you - and i cant - i cant b-be that for you. we aren't - im not - you dont need me. im not a limb for you how they are. you could extract yourself from me and be. be happier."

your breath shudders out of you.

"you don't need me." you echo.

you wait for him to pull his hand away. this is more than you thought you'd share. some of it you weren't even aware of till the words were spilling from your lips. but they ring true.

without patrick and tashi art would drown. without you..... he'd float just fine.

"and that's important to you." janet says. a statement not a question. "you want to feel needed by art, and you feel as though you aren't. that his needs are met better with his friends than with you."

you nod slowly.

"baby." the word sends a shock through you. not the word itself but how its said. art calls you baby all the time, in a monotonous kind of way. routine. now he says it softly. with feeling. he lets go of your hand in favor of cupping your cheek, still damp with tears, turning your face to his. he looks pained. "of course i need you. i know i haven't been good at showing it. i just - you shut down - after we got married. you've been like a fucking ghost. like you dont want me to touch you. like i could dissappear for all you care and you'd just carry on. i don't know. but i need you, okay? i. need. you."

both hands cup your face, he makes you stare right into him. the conviction in his voice takes your breath away. theres a fire burning there you've thought long put out.

"obviously we have shit to sort out, and we will. but you've got to. you've got to know that. tashi only pushed me to do this because she how - how desperate i was. that's all."

you inhale deeply. exhale. swallow hard. tears cling to your lashes. you reach a hand up to clutch at one of arts wrists. eyes fluttering automatically when you do. you feel grounded again. less like you might float away.

"okay."

"yeah?"

"yeah...." and you smile. it trembles across your lips. but its there. "we'll sort our shit."

art lets out a relieved breath. kisses your forehead, lingering there. the gesture so tender you get emotional again. you want to crawl into his lap, have him wrap you in his arms. you want to feel held by him, like you used to.

"our time is up." janet sets her pen down. smiles. "but i think that was a wonderful first session. i can see the love between you hasn't faded, and that's more i can say for alot of couples who come to see me. keep your chin up."

[grugruel]

Big Iron

Pairings:

bounty hunter!Arthur Morgan x outlaw!f!reader

NSFW/MDNI

Masterlist

Summary: She's escaped a robbery, and bounty hunters have been sent out after her. They'd made no problem so far– that said, the notorious Arthur Morgan set upon her trail.

Word count: 5.7k

Warnings: Arthur Morgan, pinv sex, rough sex, soft sex ish, lap/bulge-riding, praise, petnames (girl, sweetheart, ma'am), creampie, overstimulation.

AN: 3rd person pov, trying it out. Not yet proofread!

A campfire blazed in the night, casting a warm glow over the small, temporary hideout.

Smoldering flakes of ash rose skyward in tired swirls, and the woman's face lit up, sizzling embers of spent coal entrancing her.

The fires of a bright building shouldered It's way into her mind, stealing precious space from all else.

Trees around her rustled, and she leaned back against the rockwall. An overhanging cliff sheltering her.

Guard lowered, at last. She let herself slide down the wall until she felt the ground beneath her thighs. Then dove deeper into the memory.

Money was all she had needed. But the simple, well practiced heist escalated. Attempted arson had suddenly been added to her list of offences, robbery another one among them. Which she could admit to, and proudly so.

But the fire. . . Now the fire was not her fault.

Not only was the law after her, but they'd also sent out money hungry bounty hunters aswell. She'd already tied two of them down yesterday, big brutish men they were. All muscle and no brains. Still, they proved to be quite the nuisance. But they wouldn't be a problem anymore unless they died of starvation, which would indeed be u fortunate.

She gritted her teeth at the memory, her eyes interanally. She doubted it, seeing as they were curently tied to the fence of the sheriff's office.

Which left only one real threat.

One man, one singular man; a notorious outlaw himself. He was the sheriff's most resent hire. Big, deadly, tall and muscled. From long days of hard work killing and robbing she imagined.

She'd actually seen him in person once, and she could admit, he looked dangerous, and devilishly handsome. The rumors had been right about that, she was only hoping that his volatile reputation along with the Van Der Lind gang's would turn out to be folly.

She shivered at the thought, shaking her to the very bones. If it were from the thought of him or the cool of the night, she did not know. She closed her arms around herself, stroking them for warmth as she pushed the unpleasant thoughts away, her gaze snapping to the treeline beyond.

Back to reality, and suddenly accutely aware of the black darkness that lingered between the thick stems beyond. Her vision was good, and she was quite hidden after all. No one would be sneaking up on her.

"Ma'am."

From the shadows, a man appeared at the edge of the campfires domain, vaguely illuminated by its warmth. Broad and tall in frame, the deep night clung to his back. His sudden prescence was the only evidence of his arrival, he'd made no sound nor been seen before he'd needed to be.

Her eyes snapped in his direction, widening with recognition, the eerie sense divulged itself to her body. Like poison, it spread quickly, crawling into every blood vessel and turning them ice-cold along its journey.

"Mister," she greeted, doing her damndest to stay calm.

His hat covered his eyes, but the smile he dealt was unmistakable. 'There's quite the bounty on you, girl.' The drawl of his accent sunk into her skin like the warmth of the fire.

"There's no doubtin' that," she nodded in admittal, slowly moving away from him, "Although im only worth half of it, I assure you."

She moved slowly, eyes meeting his as they poked out beneath his hat. He tilted his head to face hers, regarding her silently. Eyes flickering over her, the way her hair fell over her shoulders, and how her blouse revealed the hills of her chest. ". . . 'S that so?. . ." He took a step closer, the rope in his hands now excruciatingly evident to her.

She got to her feet in one swift motion, hesitantly gesturing for him to stay calm. "Mister, I'm not a murderer. The sheriff framed me." She took a few steps to the left, placing the fire between them.

The man chuckled. "I belive ya' ma'am." His hands pulled on the lasso, adjusting its length. Gripping it roughly from time to time, trigger fingers readying themselves for any sudden movement. "But the law can be a crooked thing sometimes." His eyes narrowed in on her, then shrugged nonchalantly. "But, a bounty 's still a bounty girl."

The birds sang above them, and the world blurred around her, her knees suddenly weak. Unfortunately for her, he would be there to catch her in a sense too literal for her liking.

"And I can say the same for myself ma'am, I'm a bad man. . ." His voice imposed, yet, the gravely tone vibrated perfectly well in her ears.

Gulping her nervousity, she assessed her options. . . And then ran.

Trees rushed past in peripheral whirls as she made her way along the cliff wall. Rope flexed behind her, threads wringing against eachother as it was swung and thrown with a woosh.

The air caressed her cheeks, pulling tears from her eyes and whistling in her ears. She gave it all she had, but it wasn't enough to stop the lasso from capturing her with deadly accuracy. It fell over her shoulders and tightened around her waist, pinning her arms to her sides.

The rope pulled taunt–and the world stopped moving for a short second, with a yank, her body whipped forward, and her feet was swept from under her–then, just as suddenly, it sped up again.

Like a tree cut down for its timber, she fell. The ground rushed up to greet her face as she stumbled to the ground with a hard thud. She panted, smelling the earth and feeling the wet grass tickle her face as she struggled against her entanglement; wriggling and thrashing like a stranded fish.

Well-used leather chaps groaned behind her as he stalked closer, winding the rope up with friction she was sure could start a fire, her stumache churned the thought.

The woman rolled onto her back to get a better layout of the situation–and there he stood. Just by her feet, he loomed over her. With his back to the fire, it cast a back-lit glow around him, framing the big man as he filled her sight. Fear and desire fought for the helm, conflicting her mind terribly.

He crouched down, bending over her as he circled the rope around her waist, foirtyfying her restraints and securing his valuable bounty tightly.

He grabbed the lasso and pulled her up diagonally. It pinched her midriff painfully and pulled her body flush against his, just so he could level her head with his. ". . . And I've done bad things," he whispered, lips brushing against her ear. A dull pulse appeared where there ought to be no pulse. She screwed her eyes shut, and lust for this man was the last thing she should be feeling. But oh. . . How his breath raised goosebumps and spread like a wildfire over her skin.

He straightened his legs and stood back, pulling her with him while keeping their bodies close together.

Her breath fanned over his lips as they stood a mere inch apart, one bound and the other free. A smirk made its way onto his lips, his hands sliding along the tied rope around her abdomen until they were at her waist. And in one strong motion–he threw her over his shoulder.

She yelped in surprise. "You brute!" Kicking wildy in hopes of getting free. But one of his arms circled around her legs and gripped the back of her thigh to keep them still, while he laid the other on the small of her back to stop her from falling. "You keep your hands to yourself Mister!" She shouted, struggling against his bullish strength.

"Yes, ma'am." He assured as he began walking, not paying her futile thrashing much mind. "That's not the kind of bad man I am."

She cleared her throat and huffed, expecting more of a reaction. She didn't quite know what to do in this situation, she hadn't planned this far ahead. She didn't think she'd ever be properly cought. "Well, good," she said curtly, calming herself.

Being a nuisance and making this whole situation worse would be a bad idea, and she hadn't made any progress thus far, seeing as his grip was solid steel. So she'd have to settle her mind with the feeling of his strong back beneath her instead. In fact, she was reveling in the feeling of his hand on her thigh.

He stomped out the campfire before moving to where he'd hidden his horse. "Sittin' or layin'?" He asked, being nice enough to hand her to option of sharing his saddle or to be stored over his horses ass.

She huffed, "what a gentleman. Take a guess Mister," she muttered.

He nodded, "Sittin' with me it is." His hands moved to her waist, and easily transfered her from his shoulder and onto the saddle. She scoffed for the sake of scoffing, eyes narrowing as she looked down on him, and if it had the power to, her look could certainly have killed him. "Quite presumtions of you."

With a low chuckle and a shake of his head, he gripped the saddle before climbing on. Placing his hands on either side of it, one hand on the pommel and the other on the cantel. Which just so happened to be between her thighs, and just behind her ass. Almost grazing her on both sides as he braced himself against the saddle, eyes meeting hers with a satisfied smirk, "Much more attitude from ya' girl and I'll have to take meassures."

Shock sprung itself on her, feeling dizzy all over again. The knuckle of his thumb was an inch away from brushing against her cunt. Her eyes widened at the fact, and the implications his words carried. Her loins burned, but she simply cleared her throat and neutralised her expression, "Id like to see you try." And faced away from him, turning her nose upward.

He climbed onto the horse, placing himself close intil her back and leaned over her shoulder. "I will if you'd let me, respectfully, ma'am," he whispered in her ear and then spurred his horse. Shivers shook her at that, her entire body vibrating with a dull sense of need.

They rode silently for a long while, and she wanted to sass him, she wanted it terribly. But was both afraid and hoping he'd take action, just as he'd stated.

The miles wound on, oh it felt never ending. Especially with the man behind her, rutting his hips against her with every step of the horse. He was a blessing against the cold, but pure torture as his heat soaked into all the wrong spots of her body.

Finally, it came time to rest. They'd ridden nonstop from the early morning of her capture to the next night. If that weren't enough, a heatwave had been raging for the entirety of the day as well, and the setting of the sun had barely made a difference.

He set her on the ground, binding her feet and hands before starting on the camp. Making quick work of the fire and tent as she sat down on a rock, silently watching the man work, and very much enjoying the show.

His skin was slick with sweat, much like herself. The cool light of the moon and the warmth of the fire made him glisten in every sense of the word, and oh, the way he toiled away.

He'd removed his vest and chaps as he got to work, respectively rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, which now stuck to his skin. A nuisance for him to be sure, but a dream for her, she could practically see the muscles of his chest rippling.

A drop of sweat trickled down her temple, tickling her skin and drawing focus away from the view. Her eyes widened as she realised how she stared at the stranger and shook her head, attempting to clear it.

Goodness, focus. She needed to hatch a plan.

Running would do her no good, he would be too fast. He wouldn't accept bribes either and was very hard to persuade. No attempts had been successful so far.

At that thought, unavoidably, abashedly her eyes snapped back to him as he pulled his shirt off and reached for a new one in his saddlebag. She clenched her jaw to keep it from falling, his strong chest was adorned by hair, trailing down his abdomen and disappearing under, the waist of his pants.

She swallowed. In that exact moment, she wanted nothing more than to see where that trail ended.

Her jaw began aching, she fought to tear her eyes away from him. Managing to direct her gaze to the ground instead, a d impatiently waited for him to put a fresh shirt on.

After a short while, she dared look up again. He'd pulled a log to opposite side of the fire and sat down, a cigarette had been placed between his lips, and was currently being inhaled with fervor. Tilting his head back, he released the cloud of smoke with a sigh.

Her eyes followed his movements intently, studying them as she hoped that perhaps he'd notice her and offer one–

"Want one, girl?" He nodded toward her, gesturing with the match box.

"I do, yes," she answered expectantly, holding her hands out for him to untie.

But to her surprise, he scoffed, then stod and walked around the fire. He crouched onto one knee in front of her, his arm bracing on top of the other. "You'll have to do better than that," he said.

He plucked the cigarette from his lips and offered it to her, holding it an inch from her mouth. She hesitated, observing him with disdain. "Go on," he nodded.

Reluctantly, she followed his orders, but met his eyes to make sure he knew how unhappy she was about it, and then leaned in.

Closing her lips around the cigarette, she could feel the dampness where his own lips had been moments before, and sucked the toxic smoke into her lungs, as if it were air.

She swore she saw something glint in his eyes, studying her pouting lips. And a plan struck her suddenly, but–

"Good girl," he hummed.

Again, shock gripped her. The praise rose right to her head, sending waves of heat cascading through her body. Then she coughed, the smoke settling wrong in her airways. She pulled back, letting him retrieve his cigarette while she worked to regain her composure. "You alright there, sweetheart?" He asked with a grin and patted her back before replacing the cig between his lips.

"Just fine, mister," she hissed, still reeling. "You got anything stronger? Whiskey, bourbon?"

He nodded and pulled out an old bottle of bourbon from his bag, "Could you?" She held her hands out to him again.

He studied her, stroking his stubbled jaw in thought. "Got somethin' for me, then?"

Insinuations led her down a path of filthy thoughts, but she instead opted for a simple, "Please?" Instead, attempting it cheapishly.

His hands slipped down to his hip, pulling the knife from its hilt. "That's more like it," he mumbeled with his cigarette clad lips.

And cut the rope around her hands and feet, stopping at the rope around her waist and met her eyes. "Try anythin'. . ." He raised his eyebrows and lowered his voice to a mocking tone. ". . . Run, hurt me, trick me." His eyes narrowed, the corner of his lip tugging. "And there'll be a steep price to be paid."

Swallowing, she nodded enthusiastically, "I just wan't a sliver of freedom before im locked up, you could understand that."

He nodded. "S'pose so. . ." And began untying. "The difference is, girl–" The lasso loosened and slid down her sides. "–that I'd never get caught." He gathered it and pulled it over her body, his fingers accidentally brushing against her hips, the sides of her breasts.

Her breath hitched, and their eyes met. Her skin tingled desperately as fluttering wingbeats set off in her stumache. Such a small thing, building into such a big reaction.

He cleared his throat, handing her the bottle as he threw the rope into the fire and put the lasso bag in his saddlebag. Finally replacing himself on another log, not as far away from her this time. He leaned back against the tree behind it and spread his legs wide. His bulge was enough to make her salivate. "It's not easy, you know, for a woman like me, when there's men like you, Mr Morgan."

Arthur quriked an eyebrow in question. "You know me?"

"I know of you," she corrected, taking a big swig of the fluid, then handed it back to him for him to do the same.

He nodded silently, a sigh escaping under his breath. "All bad I hope." He took another swallow, not to bothered by her statement. Probably used to hearing it by now.

She shook her head, taking the bottle and another gulp. "Many of the ladies say you're handsome."

At this, he looked up at her, chuckling. "Well, I don't know 'bout that."

"It's true. . ." Antoher sip, followed by a hiccup. "They say you can be quite the gentleman too."

His eyes bore into hers, his tone serious but expression joking as he humored her. "Depends on the lady." He reached for the bottle, and she stood up to give it to him. Walking closer, she handed it over, fingers brushing against each other in the motion.

His eyes met hers, and she brushed her hand under his chin. "You know what else they say, Mr Morgan?"

"No . . . What do they say about me, sweetheart?" A smirk made its way onto his lips. The liquor seamingly starting to affect the pair of them.

"That you're good in bed. . ." he stepped between his thighs, her hand falling from his chin to his neck, scratching at the nape gently.

He hummed appreciatively, then took another sip of the bourbon and set the bottle aside. His hands reached for her, coming to a rest on either side of her thighs, pulling her closer to him, squeezing them at his pleasure. "They're only rumours girl." He tilted his head backward, resting it against the tree to get a better look at her, eyes fastening on her lips.

With her other hand, she hiked her skirt up, revealing her thighs as she stepped over his legs. One at a time, then slowly sank down on his lap, while his hands automatically slid to her hips.

She placed herself on top of his bulge. He grunted from the pressure. The pulse within her began strumming at her nerves, turning them jittery.

"See, I doubt that, Mr Morgan." She whispered. "Women do not lie to eachother of such things." His bulge beneath her grew harder, luring a hidden smile from her. It took strength to will it from her lips and only reach her eyes. "They say you're rough, or gentle. Dependin' on your mood." As she said that, she could've sworn she detected the faintest red creep up his cheeks. Arthur Morgan, blushing? Now, she couldnt help herself and the smile reached her lips.

The man cleared his throat, acting as if it had never happened. "That's told of me in everythin' I do." He smirked, the grip on her hips hardening, knuckles turning white.

"But you're always sweet 'n caring." She continued, her own words were building the lust within her, making the pulse ever stronger. It grew harder to focus. She needed to release some of the pressure building inside her. Evaluating the consequences, and deaming them minor in conparison to her needs, she rocked her hips downward–grinding into his bulge.

Simultaneously, she whimpered and he hissed. She leaned against him, her lips brushing against his ear as shenuzzled his cheek. "Apparently, It's also true what they say 'bout ridin' cowboys-"

"Girl," he interrupted with a chuckle. "Dont think I dont know what you're doin'. . ." He breathed. "Seducin' me." With the tight grip on her hips, he rocked her hips against him, the rough fabric of his pants grinding against her core.

With a gasp, one of her hands shot out to burry itself in his hair. She leaned into him, the other hand grabbing his shirt for support as she rested her head against his shoulder. He nuzzled his cheek against hers, returning the gesture and muttered. "You use your sweet talkin', then get me drunk 'n run off, that your plan?"

Her eyebrows furrowed, hips grinding down harder, her ruts becoming more frantic, needy. She screwed her eyes shut from the copious amounts of pleasure washing over her. All she could do to answer him was hum in admittal as she strained hard to focus.

He chuckled. "Easy girl. . ." His voice commanding, low and raspy as he slowed her hips, but keeps the pace hard. "Use your words." He ordered, loving the way she fell apart for him.

She nodded hastily, hoping it'd be enough satisfy his request. But he pinched her hip through the fabric of her skirt, and her eyebrows furrowed in pain. However, not having the energy to even make a sound. Her thoughts were a blur, she couldn't tell what to keep hidden anymore. "Yes– yes. . ." She moaned, the coil inside her tightening impossibly hard.

"Thought so," he breathed, the words curt on his tongue, but lust evident in his voice. Suddenly, his hands left her hips, snd one arm snaked around her waist, his hand placing itself at the small of her back to push her against him.

Then he stood, drawing a whine from her. She did not quite understand what was going on as the loss of movement gradually undid all the progress she'd made. "Mr Morgan?" She inquired, hesitantly wrapping her legs around his hips.

He walked them toward the tent. "Arthur," he corrected, carrying her with ease. Pushing the tent flap to the side, he kneeled, bending over her as he placed her on the ground.

"Arthur," she smiled, worry seeping out of her as she realised he was making them more comfortable.

His knees slid apart, hooking her legs upon them as they spread. Her hands shot up in response, grabbing onto the collar of his shirt to pull him closer, close enough for his lips to hover over hers. Their eyes met. "Please. . ." She whimpered, one hand sliding downward. ". . .Please." She said again, fingertips trailing down his abdomen, suddenly grabbing hold of his bulge with a firm hand, his member rock hard. "Outlaw or gentleman?" She asked, smiling a wicked smile.

A grutn escaped him while his lips brushed over hers. "Neither." And grabs her wrist, pulling her hand away from his crotch and catching the other in the same motion. His free hand reached over her head, and the hauntingly familiar groaning of strong rope sounded above her. She shook her head, "Arthur, please. . ." Panic moved into her voice, the repeated words carrying a completely different meaning this time.

He held both wrists with one hand and tied them together with the other, the rope stinging her skin. She cried out unhappily.

But he chuckled, in a matter of factly kind of way. Stroking the burn gently as ge corrected her, "Should've behaved." And when done, he sat back. Observing her as she laid tied up, legs spread in front of him, and circled around his hips. Much to his dismay, he wouldn't be enjoying the sight as much as he wanted to. "It's late."

"Arthur. . ." She pleads, attempting to appeal to him, one last time.

He turns his head just enough to see her in his peripheral. "Get some sleep. You got a long day ahead of you tomorrow." He flashed his eyebrows smugly. "Night, sweetheart." Then exited the tent without another word.

She huffed, unbelievable.

Sweetheart. . . But how could she be annoyed when he called her such a thing. She dreamed herself away, with imagines of a shirtless Arthur Morgan and the feeling of him inside her. But she'd not given up, make no mistake, he would fall asleep and she would leave. . .

The night carried on and the temperature finally began dropping, a shiver shook her pleasantly. It was a welcome change. Her body strained as she raised her neck to get a look of the outside. Through the flap she saw Arthur, sitting, snoring, hat covering his face as he leaned back against the tree he'd previously been sitting on.

Now, she needed to get rid of her restraints. Rolling over, she crawled toward the opening, her eyes never leaving Mr Morgans sheathed knife.

The fire had been reduced to embers at this point. Crackling and sizzling lowly as the cool moisture in the air riddled the grass with dewdrops, dampening her hands and skirt as she approached her goal. She sat on her knees, then moved to grab the knife carefully, gnelty sliding it out. The sound of it unlatching nearly had her yelp.

No movement in Arthur.

Shallow breaths, she exhales. Relief flooding through her begoee she began working the knife against her entangled wrists with her fingertips. Carefully regarding the vicious man for any signs of waking. But her thoughts slid, perhaps, if he caught her, he would be kind. Or would he be angry? She could truly not decide werther which reaction she'd most prefer–

The rope snapped, and exhilaration filled her. Gaze snapping between her free hands and the hunter, imagining her prospects. She stood quietly, holding her skirt tightly around her to keep the fabrics from rustling. Slowly, knife still in hand, she backed away. On careful tiptoed steps she faded into the night, the fire dwindling in the distance.

The darkness made it hard for her to see much of anything, at its height the tree-crowns silhouette were visible against the blue summer sky. Branches moved, leaves swished in the gentle wind. She grew paranoid, head snapping in every direction, reacting to every little noise around–

A branch broke behind her, she jumped, turning around so fast she almost ripped– a Buck. She froze, a god damned buck? She had expected it ro be Arthur, but she seemed to have ogtten the better of him. The animal looked at her, ears twitching as it chewed on grass– suddenly hopping away. She sighed and turned back.

Only to collide with something hard. Her thoughts raced, she knew, she knew. She looked up, eyes tracing along his body until they met his, half hidden under his hat. Reflexes prepared her to run, but before she had as much as taken a step back, a hand grabbed her wrist and yanked her back to him. Again, she thumped into his strong chest. Held against him with the familiar iron grip, she fought, as usual; but to no avail, as usual. He snaked an arm around her waist to hinder her from breaking free, yet she kicked and punched violently with her free limbs. But it made no dent in the man. He couldn't even spare her a reaction as he half carried, half dragged her back into the low light of the burnt out fire. He spun her around and pushed her up against the cliff wall, grabbing the wrist closest to him and pinning it above her head. "I warned you, girl." He snarled, the look in his eyes doing just as good a of job pinning her to the wall as his hands. He reaches for the second–

When something sharp digs into the soft flesh of his throat, he froze. His chest was the only thing moving between the two of them, heaving breaths of annoyance.

"Thrid times the charm." She smirked.

He raised his eyebrows and chuckled, "That so?" His voice mocking, and before she could comprehend what had happened, he'd captured both wrists with one hand and slammed them above her head and into the wall. And the knife had appeared in his free hand, she noticed this because it was now held against her own throat. "Repeat that for me girl."

Her lips struck a thin line as she attempted a neutral expression, although fuming on the inside. She shrugged her shoulders, "No." Was all she said, but stubborn in tone.

He nodded, looking her up and down, studying the buttons on her blouse. "Ought to teach you a lesson sweetheart."

She cleared her throat, deciding that to act nonchalant was her best option. "Yeah? What ya' gunna do, huh? Ravage me?" She asked half joking, but still hoping there'd be some truth to it.

At this, the corner of his mouth turned up, a wicked grin developing on his lips. "I just might." He breathed, tracing the tip of the knife downward, along her collarbone and then along the front of her blouse, coming to a stop at the first button. She gulped, feeling the knife poke through the thin fabric against her chest, making goosebumps run amock in reaction and the pulse reheating in her core. He leaned forward, pushing his body against hers until there was no room left between them, his head hovering just above the crook of her neck. "May I do with you as I please?"

This was it, the sweet balance between a hardened outlaw and a tender gentleman. "Yes– yes, Arthur please." Her voice near a cry, it took everything in her to control her tone–

Her blouse ripped, from top to bottom he cut it open, and she wasn't wearing a brasier. Her chest laid bare before him, and he groaned happily at the sight.

With her go-ahead he wasted no time, he let go of her hands and cut her skirt too. Cutting a slit as far as he reached with the knife then threw it to the side, and the tore the rest. She gasped, every nerve in her body on edge. In an instant, his lips were upon hers. Hungry, hungry lips devouvered her as hands roamed her body, groping and grabbing wherever they got purchase. Her own hands greedily searching for a steady hold in his hair, she grabbed a fistful and pulled gently. He moaned at the feeling, such a beautiful sound. His hands slid over her breasts, squeezing them, then pushed the remains of her blouse off of her shoulders.

Except for her undergarments, she stood completley exposed for him. She could practically feel him salivating when he cupped her clothed mound, and finding her clit with expertise and rub it through the fabric.

She tore herself free from his kisses, she had to breathe. A deep gasp brought oxygen to ger lungs once again, allowing her to whimperand moan in equal measure as he worked her clit. The pressure made her knees week, she wriggled, attempting to rut against his hand. But she was too unsteady to make progress. Noticing her difficulties, his other hand slid behind her back and held her steady. Allowing her to chase her pleasure. And left with no lips to kiss, he latched onto her neck instead, to suck at her sweet spot.

She hummed appreciatively, unable to keep a big smile from her lips as pulses of pleasure washed through her. She slid her hands from his hair and unbuttoned his shirt, running her fingers along his strong chest and abdomen, gingerly feeling all of him as her hands worked themselves lower. Finally unbuttoning his pants. She did no longer have to wonder were his happy trail dissapeared too, she bit her lip. He was huge. She stuck her hand into his pants and stroked him eagerly. "Need ya' Arthur, please." She panted.

He let out a strained grunt against her shoulder, and his hand left her clit. She whined, but didn't have to stay displeased for long.

Both his hands slid down her sides, and she tried to breathe steadily, but it proved hard. The feeling of his calloused hands on her skin was too heavenly. Suddenly, he lifted her. Pinning her against the cliff wall with his arms and the weight of his body, allowing her to wrap her arms and legs around him. She hadn't known, but he had wordlessly obided her request. He pulled her garments to the side, and line himself up with her entrance. "Sure about this?" He asked, a final reassurance.

"Yes." She purred, no hesitation in her answer.

And so he pushed inside her, the sheer size of him was making her want to scream–

"Good girl." He moaned, and directed his eyes to hers. She repressed a moan, biting her lip hard to hinder it as heat flashed through her. It was two words, yet she could've come undone from them alone, when said by him alone.

He gazed upon her softly, one of his hands left her thigh to gently stroke a strand of hair from her face. She smiled, and so did he. He was just giving her time to adjust, but her heart soared at the simple gesture.

God how could she feel so strongly for a stranger?

Her hands retangled in his hair as Arthur slid out of her, she furrowed her brows– but in a rough, quick thrust. He shoved himself back inside of her, filling her to the brim. He set a cruelly pleasurable, unrelenting pace. Any trace of gentleness gone.

She felt the pressure tightening within her, building snd building until she was on the verge of coming once again. Her hands sunk to his back, clawing and scratching because she did not know what else to do, he was too much, too good, too big. He overstimulated her with his mere prescence. And he knew when her walls tightened around him, adding extra pressure onto his already throbbing member. "You close girl?" He grunted, his gruff voice breathed against her ear and his hand squeezing her thigh roughly beneath her. God it was sublime.

"Mhm. . . So- close.'" She murmurs, her words coming out jagged as her body rocks with Arthurs thrusts. Pushed closer to her release with each thrust, once again, she shut her eyes and spots speckled her eyelids. Breathing turns frantic, she could no longer tell who was who as they mixed, moans and curses spilling from them both.

With a flash of pleasure, searing hot it soured through her, making her whimper uncontrollably. His thrusts slow, holding her securely, caressing her face and kissing her lips as she rides out her high. "You're alright girl." He breathes reassuringly, "Well done Sweetheart."

Overstimulated tears roll from her eyes, "Oh Arthur, you sweet, sweet man." She sighs happily, and he comes a mere second later. His seed filling her and oozing out.

They'd clean themselves tomorrow, since tiredness plagued them currently. He backed away from the wall and she clung to him, desperatley not wanting to part with him.

He carried her back to the tent, this time not bothering to tie her up as they laid down facing eachother. Arthur, grabbed her chin between his index and forefinger. Studying her thuroughly before they finally succumbed to sleep. She could escape if she wanted to, he wouldn't stop her this time. Her plan had worked, they both knew it. But they felt something else too, and they both knew it.

Hooded eyes blinked, blushing at Arthurs intent eyes and searching gaze. Her eyelids weighed down by exhaustion, It'd been a long few days, and before she knew it–

The light dawns, rays of dusty sunlight shone through the flap of their tent as the morning wakes. Bringing warmer tempratures and calm birdsong.

He opens his eyes, and immediately meet hers. She'd just been admiring him. "Surprised?" She asked, biting her lip and stopping herself from reaching out to touch him.

He smiles, "Naw, I was hopin' I'd wake up to you girl."

[zaldritzosrose]

Only Ever Yours (Aegon x Wife!Reader)

Summary: Aegon saw marriage as a duty, a weight to bear and nothing more. You were a good wife; he would never fault you that. But he refused to believe he felt nothing more for you. Unfortunately for him, his uncle knew better. Daemon was going to get him to admit it, one way or another.

TW: MINORS DNI, She/Her pronouns, afab reader, mentions of alcohol consumption, oral (f receiving), fingering, Daemon thinking he's helping, flirting, innuendo, profanity.

Words: 4319

Thank you to @legitalicat for betaing this! 💚

Also, there is some vague references to this being within the Dance timeline but nothing concrete so imagine it as you will!

And please thank my dearest Nonnie for the request! Enjoy!

Name days were always a grand affair for the royal family and having Jacaerys turn six and ten – that was the grandest they had hosted in a while. You sat beside your husband, Aegon, between him and his uncle Daemon. Lords and ladies from all over the realm had come to celebrate the young prince’s coming of age and there was nothing short of revelry to be had.

Aegon was preoccupied with his wine, even large events like this where appearances were everything did not stem his dependency on his cups. Though you could not blame him, listening to lord after lord drivel on about something or another would likely drive you down the same path if you had a liking for wine.

What you did wish to do, however, was dance. The minstrels played nothing but upbeat songs to please the celebrated prince and the dance floor was already filling. You turned to Aegon; a hand placed on his arm to get his attention.

“Could we dance, husband?” you asked softly, the slightest sound of hope in your tone.

But what you got was a shake of his head, nothing more.

Aegon had never been unkind to you, but he had always seemed disenchanted with your marriage. Uninterested in anything more than his duty. He kept his eyes trained on his cup before him, not noticing the look of disappointment on your face. The flush of rejection on your cheeks as you turned away from him and picked at the food on your plate.

But Daemon noticed.

He noticed the glisten of tears in your eyes, the slight tremble of your lower lip as you tried to keep yourself calm. And he felt a pang of sympathy. You had been offered as a politically advantageous marriage for Aegon. Binding your house and the Targaryens solely for power. And it seemed his nephew had yet to look past his duty to the woman beneath it.

“My lady?” Daemon touched your arm gently, bringing your attention over to your uncle by marriage now.

“My prince,” you hurried to wipe your eyes, trying your best to hide your emotions.

Daemon only offered you a smile, glancing around you and seeing Aegon glancing over to the pair of you.

“A lady as pretty as you should have no need to cry, nor be left alone with no dance partner,” Daemon said softly, nudging your arm and coaxing a smile to your lips.

“It is alright, my prince, really. I am more than content to…”

Daemon interrupted you with a chuckle and a shake of his head.

“No, my sweet lady, you need to be more than content.” Daemon stood, offering his hand to you with a smirk.

With a final glance to Aegon, who was doing nothing but glaring into the cup before him, you accepted.

“Quite the saviour you are, my prince,” you giggled, as Daemon led you down the steps and to the dance floor below.

The music had turned upbeat, and Daemon was quick to put you both into position. He led you with a smile, putting all his effort to spinning you about the dance floor and bringing smiles and laughter to your lips.

Aegon watched. At first, he told himself he did not care. You wanted to dance, and you were dancing. You were happy and he did not have to involve himself. But when the song ended and Daemon did not let you go, he began to watch more closely.

The next song was slower and when you did not pull away from his uncle, Aegon sat up a little straighter and followed your every move. The closeness between your and Daemon’s bodies, how you blushed a little when Daemon leaned down to whisper something in your ear.

Aegon’s jaw tightened, but he tried to will away the emotions stirring within. Jealousy. You were his wife; you should be at his side. But he knew, deep down, that was not what bothered him. It was the joy on your face. Joy that was not caused by him.

The second song ended, and Daemon leaned down a little, pressing a kiss to your hand.

“Thank you for the dance, my sweet lady,” he smirked, offering you a wink that brought out yet another giggle.

Aegon could not hear what he said, but he could see the smile, the movement of your shoulders that told him you were giggling, the flush on your cheeks from the dance and dare he say…from Daemon. He should not feel jealous, you were his duty, a marriage he had never asked for.

So why did he feel it? Why did his stomach feel twisted and his blood feel like it was boiling in his veins? The scrape of his chair could be heard over the music as Aegon descended the steps and stormed his way through the crowd to you and Daemon.

“Aegon?” you asked, but Aegon’s focus was solely on Daemon.

But his uncle only smiled, inclining his head and retreating into the crowd. His smile never left him, even after his back turned on the young couple.

What neither knew, was Daemon had watched them, since the day they had been betrothed. You had done everything to try and enamour yourself to Aegon, to try and present yourself as a good prospect. But Aegon had simply tolerated your presence. Acted politely from his mother’s instructions, courted you. Took you on walks around the gardens, introduced to his dragon even.

But he never seemed to enjoy it. It was as though marriage was simply a burden. Daemon watched you retreat into yourself, watched you stop vying quite so hard for Aegon’s attentions. He watched as your usual happy demeanour seemed to waver.

It only became more obvious when you were married. The kiss shared between the pair of you in the Sept was tense and since then, nothing had improved.

So, Daemon had took it upon himself to fix it. To see you, someone who had been dragged into this family through no choice of her own, to a husband who did not want her. He knew the one way to make Aegon see, was to force him to admit how he felt for you.

And tonight was only the beginning.

The name day feast gnawed at Aegon’s mind, only a week had passed. Jealousy meant nothing, surely. It could not possibly mean he felt anything deep for you. No, he told himself. It could not possibly be true.

Aegon was sat by the window, having just finished his breakfast when he heard you enter. It was rare for the two of you to spend the mornings together, Aegon preferring lazier mornings whereas you always took breakfast with his mother and sister.

“Good morning, husband,” you said softly, slipping into the seat across from him.

Aegon gave you a tight smile, watching as you poured yourself a cup from the tea from the pot he had yet to touch. He was curious, however, as to why you were here.

“There is a family dinner tonight.” You said gently, sipping from your tea.

Now it made sense, there were few reasons you would willingly seek him out, he knew that without a doubt. Though even thinking that, made Aegon feel a pang of guilt he did not expect.

“And I assume my attendance is expected?”

The look you gave him was enough. He nodded. A family dinner meant all of the family would be in attendance. And he was not prepared to receive a telling off from his mother if he avoided it.

The rest of the morning was spent in silence, until you were called away for a walk with Helaena.

Aegon met you outside your chambers in time to walk to dinner, his face already showing he wished to be anywhere else. You did feel a little bad for him, now he was married most talk seemed to focus on that. Whether it was questions directed at you on your expected motherhood, or at Aegon at the need to ‘perform his duty’. You would sometimes wish you could tell him you would avoid dinner with him.

But you were not even sure he would want to avoid it with you.

He held his arm out to you, barely glancing at you as you took it and began to walk in step with him. It was not until you reached the dining hall that he even spared you a look. The deep green and black of your dress was not what he expected. Aegon sometimes wore Targaryen blacks or Hightower green depending on his mood. To see you wearing both stirred something within him he did not expect.

He led you down the dining table and to your seats, passing Daemon as you went. The smile the elder prince gave you did not go unnoticed.

“My lady, you truly are a sight to behold,” Daemon purred out to you as you passed and Aegon did not miss the faint flush in your cheeks.

“You flatter me, my prince,” you replied, your voice soft and breathy. You did not immediately notice how Aegon tensed at your side.

Aegon hurried you on, his other arm reaching round and letting his hand grip your arm. His jaw was set tight, and his eyes now solely focused on making it down to his seat. He was now practically dragging you along behind him. The moment he sat, he pulled the jug of wine towards him, taking a long drink as you looked at him in confusion.

Daemon however, smirked into his cup. It would not be long before Aegon would have to admit he felt something for you. And dinner tonight was simply another stone on that path.

Dinner passed on with little consequence. Conversation flowed on all sides of the table, and when dessert was served Daemon saw your eyes light up. He was close enough to your seat to lean over to talk.

“Do you have a sweet tooth, my lady?” Daemon asked, that mischievous smile back on his lips.

You laughed a little before answering.

“It is a weakness; I am ashamed to admit. My mother would have the desserts and sweets put on the highest shelves of our kitchens…” you realised you were rambling and stopped.

Daemon realised then that Aegon may never have even asked you about yourself. Was his nephew so apathetic to this marriage that he did not bother to know his own wife?

His thoughts were interrupted by a tray of sweet and honeyed cakes being placed between you. He soon saw your eyes flick down and your tongue dart out ever so slightly in anticipation. You were about to reach out when Daemon lifted a cake and offered it to you.

“A sweet cake, almost as sweet as you, my lady.”

The giggle you let out had Aegon turning his head to look at you. He realised he could not remember one moment he had made you laugh anywhere close to that. And that feeling in the pit of his stomach returned.

A sickening mix of guilt, anger and jealousy.

You had not expected the feast thrown for your own name day to be quite as lavish as Prince Jacaerys, but your mother-in-law Alicent had near demanded you be celebrated the same way the royal children were. You knew there was animosity between the two families, but you had luckily avoided the brunt of it.

There was a sense of déjà vu as you sat at the top table, Aegon at your right as you looked down to the crowd of nobles, including your family, that had come to celebrate you. The only group you waited on now was Daemon, Rhaenyra and the Princes. And when the doors opened to reveal them, Aegon could not stop the swell of anger inside him as your face lit up to the sight of Daemon.

Had he been so neglectful of you that the attention his uncle gave you was that important? Or worse, did you feel something for Daemon?

Aegon school his face to a cool look of indifference as each of them approached and gave their good wishes. Daemon, however, beckoned you down to him with a grin.

“I know you said you wished for nothing when Rhaenyra asked, but you deserve to be well treated,” he whispered, pulling a small velvet covered box from behind his back.

Your eyes went wide at the sight, even wider when it was opened. An intricate necklace, weaving your house sigil with that of House Targaryen, and little green gemstones for House Hightower. The three Houses you now belonged to.

“It is beautiful,” you sighed, tracing your fingers over the designs of the necklace.

Daemon gestured for you to turn, and you even moved your hair so he could place the necklace around your throat. The metal was cool against your already flushed skin. If you had looked up, you would have seen Aegon’s reddened cheeks and tight smile as he glared down at the both of you. Though you would not have understood his anger in its entirety. Why he found the way Daemon’s hands brushed at your neck as he clasped the necklace around. Why he found the gift itself an insult.

It was not known to many, but before their family drifted apart, Aegon and Daemon would frequent the same brothels. There was a chance they had even fucked the same whores. But there was one difference. Aegon would pay those he fucked in gold, Daemon however, would pay them a different way. He would bring presents for those he favoured, trinkets essentially. Not that he thought Daemon believed you a whore, but the implication and memory made him sick.

He could have move past it, ignored the twisted feeling in his gut. But when you raced back to him, a wide smile on your face and your hands still clutching the necklace, Aegon was ready to snap.

“Husband! Your uncle Daemon is so generous, is he not?” You almost squealed in excitement.

You were at his side, giving him no choice but to see the jewels that now hung around your neck. And he did not even both to force a smile to his lips.

“Oh yes, he is quite generous.” Aegon snapped back at you, no longer hiding his disdain.

Your eyes narrowed, you had seen Aegon upset before, but never like this.

“Is there a problem, husband?” You asked, your eyes stinging with tears of anger now.

But Aegon said nothing, gripping your arm and dragging you away from your own name day feast. He wove you through the crowds, ignoring the questions from his family as you passed them.

“What are you doing! Let go!” you tried to tug your arm from his grasp, but he ignored you.

Aegon was silent as he dragged you back to his chambers, Slamming the door behind him and rounding on you. But you spoke first.

“Aegon, what is wrong with you?” you were close to shouting, Aegon realised he had never heard you raise your voice.

“Wrong! What is wrong?” Aegon slammed his hand to the small table beside him, the wine cups and jug shaking with the impact.

“Daemon is what is wrong! Do you think I enjoy watching him fawn over you and…and watch you enjoy it!?”

So that was what it was all about. Aegon refused to show you care and attention as his wife, but gods forbid someone else dared to?

“Are you serious, Aegon? This is all because you are jealous?”

You did not know when you had closed the distance between the two of you, or when your hand had slapped against his chest. But the warmth of Aegon’s hand around your wrist brought you back to reality.

“Are you jealous?” your voice had gone softer, changing your tack to see if you could get through to him.

Aegon shoved you back, not looking as you stumbled a little over the hem of your gown. You could see the heave of his shoulders as he tried to calm himself. He did not know if he wanted to cry or scream. He hated how he felt. He hated being married, he hated…just all of it.

“Jealous? I would have to love you to feel jealous, would I not?” The words left him before he could control them.

Any anger you felt almost dissipated. You had never pretended to think your husband loved you, political marriages rarely went that way. But to hear it come directly from him?

It broke your heart.

“You are a cruel man, husband…”

Aegon could hear the pain in your voice, the heartbreak. And the wave of guilt that washed over him made him want to reach out, apologise. But he was sure you would reject him.

“Do you think I enjoy Daemon’s attentions because I desire him, is that it?”

He could feel you behind him, the soft scent of your perfume wafting towards him as you moved. Your hands on his back making him want to pull away. Aegon could not bring himself to answer with words, his breath leaving him in frustrated huffs.

“Because you are wrong.”

Aegon could feel his frustration simmering. His mind spinning as he tried to understand what he felt. Hearing you say you held no desire for Daemon should not make his lips almost curl to a smile. He felt…relieved to hear you say it. But when he did not speak, you continued.

“Do you wish for the truth, husband?”

Your hands shoved at his back, trying in vain to get him to look at you. Your frustration, desperation and pain fighting inside you. But he still refused to speak.

“The truth is the attention I want is yours.”

It was all you wanted. To have your husband look at you with even a sliver of affection. For there to be more in his eyes than contempt or boredom whenever you spent time with him. For him to want you as you wanted him.

Daemon’s attentions had only reminded you of how you should feel. Of how being wanted felt. How your heart should beat a little faster in their presence, how your stomach should flutter and your cheeks flush when they showed you any attention.

Everything you wanted from Aegon but had yet to receive.

But Aegon was barely listening. His own mind reeled, processing everything he felt towards you. Jealousy meant he cared, and the thought felt foreign in his mind. Because if he cared, if seeing another pay you any mind bothered him as much as it was, then he must feel something for you.

And to hear you say you wanted his attention; it sent a surge of something he did not expect. Love? Desire? Either way, it was new.

“Will you not even look at me now?” you asked, your hands still on his back, gentle as if taming a wild animal.

Aegon turned slowly, his eyes downcast. He took a few calming breaths before looking up at you. His eyes falling to the necklace. And you did not miss how his jaw clenched at the sight of it.

“Do you really like it that much?” he asked quietly, his finger reaching out to trace the silver chain.

He tried to ignore how your breath hitched a little when his fingers touch your skin instead of the necklace. He tried to ignore how soft your skin felt beneath his hand.

“Tis a gift, it would be rude to not wear it,” you said, watching how his eyes followed his finger as it traced higher, reaching the curve of your neck.

“Maybe…my husband could replace it with something of his own choosing?”

Aegon concentrated on the feel of you. How his heart raced a little as he felt your own pulse beneath his hand. His hand continued up, curling around the back of your neck and letting his thumb circle of your skin.

He had never been this close to you without the intent of performing his marital duties. Aegon had never willingly pursued any kind of physical intimacy with you outside of that. But he could not ignore how it made him feel.

“Would you like that, wife?” Aegon whispered, feeling the soft hairs at the nape of your neck.

You nodded, Aegon’s proximity was a lot to process. The slight roughness of his palm, the heat of his breath as he spoke, the smell of the wine on him. It was almost too much for you to handle.

Aegon could feel the flush of heat in your skin. The quickening of your pulse. His mind clouded now with the smell of your perfume and the softness of your skin. He could feel the desire trickling down his spine, through his veins and into his thickening length. He barely remembered if he had ever felt such need from simply touching you.

Your own hands tightened in the fabric of his tunic, instinctually pulling him closer. The tension between the two of you was thick.

There was barely an inch between you now. Aegon’s hand gripped the back of your neck, his nose brushing yours.

“Kiss me, Aegon…please…”

He did not hesitate, finally giving into the feelings he had tried to ignore. His kiss bruising and desperate, his free hand wrapping around your waist and crushing you to his chest. You were just as filled with need as he was, your own hands gripping the fabric of his tunic tight while trying to push the fabric from his body.

Aegon walked you back to the bed, only stopping when your knees hit the footboard. You fell back with a soft bounce, leaning up on your elbows to watch your husband with lust clouded eyes. You could see the movement of his throat as he swallowed thick, your gaze travelling down to where he unbuttoned his tunic and the now prominent arousal sitting heavy in his breeches.

“I have been a fool, wife…a fool to think I felt nothing for you.” Aegon grunted out the words, his eyes trailing over your body as he spoke.

His skin felt hot, whatever blood was in his veins had run down and now pulsed through his cock. Only now did he really look at you. See you for just how beautiful you were.

The words Daemon had spoken way back at dinner rung in his head. But he realised just now how true they were.

“You truly are a sight to behold,”

He could see the flush reach your skin, your chest heaving now at his words. Aegon tugged his tunic from his body, pulling his undershirt over his head with little ceremony. Your own hands unlaced your gown, sighing out as the corset lessened its strain on your body. Your hands were soon replaced by Aegon’s, standing you up and making quick work of the rest of your gown. His hands more gentle than they had ever been, with only the thin silk of your shift between him and your bare form.

With a soft touch, he had you back on the bed. Surprising you as he knelt between your thighs. He had never, in all the time you had been married to him, pleasured you in such a way. His focus had always solely been on duty and nothing more.

But the hunger that darkened his eyes had your heart racing and your core pulsing. His hands gripped your thighs, pushing your shift higher until your cunt was bared to him. Aegon felt his mouth water, the realisation that his own stupidity had denied you both such pleasures momentarily passing through him.

“Please, husband…” You pleaded, your hips lifting slightly in a desperate need to feel his touch.

And he wasted no more time. He could deal with his deeper feelings after, right now he wished only to hear you moan for him. His lips planted heated kisses to your inner thighs, trailing a path up one side and down to the other. But never quite where you wanted him.

“Aegon…!”

You could feel his smirk as your frustrated sigh turned to a breathy moan. His hands tightening around your thighs as he buried his face as far as he could get. His tongue tasting every inch of you and groaning at the flavour that coated it.

His eyes flickered up to watch you, your skin hot and flushed. Your hips grinding down onto his face as your moans reached a fever pitch. Aegon wanted nothing more than to commit those sounds to memory. To never forget just how sweet you tasted. You had never felt a pleasure like it, had never felt your husband lust for you as desperately as he did now.

“Mhmm,” your eyes rolled as you felt his groan reverberate through you.

“Almost as sweet as a honey cake, my love…” Aegon whispered into you, adding a single finger along with his tongue.

He could feel your peak approaching, your moans higher and higher in pitch. His own grunts of pleasure vibrating your body as the tight band within finally snapped. Aegon refused to stop as your slick coated his lips and chin, pushing you almost to the brink of overstimulation.

But he had one more thing he needed to ask you. He needed to know you felt as he did. That you felt the same emotions he had forced himself to bury for so long.

“Are you mine? Please…let me hear you say it…”

Your hands tightened in his silver waves as you rolled your hips against him, his tongue lapping lazily now at your cunt. Your heart and body filled with a heady mix of love and desire. The same emotions you now saw in your husband’s eyes.

“Only ever yours…”

Aegon/HOTD Taglist:

@blissfulphilospher @elaratyrell @khaleesihel @legitalicat

@thenameswinter99 @anjelicawrites @sihtricsafin @arcielee

@sylasthegrim @aemondsbabe @itbmojojoejo @multyfangirl

@kaelatargaryen

If I have missed anyone, please let me know. If you wanted to be added to Aegon specific or general HOTD, also let me know!

[novaursa]

Fire Cannot Heal

- Summary: A raven arrives from Dragonstone carrying news dark as its wings.

- Paring: niece!reader/Daemon Targaryen

- Note: A lot of angst and death of the reader who Daemon married along with her older sister Rhaenyra in Valyrian tradition.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The air in Harrenhal was damp and heavy, a faint chill creeping through even the thickest of cloaks. Simon Strong sat across from him, droning on about the movements of the Hightower forces and their plans to hold the Riverlands.

Daemon Targaryen wasn’t listening.

His thoughts wandered to Dragonstone, to the turbulent seas and dark skies above its cliffs. He imagined the roaring fires of the hearths and the laughter of his sons echoing through the halls. Then, unbidden, his mind conjured the image of you, softer and gentler than either himself or Rhaenyra, seated by the window in your chamber with a hand resting on your belly, your lips curving into a smile as you spoke of your hopes for the child you carried.

Daemon’s hand tightened around his cup as he exhaled slowly, almost in frustration. The child. He had never expected such joy to stem from your union, a marriage of necessity, one he had likened to Aegon and Visenya’s—a duty, a convenience. You knew it, too, and he had seen the knowledge in your eyes even on your wedding day. Yet now…now, with the prospect of this child, there had been something new between you. Something he had not known how to name but had begun to crave.

The door creaked open, snapping Daemon from his thoughts. A messenger, pale and out of breath, stumbled into the hall, clutching a parchment sealed with the black wax of Dragonstone. The urgency in his movements immediately silenced Simon’s voice.

“My prince,” the messenger began, his voice trembling, “I bring word from Dragonstone. A raven arrived.”

Daemon stood without hesitation, his boots heavy against the stone floor as he crossed the room in a few long strides. The parchment was thrust into his hands, and he broke the seal with a swift, impatient motion.

The words swam before his eyes, black ink staining the rough parchment like spilled blood:

Silverwing…Rook’s Rest…Vhagar…Aemond…fallen…

His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, the world seemed to tilt on its axis. He read the message again, slower this time, as if the meaning would change if only he looked hard enough. But the words remained the same.

You were gone.

He stumbled back a step, his hand clutching the edge of the table for support. The messenger’s voice was faint in the background, explaining what the letter did not say outright. “The queen sent her…to bolster Lord Staunton’s defense. Silverwing…they say she was torn from the sky by Vhagar…”

Simon Strong rose, concern evident in his eyes. “My prince? What has happened?”

Daemon didn’t answer. His eyes remained fixed on the parchment, his fingers curling tightly around its edges until the paper crumpled. His mind refused to accept the words.

You, with your soft smiles and timid nature. You, who had hesitated even to ride Silverwing into a storm. You, carrying his child—their child—had been sent to battle.

He shook his head slowly, disbelieving. “Why?” The word slipped from his lips, quiet and raw. “Why would Rhaenyra send her?”

“She thought it wise to send your wife…” the messenger began hesitantly, but Daemon’s head snapped up, and the venom in his eyes silenced the man instantly.

“She thought it wise?” Daemon’s voice rose, sharp as Valyrian steel. “She thought it wise to send a woman heavy with child, one whose dragon has never known the savagery of war, against Vhagar and that wretched boy?”

The parchment fell from his hands as he turned away, pacing like a caged animal. His thoughts warred within him. The anger, the grief, the disbelief—they threatened to tear him apart. You were gone. The child, your child, was gone.

His hands clenched into fists. “Rhaenyra…she knew.” His voice was low now, dangerously calm. “She knew Y/N was gentle, too gentle for this. She knew Silverwing was no match for Vhagar. And yet…” He trailed off, his voice breaking for the first time.

Simon stepped closer, his tone cautious. “My prince, perhaps there is more to this. The queen may have had no choice—”

“No choice?” Daemon turned on him, his violet eyes blazing. “No choice but to send her own sister, my wife, the mother of my child to her death? No, Simon, there is always a choice.”

His mind reeled with the implications. The child would have been the first tangible bond of their marriage, something more than the duty and expectation that had defined it. And now…now, there was nothing.

Daemon’s shoulders sagged under the weight of the realization. His anger burned hot and bright, but beneath it was a grief so profound it threatened to swallow him whole. He sank into a chair, his head in his hands.

For a long moment, there was only silence.

When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse. “She smiled when I left,” he murmured, his words barely audible. “She smiled and said she would wait for me. She said our child would wait for me.”

Simon remained silent, understanding that no words could soothe this wound.

Daemon’s mind drifted back to you once more—to the way your hand had rested protectively over your belly, the soft laughter that had escaped you when you spoke of names for the child. He had never told you, but he had begun to hope.

Now, that hope was gone, and all that remained was a searing, empty ache.

“Bring Caraxes,” Daemon said at last, his voice cold and resolute. He rose to his feet, his grief now tempered by a cold determination. “I'm leaving.”

The winds howled over the jagged cliffs of Dragonstone, carrying with them the salt-laden air of the Narrow Sea. Caraxes’ roar echoed against the walls as Daemon dismounted in the courtyard, his boots slamming into the stone with purpose. The red worm curled protectively behind him, his growls a low, rumbling threat to anyone who dared approach. Daemon ignored the Dragonkeepers and the soldiers that hurried to greet him, his violet eyes fixed on the entrance to the castle.

He stormed inside without a word. The castle’s halls, usually filled with warmth and firelight, seemed cold and dim to him now. Every flicker of torchlight reminded him of the flames that had consumed Silverwing, and every shadow seemed to mock him with the absence of you.

His footsteps thundered through the throne room, where he knew she would be. Rhaenyra was seated on the great black chair, her crown glinting in the faint light. Advisors and courtiers lingered nearby, their whispers dying as Daemon entered, his face a storm of rage and grief.

“Leave us,” he commanded, his voice cutting through the room like a blade.

Rhaenyra raised her hand, dismissing her attendants without question. Her gaze was steady as she watched him approach, though there was tension in the set of her jaw. She knew why he had come.

When the room emptied, Daemon halted at the foot of the throne, his eyes burning into hers. “Why?” he asked, his voice low and trembling with barely restrained fury. “Why did you send her to Rook’s Rest?”

Rhaenyra straightened, her tone defensive. “Daemon, you know why. We needed—”

“You needed?” Daemon interrupted, his voice rising. “You needed to send a woman heavy with child, one who has never known the horrors of war, against Vhagar? You needed to send my wife, your sister, and her gentle dragon to their deaths?”

Rhaenyra’s lips tightened. “She had a dragon, Daemon. A dragon as powerful as any—”

“No,” Daemon snapped, slamming his fist against the armrest of the throne. “Silverwing was no war dragon. She was gentle, like her rider. And you knew that.”

“She volunteered!” Rhaenyra argued, her voice rising to match his. “She wanted to serve our cause. She knew what was at stake.”

“She was my wife,” Daemon growled, stepping closer, “and you sent her to die.”

Rhaenyra flinched at his words, but her chin lifted defiantly. “We are at war, Daemon. Sacrifices must be made. She knew that as well as any of us.”

Daemon’s laugh was bitter, hollow. “Sacrifices? Is that what you call her? A sacrifice?” His voice broke, but he pressed on. “Do you know what I found at Rook’s Rest, Rhaenyra? Do you?”

She said nothing, her gaze faltering for the first time.

“They took her dragon’s head,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less furious. “And her body? There was no sign of her body.” He paused, the words choking him. “Who knows what they did to her? What horrors she suffered before she…”

He trailed off, unable to finish.

Rhaenyra’s face paled, but she quickly masked it with resolve. “Daemon, we still have our sons. You have Viserys and Aegon—”

“It is not the same,” Daemon hissed, his voice laced with venom.

“Daemon—”

“It is not the same!” He roared, his voice echoing through the hall. “Our sons are alive, but she is gone. She was carrying our child, Rhaenyra. Our child! The first thing that was truly ours in this farce of a marriage. And now, there is nothing.”

Rhaenyra rose from the seat, her own anger boiling to the surface. “Do you think this is easy for me? She was my sister! Do you think I wanted this?”

Daemon’s eyes darkened, his jaw clenching. “You made a choice, Rhaenyra. You may not have wanted this, but you allowed it. You sent her to her death because you thought it was what the realm needed. And now she is gone, and I am left to wonder what I could have done to stop you.”

The tension in the room was suffocating, the weight of their shared grief and guilt pressing down on them both.

“You may wear the crown,” Daemon said bitterly, his voice quieter now but no less cutting. “But you do not understand what you have lost. She was more than your sister. She was my wife, the mother of my child. And you took that from me.”

Rhaenyra’s shoulders sagged, the strength she had tried to project crumbling under his words. “Daemon…”

He shook his head, stepping back. “No. I will not stay here and play the loyal prince when you cannot see the cost of your decisions.”

Without another word, Daemon turned and strode from the throne room, his cloak billowing behind him like the wings of a dragon. Rhaenyra called after him, her voice breaking, but he did not stop.

The wind was howling again as he stepped out into the courtyard, where Caraxes waited. The red dragon lowered his head, sensing his rider’s turmoil.

“Come,” Daemon said softly, climbing into the saddle. “Let us leave this cursed place.”

As they took to the skies, Daemon’s thoughts were consumed by one image: your smile, soft and hopeful, as you had spoken of the child you would never hold. He vowed that Aemond, Vhagar, and every Hightower who had played a part in your death would burn for what they had done.

[pocket-watcher]

“Ugh my back is killing me.” You contorted your arm to try and get some pressure on the ache in your upper back, but you couldn’t quite reach it.

It had been about two weeks of this ever-growing pain. You’d tried stretching, ice, heat, and nothing had worked!

“Why don’t you get a massage?” Your friend suggested, and that was how you found yourself ducking into a massage parlour later that day.

The receptionist had a blank smile on his face, gaze unfocused. You rang the bell. No response. You rang it again.

On the third bell he sleepily looked up at you, smiling still.

“Down the hall… and… down the hall… right? Yeah. To the right.”

You wondered how he even got this job.

Heading down the hall, and down the hall, and to the right, you came to a room dimly lit with candles. A woman stood behind a massage table.

“Ah, you must be my 6 o’clock.” The masseuse smiled at you.

You smiled awkwardly, and she gestured for you to sit.

“What seems to be the issue?” She asked, eyeing you up. You instinctively fixed your posture.

“It’s my back. Do you think you could take a look at it for me?” You explain.

She approaches you and pauses, and you realise why - you gingerly remove your shirt.

Her hands move slowly up your back. She pushes down and you feel your eyes roll back into your head as she rubs it. Relief.

“Yes. I can feel the tension. Lie down for me.”

You do as she says, lying face down, eager for more relief.

“Good.” She praises, and you feel your face flush involuntarily.

Her hands begin to knead your back rhythmically up and down, back and forth, occasionally hitting that sweet spot. You hold back a whine as she moves away from it.

Your eyes get heavy from the release of tension. It’s been an exhausting time having to carry it all with you. You let yourself begin to sink into the table, eyes fluttering close.

“This problem stems from poor posture. You really do need to take care of yourself more.” You hear her say as she works away, pushing deep circles around and around into your back, your shoulders.

“Mhmm…” is all you manage to reply.

“I know it’s difficult. Everyday life is so busy and stressful… Maybe you just need someone else to take care of you.”

“Mhmm…” you moan in agreement, your brain not fully processing what she’s saying until a moment or two later.

You think, as much as you can as she massages you into a state of bliss, that having someone to take care of you would be really nice. You think this is really nice. Her fingers moulding your back. You shiver as she lightly brushes your bare skin as she moves lower.

“Someone to tell you what to do, what to wear, you wouldn’t have so much tension then. You wouldn’t need to worry about anything.” She continues.

You sigh wistfully, imagining that. No worries, no thinking, just staying like this. Relaxed. Stress melting away. The pain from earlier is a distant memory compared to the contentment you feel down.

You feel your body get hot as she moves away from your back and down towards your legs.

But any embarrassment you may have felt simply dissipates with her soothing touch.

“You need to let me in. Let my words squeeze and stretch that brain. Let me massage every last bit of free will out of you.”

Alarm bells sounded at that last sentence, but your muscles were too relaxed for you to move.

“Shh…. Relax. Let me take care of you. It would feel so good to give in, wouldn’t it?”

It was less of a question and more of an order. You felt your body betray you. A moan slipped out as you slipped deeper. Her hands move between your legs.

“That’s it…” her hands worked you, body and mind, into submission.

“Now let’s make sure you release all of that building tension inside of you too…”

You couldn’t quite remember what had happened next. But you found yourself back at reception with a smile on your face, booking another appointment.

“Same time next week?” The receptionist asked in a daze.

“…yes… yes please.” You replied, breathless.

[sweets3rial]

i wanted it to be you. (II)

ch. 1 // ch. 2

di!leon x fem!reader

summary: when Leon thinks things are too late, he gets a friendly reminder that things are never too late.

tags: angst/comfort, happy endings, fluff, wedding ceremony, marriage, vows, talks about future, small mention of overbearing in-laws, reader having many second thoughts, drunk letters/vows, Chris and Claire Redfield mentioned, runaway bride, panic/anxiety attacks, Leon loves you, time skips, teasing, smut, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before ya' tap it)

warnings: panic and anxiety attacks

word count: 10.3K (yikes srry ya'll)

“my dream house?”

“yeah, tell me.” he urged, bumping your hip with his. you looked up into the sky, pondering his question. it was a good question. you’d never thought of something like that before. you were so used to your two-bedroom and one-half-bathroom apartment.

“well, i want lots of greenery. like plants in every corner and in every room.” you began, using your spoon as a little wand as you spoke. “i also want a lot of warm lights, to give the house a nice welcoming vibe to it,”

he hummed, nodding as you finished each sentence. “i like earthy tones or nude tones, nice soft couches, and a stone fireplace. a big living room and a large dining room- y’know how in those movies where the rich sad family gathers for dinner and it’s very awkward and quiet?”

his eyebrows furrowed, “you want something like that?”

you chuckled, “no, but i want my dining room to look like that just less … sad.”

“i see, it’s like those where the father is at the end and the mother at the other end,”

“exactly,” you smiled wider. you picked a cherry floating atop your frozen yogurt, taking it by the stem and bringing it to his lips. he opened his mouth with an audible sound, wrapping his cold lips around the fruit and plucking it off the stem.

you flicked the stem out of your fingers and onto the street where it’ll be swept away in the wind and trampled on by those who walked by.

“i want a large backyard, with either a poo or just a large field of grass.” you smiled at the thought of walking out onto your porch as an old feeble woman to enjoy a cup of coffee as you stared out into your backyard to watch the sun set or rise. or even watch your future kids play with the family dog.

you never wanted to have kids. just the thought of splitting yourself in half while pushing out new life sent chills up your spine. but sometimes, the idea of holding a child to your chest and watching it grow. the idea of listening to them laugh and play, watching as they discovered new interests and learned new things, and being alive to discover the person they will become, doesn’t sound too bad.

“i want a balcony, one that stretches from one side of the house to the other. that way i can sit outside and i don’t know enjoy a nice cigarette.”

a laugh erupted from his chest at the thought of you only wanting a balcony to smoke a cigarette. but then that image warped into him watching you from the door smoking that cigarette. the wind blowing in your hair, the sun kissing your skin, your clothes flapping against your skin.

he imagined you’d be wearing a baggy shirt, maybe one of his shirts. the wind blowing up from the balcony would cause your shirt to cling to you. to your curves and the dips of your body, the purchase of your hips, and the slim of your waist.

you’d turn to him with your elbows leaned up against the railing behind you, cigarette between the plump skin of your lips as you beckoned him over to join you.

“i had a friend,” you started, interrupting his small daydream.

“her parents had this master bedroom. when you walked in, to your left was a sliding door that led to the balcony overlooking her backyard, and then to the right was a couple’s bathroom,” you sighed at the memory, you envied her.

one, because her parents were happily married and slept in the same bed. two, because she had a big house with a large backyard. and three, because she was happy. she lived luxuriously in her big house, she was spoiled, and her parents doted on her. her life was perfect.

yours, not so much.

“her mom occupied one sink with her makeup and her jewelry, and her dad occupied the other with cologne and little figures,” you gulped down a lump in your throat, looking up at him to see him already looking at you. you could see the sad look on his face. the look of pity and sadness, it left a stab in your heart knowing that you probably ruined his night for him.

“i want that.” your words left your throat with a small croak. you weren’t just talking about a couples bathroom with a jacuzzi bathtub but also to be happy. to live in a large house, to be happy with your future husband and kids, to enjoy luxurious jewelry and clothes.

his heart hurt at the look in your eyes, the yearning and the hope. he could see the pain as you spoke about your friend, even if you were smiling as if it was a good memory. he wanted to say, i can give you that.

he wanted to give you that. not only for you but also for himself, that way when you beckon him over as you smoke your cigarette he can join your side. his daydream began to play again; as he joined your side, you’d put your cigarette out and wrap your arms around his torso with a sigh.

he could smell the shampoo in your damp hair and the lotion you lathered onto your skin — along with a hint of his cologne from the baggy t-shirt that belonged to him. the wind was nice and fresh, a cooling breeze along with the warm morning sun. he’d shut his eyes and hold you to his chest, slowly swaying you back and forth as he enjoyed the warmth from the sun along with the warmth from your body.

“that sounds nice,” he looked down at you, “peaceful,”

you smiled up at him, licking your sticky lips, “yeah, it does,”

your smile slowly faded as you began to doze off, he was very … pretty. the way his dirty blonde hair framed his face so perfectly. golden strands that are soft like silk and fluffy like cotton. his eyes, how they gazed into yours, pulling you in deep like the tide of the ocean and drowning you into his being.

they say the eyes are the window to the soul. when someone furrows a brow, you can tell their soul is confused or troubled. when a tear swells you know their soul is sad. when their pupil dilates you know their soul is in love.

there is a ring around his pupils, a ring of blue — the color of his irises. his plump lips are agape, sucking in breaths and letting them go. his lashes flutter with every blink, his eyes trailing every inch of your face, taking every detail of you into memory.

you did the same. scanning over his dimpled cheeks, his high cheekbones, his strong brow bones, his long lashes, the tips of his cold ears, and the window to his soul. all of it.

“you’re so beautiful,” his words came out almost in a drunken whisper. his brain wasn’t able to process any word that left his mouth until it did.

the blood that pumped into your veins instantly ran to your face. your cheeks heating up as your eyes widened, you looked back down at your melted froyo — hoping that taking a bite would hide away your hot cheeks. “thank you,” you mumbled trying to fight back the smile creeping up onto your sticky lips.

“of course uh- back to your dream house-“

“oh right! um-“

------

a living room with comfortable couches and a coffee table in the middle sitting, in front of a large stone fireplace. a kitchen with off-white cabinets, black tile floors, and an island with black marble counters and a deep sink. a dining room with a large table with seven chairs and a runner underneath.

plants, everywhere. in the front, in the large backyard, hanging from the roof, in every room, and in every corner.

large windows that faced the sunset and sunrise, casting down their warmth and triumph into the house to illuminate every corner without a single flip of a light switch. warm lights, in the kitchen, the living room, the dining room, the hallways, everywhere.

a patio out front and out back, a balcony that stretched across the back of the house. five rooms, a guest room, three kids’ rooms, and a master bedroom. a master bedroom where when you walked in, to the left were the sliding doors to the balcony, and to the right a couples bathroom and a walk-in closet.

though, it wasn’t a home. there were drapes over the furniture to keep them from collecting dust. there were no plants just empty corners. the windows were shut and no one lived there.

the rooms were empty, with nothing but carpet and walls. it wasn’t a home. it had no life, no family, no giggles and happiness. it was simply just a house.

“sir, i just need you to sign here and then we’ll lease the house.”

he straightened his posture and blinked away the dryness in his eyes. he looked over at the man, he was about his height. he wore a fancy suit, his mustache was nice and jelled up, his hair slicked back and he smelt of expensive cologne.

he took one last look around the house, his heart aching. if he closed his eyes, he could hear you in the kitchen, chopping vegetables and listening to your music or your podcasts. he could hear your voice calling him from your bedroom. he could hear a dog maybe the giggles of children. but that was just a figment of his imagination.

he was standing in the middle of a house. your dream house. the one you told him about so many years ago. back then, he would’ve said ‘i can give you that’, but he hesitated. would that have made you stay? if he said he was putting all his money into building this house for you.

buying the furniture and the tiling and marble necessary to make it happen. hiring construction workers to add on a balcony and a back porch. would all his effort … would it have made you stay?

“who’s getting married?” the realtor asked, pointing at his boutonniere with his pen. he blinked, once again brought out of his daze.

“uh my … ex-girlfriend,” he grumbled awkwardly. the realtor jumped back a little, a small strand of his slicked-back hair falling out.

“oh,” was all he could say as he too joined him in looking around the house. the real estate agent could tell that this man wasn’t looking to live here by himself, there were so many rooms, rooms for a family. a couples bathroom and a shared walk-in closet.

the realtor sighed, looking up at the man. his eyes were bloodshot red, most likely from crying or being up all night. the bags under his eyes were dark and heavy. he was holding a flask of whiskey and his posture remained slouched.

“Mr. Kennedy,” the realtor clicked his pen and hooked it back onto his suit pocket. he stuffed the paperwork under his arm and puffed out his chest. he was losing business by doing this but he’d rather see a man happy to sell his house rather than sad to sell his house.

“i was young once,” he began, standing next to Leon as he dozed off. “i too had a girlfriend, she was the girl of my dreams,” the man chuckled at the memory.

“we were young and very, very stupid,”

Leon’s head slowly turned towards the man beside him, he found that the realtor was looking out the window with a smile on his face which caused his mustache to turn upwards.

“i was poor and she was wild, i wanted to give her a proper life. so i worked and i worked to the point that i’d tire myself and i barely had time for her.”

Leon let his eyes fall to the ground, this story was sounding a bit too familiar to him. not having time for each other led to miscommunication and arguments all the time. it was not a story that he wished to retell.

“so she left me, one day i came home and she was gone.” the man sniffled a bit, watching a bird fly out of one of the trees that sat on the front lawn. the bird reminded him of her, his songbird, always singing and so loud. though, he loved it when she sang and tweeted like a bird.

her voice was always like music to his ears anyway.

“i crashed her wedding like a fool and she told me that she would’ve been happy getting married without a big ring and a big house. that she would’ve been happy with how things were,” the man let out a sigh, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“so, my word to you is…don’t let it be too late. if you love her and hopefully she still loves you then … make it work.” the man placed a hand on Leon’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. a sign of support for the young man since he too has been in Leon’s position once.

“it is never too late to be what you wanted to be,”

'i wanted it to be you.'

your voice replayed in his head. he could still hear the tears clogged in your throat and he could still see the look in your eye. he could still smell your perfume and feel your lips on his skin. it isn’t too late. he wasn’t too late.

Leon slowly began to nod his head, building up the courage to do something anything. he knew it was time to let you go, that it was over and done.

'do you still love me?'

'goodbye, Leon.'

those were the last words you said to him. he replays the sound in his voice every night and it keeps him awake at night. he tosses and turns, missing the warmth of your body and the feeling of your skin. he feels selfish, yearning for someone who wants nothing to do with him. someone who is getting married in a few hours.

but you aren’t just anyone. dare say, you are the love of his life.

“thank you, Mr. Gudzynski.” Leon smiled at the man, taking one last chug of the whiskey in his flask before making his way out the door. Chris stood there waiting for him, leaning up against his car with a cigarette hanging from his lips as he stared down at his phone.

upon hearing Leon’s foot crush the rocks beneath him, he looked up. he stomped out his cigarette as he blew out the last puff of smoke.

“how’d it go?” Chris asked, rolling his shoulders to let the sleeves of his suit adjust.

“did you just put out your cigarette on fresh cement?”

“i guess you sold it then,” Chris chuckled dryly.

Leon took a moment to reply, looking at the porch behind him. it was empty, just plain wooden slabs. he knew how much you wanted a patio, this was your house after all.

completely inspired by you. every corner and every detail of this house you had spoken to Leon years ago. he made your dream a reality, though you'll never know that.

“i couldn’t,”

Chris turned to Leon, his frame tensing up, “uh you what?”

“i couldn’t sell it, i just…” Leon ended his sentence with a shrug and much to his dismay, Chris nodded understandably.

“i knew you wouldn’t be able to,” Chris sighed, opening the door to his car.

“what?” Leon said with a lift of his brow.

“just get in,”

the whole drive to the church, Leon could feel his body growing heavier and heavier. he was nervous. unsure of what he should do or say? will he have the time? he was constantly wiping his hands onto his pants, trying to wipe the nerves and sweat away.

he was staring out the window blankly, bouncing his leg and biting on the inside of his cheeks.

~

’stop that,’

‘stop what?’

your fingers reached up to tap his cheek, ‘stop biting your cheeks, you’re making me anxious’

he stopped instantly, licking over the skin that he was just biting at. you sighed, standing in front of him as you fixed his tie. you worked with straightening the silk fabric and tightening it around his neck — not too much.

he looked down at you and his nerves instantly eased. your face was relaxed, your breathing slows, your lashes fluttered with every single blink, and god you were glowing. he couldn’t help but smile, he knew he had no reason to be nervous if you were right by his side.

and here you were; fixing his tie and smoothing out his suit.

‘you got this, it’s just a simple speech, we rehearsed it many times,’ you leaned up onto your tippy toes to place a kiss on his chin. ‘and i’ll be right in the audience supporting you,’

~

his lips curled into a small smile at the memory, he would’ve for sure embarrassed himself if it wasn’t for you being by his side. he remembers it clear as day, standing up on that podium as he received his award, his hands were shaking and his vision was blurry.

he was trying to read off of his speech but he couldn’t. that was until he found you in the room and then suddenly, you two were in the living room of your shared apartment. you were sitting on the couch with takeout in your lap. as he practiced his speech, you’d slurp your noodles or take a bite of your fried rice as you pretended to be a high government official.

once his eyes found yours in the large crowd, you smiled up at him mouthing the words; ‘you got this,’

“we’re here,” Chris sighed aloud. Leon looked up to see many familiar faces walking up the steps into the church, hand in hand and with smiles on their faces. all dressed in black suits and dresses, a simple and traditional color.

you were never a religious woman, you weren’t the type to go to church every Sunday or pray before every meal. but here you were getting married in a church, under the eye of god as if you hadn’t slept with another man just a few months ago.

your eyes were stuck on the cross hanging above you. the hairstylist you hired was busy touching up your hair, your makeup artist was powdering your nose and adding more highlight to your cheekbones consistently saying the same words, ‘make sure you smile that way you can really pop.’

you’d give her a small silent nod, whatever made her happy.

you haven’t smiled once. it was your wedding day. after months of trying on dresses, trying cake flavors, sending out invitations, and picking out bridesmaids. the day was here and you couldn’t smile. you’ve been sitting in this chair for hours, getting your hair and makeup done.

your bridesmaids would come in screaming excitedly while waving around bottles of champagne. you put on a fake smile with fake laughs and giggles but your mind was elsewhere.

you were thinking of a lot. your future after today, losing your last name, kids, and in-laws. but mostly you were thinking about him. it was hard, writing his name down on an envelope and sending it to him through the mail.

your fiancee, soon-husband, didn’t know about you and Leon. he believes you two are coworkers and nothing more. acquaintances or even strangers. he didn’t know the deep love you held for that man.

he was excited to see that you were inviting the other agents. he felt special. as if him being married to a D.S.O agent would make him a better tech or get him a promotion.

it was so hard sending him that invitation. most of the other invitations were given in person unless the guests lived far away. you wondered if he would come, part of you hoped he did and the other part of you hoped he didn’t.

“it’s almost time,” you looked to your side to see your uncle standing in the doorway. you chose him to walk you down the aisle, he’s been here for you more than your father. he was there for your daddy-daughter dances, for your graduation. elementary, middle school, and high school.

you stood up from your chair, smoothing out your dress. your dress was itchy and heavy, the pins in your hair stabbed your scalp with every movement, your makeup felt heavy and cakey, and your heels hurt. everything felt wrong.

“are you ready?” you looked at your uncle, a smile on his face as he looked at you. that was when tears welled in your eyes and you shook your head, suddenly you were a little girl again, crying to him when you didn’t get a toy you wanted.

your uncle’s face contorted with worry as he rushed to your side.

“hey, what’s wrong?”

you sobbed, throwing your head down so your tears wouldn’t ruin your makeup. you grabbed the back of your chair, trying to find your words and your breath but it was hard with the corset constricting your every movement.

“i can’t do it, i can’t go out there-“

“of course you can,” he reached over for a few napkins as his hand rubbed up and down your back, “i know it’s stressing, this is your big day, and your life is going to change after this.”

you shook your head again, pursing your lips together to keep another sob from leaving your lips.

“but this is the day you’ve been waiting for, you’ve stressed yourself out enough. after this, you get to enjoy your honeymoon and your house.”

you looked up at him, blinking away another tear. he smiled at you, taking the napkin to blot away the tears. you couldn’t help but think, only if he knew.

only if he knew where your heart truly lies. who your soul calls to. what you did, more specifically who you did. you couldn’t tell him. it was too late to tell anyone. what were you supposed to say? i slept with another man. quite frankly, the only man i’ve ever loved.

you’d be burned at the stake, by everyone in the church. especially, your mother-in-law.

so you sucked in a deep breath and stood up straight.

“okay,” you croaked, and you held the napkin to your tears. you hoped he wasn’t here, you really did. you knew if you made eye contact with him somewhere in the crowd, you would break.

so you linked arms with your uncle, standing up straight and putting a smile on your face. your uncle smiled back at you, giving your arm a small squeeze. your feet were already beginning to hurt and the minute the piano started your limbs began to shake.

your nerves were on edge, your palms were sweaty and you could barely control your breathing. you walked out of the small room you used to get ready and into the main hall. there were photographers, gasping at the sight of you.

gorgeous dress that made you look like a princess, the fabric along with your veil trailed behind you, leaving a path of your essence. instantly, camera shutters were beginning to go off. you gave the photographers a nervous smile and wave as you stood in front of the two large doors.

you looked up at the roof, naked baby angels danced above you, they were holding harps and chasing each other with smiles on their faces. clouds surrounded them along with doves. hints of gold were seen in the paint.

it was beautiful. architectural and just pure with grace. even if the paint was fading and cracking, it was the most beautiful thing you've seen today.

your uncle knocked at the doors, signaling whoever was inside that you were ready. when the doors opened you were met with gasps and the sound of people rising from their seats. you made eye contact with a few people both from your family and his.

you watched as a few covered their mouths in shock, their facial expressions softening in awe. you smiled at a few, keeping your head forward most of the time. your fiancee stood at the end with a wide smile on his face. his friends were giving him firm pats on the shoulder, demonstrating their support.

you smiled at him, pursing your lips as you let your eyes wander. to your left, in the second row, seated in the very first seat…there he was. he came. your face dropped upon seeing him, your knees suddenly felt weak, and a large pain erupted in your chest.

he stood with his hands folded in front of him. his lips were agape, his jaw hanging loose. his eyebrows were upturned in awe. your steps slowed a bit as you got closer to him. you wanted to see him one last time before it was too late.

in his mind, he was standing there at that altar instead of that bearded man. he was watching you walk down the aisle and you were smiling at him. you looked beautiful. god, that color always suited you. your makeup and hair were done beautifully, he’s never seen you this way — all dolled up.

it put his heart to a complete stop. he couldn’t focus on anything but you. your eyes were stuck on him as you passed by. he watched your smile fade as you both made eye contact and he felt a stab in his chest. for a second, he couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t blink. he was just frozen in time.

as you walked past him, your head fell to look at the ground. Leon too looked away, continuing to bite on the inside of his cheeks, this time he could taste blood. he shouldn’t be here. he shouldn’t watch this happen. he couldn’t. he couldn’t.

but he wanted to, today was special to you but it was the complete opposite to him.

he watched as you stood before your husband, a smile rising to your mouth as you gave him a small ‘hi’. Leon let his head drop to his lap, his leg was bouncing uncontrollably. he couldn’t do it. he couldn’t be here.

he was about to look up at Chris to tell him he had to go but he was interrupted when Chris put his hand on Leon's knee. when he looked at Chris, he was looking ahead. a toothpick between his lips and his eyes stuck ahead on you and your future husband.

he knew Chris was trying to convey something, probably 'calm the fuck down,' but also some type of support.

Chris knew today was hard for Leon. with each passing day that the wedding got closer, Leon has been sulking and slacking off during training. his flask was his best friend and so was his bed.

Chris was the only one who knew how deep Leon’s love ran for you. Chris was there during the nights Leon would stumble around drunk and depressed. he gave Leon a hand when he was at his lowest. he helped Leon get rid of his addiction. he got Leon a therapist.

he did a lot for Leon when you two split, same for you. Chris was like the older brother you never had, he was supportive and kind. he was always understanding. you were able to confide in him comfortably. you could sob on his shoulder and use him as a punching bag instead of Leon.

Chris saw both of you at your lowest points and he brought both of you back.

he did so much to bring you two back together but here he is; watching one get married while the other watches with tears in his eyes. Leon kept his head down, unable to face you and watch the scenery before him. the priest prompted you two to begin your vows and he was first.

there was a nervous smile on his face as he pulled out a folded piece of paper from his pocket. he unfolded the paper, his eyes flickering between you and the speech before him. he cleared his throat, facing the crowd.

“first and foremost, i want to thank everyone for being here; friends and family.” he cleared his throat once again, looking towards you. it made Leon’s stomach twist with jealousy as you smiled at him so lovingly. he also couldn’t stop admiring how beautiful you were. pure innocence and grace, well he knew you were far from innocent.

“and most of all my gorgeous wife-to-be,” your smile dropped into a simple lift of your lips. but slowly, you began to look around the crowd. your eyes landing on your family, your in-laws, and then Leon. from there, you stayed fixated on him.

you haven’t seen him so polished in so long. his suit was nicely tailored, sleek back with a white brooch. though his tie was crooked and he was chewing on the inside of his cheeks. his frantic leg bouncing stopped once he made eye contact with you. his body froze in a way, his breath caught in his throat.

he smiled at you, gently. the look in his eyes spoke for him, ‘you look beautiful,’ he said.

he tried to keep calm, for you. even though he was on the verge of a heart attack. even if he was terribly heart broken, he needed to be happy for you. today is your day.

you smiled back at him even wider, shying away from him with visible heat in your cheeks, ‘thank you,’ you said back, smoothing out the skirt of your dress. your fiancee’s speech fell on deaf ears, you were paying attention to everything else but him at the moment.

Leon sat right in your field of view. at the other side of the aisle, in the second row, towards the very end of the bench.

you sucked in a deep breath, your lips falling agape as you kept eye contact with him longer. suddenly, the feelings you wished to bury. the ones you’ve been trying to bury for years were coming back. it was like slowly drowning. you can see the surface still but as you sink deeper and deeper, it becomes blurry and you are forever trapped in the ocean beneath you.

his kisses, his touch, his love, his passion, his laugh, his smile, his hair, his teeth, his nose, the hair on his arms and legs, the scar on his shoulder, the mole on his neck — it was all coming back. he was coming back.

the happiness you felt when he would wake you up with gentle kisses to your neck and shoulder. the joy you felt walking into the kitchen to see him there making coffee, he hated coffee. he hated the feeling it left on your tongue. the bitter taste and the smell of your breath after taking a sip. he hated coffee but he still made it.

it made him feel like a normal person living in an apartment with his normal girlfriend.

the comfort you’d get when he’d hug you. the excitement you felt when he’d come home. the small things he did that aroused you to the point of insanity. the arguments…you even missed the petty arguments. arguments never lasted long. Leon hated arguing with you.

it would usually end up with him sleeping on the couch that night. then he’d wake up with a heavy weight on top of him. of course, it was you. or it would end up with him throwing you over his shoulder and locking you both in your shared bedroom together.

even if you two argued, you refused to be away from each other.

you were woken from your daydream by the wave of chuckles around the room. you joined in subconsciously, blinking your dry eyes and averting your attention away from Leon. meanwhile, he was gripping the pants of his suit with butterflies in his stomach. he couldn’t shake off this feeling.

the feeling of loss. the feeling that maybe it was too late.

your fiancee had finished his vows, folding up the paper and storing it back in his pocket. you looked up at you, a blush on his cheeks and sweat brimming at his forehead. you could see he was nervous, he was shaking — constantly rocking back and forth and itching at his beard.

you reached into your bra, pulling out your vows. you were so unprepared. you wrote your vows probably a few nights ago, drunk one too many drinks and elbow-deep in a bag of your favorite chips.

the minute you unfolded the paper, you knew you should’ve read it over.

‘To my beloved, Leon…’

you swallowed a lump in your throat, nervously looking between the paper, your fiancee, and Leon sitting in the crowd. you were drunk and wrote vows to the wrong man. no, it was to the right man. Leon was the right man. he always has been.

“um, to my beloved, future husband,” you began, your voice trembling and your throat aching. you read over the first line and you instantly felt tears swell up in your eyes, “i miss you, um,” your eyes flashed over to Leon.

“i miss you even if you’re right next to me. no words can summarize how much i love you, how much i burn and yearn for you every passing minute … every passing day.”

Leon felt his heart break into a million pieces right then and there. your eyes remained on him, only looking away to glance back down at your vows. were you … reading these to him? Leon swallowed a lump in his throat, his eyebrows upturning as he tried to hold himself together.

you were making up things as you went, your words completely different from what was really written down:

“i am glad to have you by my side,” i wish you were by my side, holding me and singing your cheesy songs in my ear.

“i am blessed to wake up to you every morning and suck in a deep breath of your essence and your being,” i miss waking up to you every morning, staying in bed for a few more hours just so i can watch you breathe and stir in your sleep.

“i was broken when you found me but you pieced me back together, slowly and patiently,” you broke me. we broke each other but every single piece of me will crawl back to you in the end. no matter how shattered i am.

a tear slipped down your cheek, you were beginning to choke up the more and more you read. it was getting hard to make things up and say those instead of reading what you wrote down. a full page confessing your every feeling and thought to the right man … to Leon.

tears continued to fall.

‘i miss you. god, i miss you. i should’ve never left. i should’ve stayed. it was my fault. i broke us, i hurt us. i died when i left you but you brought me back to life when i saw you standing on that cliff.

when i saw you, the emotions running through me i couldn’t comprehend. i wanted to run, i wanted to turn away because i knew if i approached you it would be bad. but my body made its way towards you anyway.

i love you. i always have and i always will. i wish i could hold you again. i wish i could go back. they say to never open the closed doors of your past. fuck not opening closed doors, your door never closed.

when i turn back i can see you, standing there in the doorway watching me leave. just like the night i left. it hurts looking back, it hurts because i want to run back to you so bad.’

‘do you still love me?’

his words rang in your head like an alarm. you were looking down at your paper, vision blurry with tears. you could feel the weight of your tears falling onto the sheet as you sat there in silence. a small sob left your lips as audible whispers rang throughout the room.

you folded the paper in half, shaking your head as you looked up at your fiancee.

“i’m sorry,” was all you said as you took a step back. your body moved before you could process anything. you ran down the steps, lifting the skirt of your dress with one hand while the other held your love letter with a vice grip.

you ran down the aisle, towards the large doors. your throat was on fire and as you burst through the wooden doors, you finally let out a singular sob.

everyone in the church stood and watched you run out, looking between you and your fiancee abandoned at the altar. the whispers became louder, and gasped erupted through the room. your fiancee stood at the altar looking at his feet, completely still.

his mother ran up to him, placing a hand on his shoulder as she threw a million questions towards him. he stayed silent, eyes fixed on the ground below him. he couldn't believe it and neither could anyone else.

Leon looked back from you running out the door towards Chris standing behind him. his face was painted with worry, his eyes wide and eyebrows scrunched together. Chris nodding his head towards the door, signaling Leon to go after you.

“go, she needs you,” Claire said from behind Chris. Leon nodded silently, a heavy breath leaving his lips as he ran after you.

he was second to burst through those doors after you. he looked right and left, panicking. what happened? what was wrong? he knew he shouldn’t have come. this was his fault. if he didn’t come, you would be running out of this church with your husband on your arm. not like this.

those vows. they weren’t for your husband. he knew that for sure. your eyes were stuck on his, he watched with agony as tears slipped past your pretty eyes and down your cheeks. god, he hated seeing you cry more than anything. he just wished he could scoop you up in his arms and coax them out of you gently.

a sign against the wall that read ‘garden’ caught his attention. the sign pointed to the left and Leon was quick to take after you.

he knew you well. he knew you loved gardens and flowers, always plucking them from the ground or from their bush and sticking them into Leon’s hair. you once mentioned to him how when you’re troubled you tend to turn to nature or your bed. you’d take walks, sit outside in the sun in silence. you’d brush your fingers against the soft petals and leaves.

your bed was nowhere in sight so he ran in the direction of the garden.

he made way down the steps into the garden, loosening the tie around his neck. he shut his mouth, listening to your voice over his beating heart and his heaving breaths. he could faintly hear sobs coming from his right. his head snapped in the direction of your cries, his heart breaking as he spotted your heels on the ground.

they most likely slipped off as you ran away. he sucked in one last deep breath, trudging through the grass of the church garden to pick up your heels. the garden was beautiful, tall bushes acting as walls to a makehsift maze.

white roses were planted everywhere. the grass was healthy and warm, tickling at his ankles. bees buzzed around the bushes, hopping from flower to flower. birds chirped in the trees, singing melancholic tunes on this beautiful afternoon. or pretty drastic afternoon.

as he walked further into the maze, he caught eye of you. your back was turned to him, you had sat down on a bench in the middle of the maze and in front of a marble statue. he stopped in his tracks, gulping down the lump in his throat which somehow made his presence clear to you.

you turned around surprised, eyes wide and a small gasp leaving your lips.

when you caught eye of him standing there, holding your heels with one hand and the other tucked in his pocket. you felt tears welling up again, though you hid it away with a dry laugh.

“how cliche huh? runaway bride.”

he didn’t answer, making his way closer and closer to you. he rounded around the bench, getting down on one knee in front of you. he took your right ankle into his hands, rubbing at your soft skin.

Leon tried to ignore the damp paper in your hands — your vows. he was curious, what did they really say?

he slipped on your heel, continuing to draw circles onto your skin.

you watched him, inhaling deep, trembling breaths and gripping the edge of the bench with all your might. the tension was thick, so thick to the point neither of you could breathe.

“say something,” you sighed out.

“i don’t know what to say,” he croaked out, his voice stuffy and hoarse. he took a hold of your other ankle, slipping on the last heel.

“say that i don’t know, i’m stupid. i’m an idiot. i embarassed myself, i-“ you cut yourself off with a heavy sigh, dropping your head into your lap. there was a moment of silence, leaving you two stuck in an oasis of tweeting birds, rustling trees, and buzzing bees.

“look at me-“

“no,”

“please, baby look at me,” he practically begged. butterflies arose in your stomach and you shut your eyes, hoping you could shut him out. hoping the noise in your head would stop, just hoping everything will quiet. “i need you to look at me.”

that was all it took. you slowly looked up from your lap and at him. once you met his gaze, you felt like you were that young girl again. that young girl walking down the street after a dinner date, eating froyo in freezing weather and talking about your dream house.

“you’re not an idiot, you’re not stupid, you’re perfect. you’re so perfect,” he sighed out. “why’d you run?”

you shook your head, “i couldn’t do it, Leon, i-“ you stopped yourself to suck in a deep breath, but it felt so constricted. your head was pounding, everything felt heavy and you were so dizzy. every thing was falling down. you felt like you couldn’t breathe or think, your head was spinning and your knuckles white.

you gripped at your chest, nervously playing with the pendant of your necklace but at the same time trying to tug it off. you felt like you were choking, your vision began to cloud with tears but at the same time you felt like you were losing consciousness.

“hey, hey,” he came to sit next to you, instantly wrapping his heavy arms around your shoulders to bring you into his chest but still giving you room to breathe.

his fingers began to loosen the ribbons to your corset. his movements were stable and calm. “breathe with me ‘kay?" he soothed, "in and out, just how we always did,”

you nodded, gripping onto his suit, “in”

you shut your eyes and took a deep breath in. “good, what’s one thing you can taste?”

“um my lipstick,” you said, as you both exhaled.

“in,” he rubbed your back with one hand while the other held you firmly against him, “what are two things you can smell?”

his voice was getting deeper and quieter. slowly, your body began to relax. you could breathe again. you focused on your surroundings, naming off the first things you could. “the grass and…” you paused to let a deep breath out, “you.”

he wasn’t going to lie, your reply made his heart jump a little bit. he tightened his hold onto you, burying his nose into your hair. “in.”

as he took a deep breath in, he was bombarded with the smell of your shampoo and hairspray, “what are three things you can hear?”

“birds, wind and your heart beat,” you whispered to him as you let out another deep breath.

“in,” another deep breath in, “almost there, what are four things you can touch?” he could feel your body loosen up as you began to feel around him. your eyes were shut and your body began to go slack against him.

“your suit, the bench, and a button,” another deep breath out.

“good, almost there, in.” you were prepared for this one, pulling back from the hug just a bit so you could look around your surroundings. “what are five things you can see?”

you looked up at him, your breath hitching in your throat and your knees going weak. even if you were sitting down, you felt like jelly — as if you would melt right through this bench. you opened your mouth to speak but nothing came out but a weak croak.

he whispered out your name, concerned. his eyebrows curling upwards and his eyes searching yours. the longer you stayed like this, looking into his eyes and breathing with him, the quieter it got. there was no more pounding and noise in your head. your dress didn’t feel itchy. the pins in your hair no longer stabbed at your scalp. the soles of your feet didn’t hurt.

it was all so peaceful. everything.

“i do,” you managed to croak out.

“what?”

“to answer your question,”

‘do you still love me?’

“i do, Leon, i do. more than you’ll ever know,”

you couldn’t read the look on his face, all you saw was a flurry of emotions. he searched your face for any hesitation or lie, anything to keep him from taking you away from here for good. something to stop him from being selfish and keeping you all to himself.

“i love you, Leon Scott Kennedy.”

~

To my beloved, Leon,

i wish you were by my side, holding me and singing your cheesy songs in my ear.

i miss waking up to you every morning, staying in bed for a few more hours just so i can watch you breathe and stir in your sleep.

you broke me. we broke each other but every single piece of me will crawl back to you in the end. no matter how shattered i am.

i miss you. god, i miss you. i should’ve never left. i should’ve stayed. it was my fault. i broke us, i hurt us. i died when i left you but you brought me back to life when i saw you standing on that cliff.

when i saw you, the emotions running through me i couldn’t comprehend. i wanted to run, i wanted to turn away because i knew if i approached you it would be bad. but my body made its way towards you anyway.

i love you. i always have and i always will. i wish i could hold you again. i wish i could go back. they say to never open the closed doors of your past. fuck not opening closed doors, your door never closed.

when i turn back i can see you, standing there in the doorway watching me leave. just like the night i left. it hurts looking back, it hurts because i want to run back to you so bad.

you’re my everything and you’ll continue to be for the rest of my life. i cannot breathe without you, i cannot think, i cannot function. my head is foggy. but when i see you it all becomes so clear. when i go to sleep at night and the thought of you crosses my mind i can’t help but smile.

i wish i still had that picture of you by my bed because it’s never enough to see you smiling in my head as i lay in the dark. the sheets are cold, this house is cold, my heart is cold. i need you Leon.

it’s too late to go back now. i can’t keep doing this to you. i’m sorry. i love you.

~

a heavy hand was draped over your waist, strong firm muscle pooling you into a brick wall of a chest. you smiled, placing your hand over the one on your stomach. light kisses were pressed to your neck and down to your shoulder. rough stubble tickling your smooth skin only prompting you to smile wider.

“good morning,” a hoarse voice spoke in your ear. you looked up at the clock on your nightstand, it read 12:16. you grumbled, turning over and burying your face into chest and muscle, draping your arms around his frame and intertwining your legs with his.

“it’s so early,” you whined, hiding away from the sun peeking through your balcony doors.

“baby, it’s noon.” more kisses were pressed to your face, slowly waking you up with each one. gentle and wet kisses, you smiled at the feeling, nuzzling your nose between his pectorals with a low groan.

“it’s time to get up,”

the sound of you faking a snore earned you a small chuckle, the chest you lay on bouncing up and down — shaking you awake a bit more. the hand on your back traveled further south, rubbing over the bare skin of your ass.

“i tire you out last night, huh?” he taunted, kissing over the love bites forming on your neck and shoulders. you nodded shamelessly, every single one of your limbs was sore and you could barely move an inch without wincing in pain.

“that’s unfair, you folded me like origami and you expect me not to be tired, let me sleep,”

“i'm sorry baby, but i’m not done,”

a smirk grew on your lips and all of a sudden the pain in your body was gone. you were flipped over onto your back, making you squeal out in surprise. you were met with a pair of blue eyes and a messy head of brown hair.

warm lips met yours in a heated frenzy of a kiss — full of flame and passion. you tangled your fingers into the head of messy brown hair, moaning deeply into the kiss. you lifted your legs and brought them up and around his waist.

you could feel his hard cock press against your inner thigh, a small groan left his lips at the contact and a needy moan left yours. his hand reached between your nude bodies, two fingers slotting in between your folds and a slow and languid pace.

the tips of his fingers found your clit, rubbing small and slow circles around the sore nub. your walls fluttered around nothing, craving his cock that throbbed against your thigh.

you failed to kiss him back as a small whine left your lips.

“so wet already,” he kissed your chin, “were you dreaming about me, baby?”

you couldn’t help but give him a large smile, “maybe,”

you watched a smile grow on his lips as he placed another deep kiss to yours. his fingers left your aching cunt, leaving you pleading for more. his hand glided up your thigh, making sure your legs were securely wrapped around him.

he pulled away from the kiss, kissing your nose and then the corner of your mouth.

“i love you,” he breathed out.

“i love you too…ah,” your voice faded away into a moan as he slowly thrust into you. a weak moan left your lips and your nails dug into the skin of his back. you were never used to the sheer size of him, even if he was given to you just a few hours ago here you are, gasping for air as you clench around him.

“so beautiful, taking me so good,” he praised with a small groan. his tip nudged against your cervix, practically knocking the air left in your lungs straight out. he kept a hand on your leg, keeping you as close to him as possible.

with each deep thrust, he watched your every facial expression, watching as your mouth dropped open into a moan and as your eyes rolled into the back of your skull. he watched your lips try and form words, the only words you could moan out was his name:

“Leon,” you whined, dragging your nails down his back. he winced at the pain but he reveled in it, the way you’d claw at his back as he’d pound into you was better than any pain ever conflicted upon him. or when your teeth would sink into his shoulder, muffling your whines and moans.

the image only saturated his need.

you could feel his cock twitch inside of you and his hips began to roll against yours. still plagued by sleep, you buried your head into his shoulder, whimpering with each thrust. you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, locking your ankles around his waist to bring him closer.

you loved feeling his weight on top of you, keeping you pressed firmly into the mattress, that way you had nowhere to run. not like you’d ever want to, the pleasure he gives you when he’s on top of you like this is inexplicable.

his arms underneath you, pulling you to his chest as he brought you up with him. both of your jaws dropped open, this new position allowing the tip of his cock to press further into you. you cupped his cheek, breathing in his heavy gasps as you slowly began to roll your hips down into him.

your breasts were pushed up against his, sweaty bodies sticking together and the smell of sex filled the room. soft and gentle moans slipped past your lips, your hands grabbing at anything in reach; his shoulders, his face, his arms, just him.

“you’re so beautiful,” he groaned, gripping the back of your neck and forcing you to look down at him. your lips met him in a frenzy, your cunt squelching the base of his cock as you rocked your hips against his faster — desperately chasing that high.

your stomach was burning with need, and every part of your body from your toes to your neck was on fire. you’ve never burned for someone like you do for him. his hips jolted up to meet yours and you gasped into his mouth which allowed him to slide his tongue against yours.

he was meeting you halfway with his thrusts, a gasp of pleasure leaving your mouth with every single one.

“fuck, it’s too much,” you whined as his lips traveled down your neck, biting down on your shoulder and your collarbones — he wanted to leave a mark.

“you can take it,” he heaved, “can’t you, baby?” he urged, as his teeth scraped against the plump of your breast. a shiver rolled up your spine at both the pain and pleasure, either way you nodded ecstatically.

“yes! i can take it,”

he smirked wider, his hips thrusting up faster. he watched as your tits bounced against his chest, your head rolling back which let your frizzy hair fall over your shoulders. his eyes were glued to the love bites decorating your body. the bruises and the redness growing on his skin.

the image of your body was now forever painted in his mind. your thighs wrapped around him as your hips ground down into his thrusts. your puffy cunt taking him so well, his cock sheathing inside of you and out again. your juices soaking the tuft of hair surrounding the base of his cock. your breasts bouncing and your ribs poking out.

“oh Leon, i’m so close-“ you whined, wrapping your arms around him. one of your hands running up the back of his neck and into his brown hair, the other wrapped around his shoulders with nails digging into his skin.

“let go for me, baby.” he egged you on, teetering close to his high as well. he screwed his eyes shut, digging his fingers into the fat of your ass, helping you meet his thrusts.

you buried yourself into the crook of his neck, muffling your loud moans into his skin. the sound of wet slapping skin only got louder, along with the sound of needy moans and the headboard banging against the wall.

the fog in your mind only got heavier and stars danced in your vision. your legs clamped around his waist as you came undone around his cock. stars danced behind your vision as you called out his name in a chant.

he wasn’t too far behind, biting down on your shoulder as he shot his seed deep inside of you. hot and thick, coating your gummy walls and painting you as his.

he continued pulling your hips down into his, slowly and carefully to help you ride out both of your highs. you slumped against him, completely worn out. all the soreness came back in a flash and your eyes felt heavy. but you smiled, draping your arms around his shoulders and allowing his softening cock to stay inside of you.

you turned your right, met with the bright light of the sun and the most beautiful view ever. the sun high in the sky shining down on a field of green grass. birds flew around in the distance, gliding in the wind and twirling in the air. you watched as they flew up and up until they were out of sight.

you pulled back from leaning on his shoulder, cupping his cheek and guiding him to look at you. his eyes peeled open slowly, his pupils contracting against the bright light he was exposed to before dilating again as he caught sight of you hovering above him.

he brushed a strand of your hair behind your ear, smiling up at you.

“hi,”

you chuckled, “hi,”

he placed a deep kiss on your lips, sealing in the steamy morning you both shared. as he pulled away, he let his eyes stay shut for a moment, he wanted to mesmerize the feeling of your lips alone. he wanted to remember the feeling of your sticky body pressed to his. he wanted to remember the sound of your voice. he wanted to remember this moment. that way if he died tomorrow, he would be able to lay back and remember you.

“my body hurts,” you groaned, leaning back and taking him with you. as you both hit the mattress with a loud ‘puff’, he couldn’t help but smile.

“let me guess, you’re going to spend the whole time in bed,” he chuckled.

“what? i can’t enjoy my honeymoon? and my new house,” you smiled widely up at him. he cupped your cheek, smiling happily as he brushed your cheek. your smile faded as you nuzzled yourself into his palm, with a small sigh.

“you know, the moment i got home after that date with the froyo,” he began, licking over his dry lips. “i went home and began mapping out how your dream house would look,”

"really?" you smiled as you turned towards him, bunching the duvet up to your chin. he nodded and you gave him a small playful scoff, "and here i thought it was just a question,"

"well, it wasn't,"

your heart ached at the image of a young and blonde Leon sitting at his crowded desk, sketching out a house with the tip of his tongue sticking out the corner of his lip. you smiled at his confession, letting him plop down beside you as his arm wrapped around your waist to bring you against him.

“i was determined to make it happen,” he chuckled to himself, “i bought the property, hired construction workers, and interior designers. now that i think about it, i was so mean to them.”

you laughed at that, his story playing out in your head like a movie. you wondered how long it took and how much it all cost. though, he refused to tell you. he refused to tell you anything about the making of this house. you didn’t know about it until just a few weeks ago.

when he carried you out of the car bridal style with a blindfold around your eyes. he placed you onto the ground for a moment and you could hear the jingling of keys and the squeak of a door. when you stepped into the house it smelt stale, like wood and dust.

but when he took that blindfold off you were faced with something much better. you were face to face with your future — your dream. he mapped it out perfectly, just to your desires and nothing could ever be better. it was better than your dreams. so much better.

“the day of your uh other wedding,” he paused stifling a small nervous laugh as you giggled, “i was about to sell it. i was about to throw your dream away,” you frowned, both feeling guilty and saddened at the thought. he reached down under the covers, finding your hand and intertwining his fingers with yours.

“our dream…i was going to throw our dream away,” he laid his head down against the pillow, looking down at your hands as he ran his thumb over your delicate knuckles. “it wasn’t your fault, i just couldn’t stomach the thought of living or owning a house that was meant for you,”

“oh Leon,” you sighed.

“you didn’t know about the house, i never got to tell you and well it was too late to.”

you brought your joined hands to your lips, placing a kiss on his knuckles as you scooched closer to him. you didn’t go back to him because of the house, even if you did know about the house, you knew that you would have gone back to him for the sole purpose of being with him.

you could still be in that dainty old apartment and you’d be happy. you could be living in a studio apartment with him and you’d be happy. you could be living in a cardboard box with him and you’d be happy. as long as you were with him. home was where he was. Leon was home.

“the realtor convinced me not to, he told me a story similar to ours,” his other hand reached up, cupping your cheek and stroking the puffiness underneath your eyes.

“his story didn’t have a happy ending like ours but he told me, ‘it is never too late to be what you wanted to be.’” Leon sighed heavily, looking deep into your eyes. you looked at him attentively, eyes wide and eyelashes fluttering up at him. he smiled at you, finding the look on your face adorable, like a kid listening to a bedtime story.

“and well i wanted to be with you,”

your heart swelled with love and your features softened. you gave him a look of pure adoration, and every waking moment and every waking day you found yourself falling more and more deeply in love with him. from the moment you woke, to the moment you slept and into the dreams you inhabit, you loved him dearly.

your heart called for him in your strongest and weakest moments. your soul was tied to him and your every thought revolved around him.

Leon. Leon. Leon. he was all you knew and all you wanted. he was your dream, your prince charming, your fairytale. he was your everything. he held you in the palm of his hands and he didn’t even know it. from the moment you met and to this very moment now, laying in bed with limbs entangled — stealing kisses and whispering sweet nothing, you were his.

you wanted it to be him.

you wanted him to be your partner in crime. you wanted him to be your husband, your partner in life and death, the father to your children, the man you introduced to your parents, the man to give you his last name, the person you woke up to in the morning and fell asleep next to in the night, the sole owner of your heart and soul.

and now he is that. he is your partner in life and death, your husband, to father of your future children, the man you woke up to and fell asleep next to. he is that man.

“i’m glad it was you.”

(divider creds to @saradika ,, photos off of pinterest)

tags : @xoxoloveless @luvrgreyy @ynsvnte @satinwithsilk @child-chomper1 @porcelain-sea-shore @stefoooo @spfoah @chesue00 @daervannafia @puppyina @prettyntxhee @leonkennedygvrl @altissia-09 @leqonsluv3r @yuiopiklmn @folksriddle @squazmine @its0214-am @xqlenkdy @belovedcloud @beafart (loved ur lil note btw! it made me laugh) @admirxation @neverg0nnagivey0uup @fancyyme @marymustdie @bloodstainedbandaid @jeonmochi99-blog

notes: if you wanna be on my tag list pls message me or fill out the form below (just to make it easier on me :D)

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author notes: MY GOD! pt. 2 is done and this shit is LONG! literally i did not need to write this much but i hope you guys enjoyed this one and tysm for filling out the taglist i was so surprised to see so many people wanted to be tagged in my work i thank each and every one of you ToT!!

also, summer is officially here for me so expect me to be active much more :D! - V!

[1800titz]

HI BESTIES. Trivia!Harry x Shy!Reader part 1 ((based on THIS post))

The one where Harry hosts trivia at a small town bar every Thursday and you just can’t seem to shut up.

WC: 3.7K

This is part one of a patreon exclusive series — the rest will only be accessible through my patreon. You can already find part 2 up on my patreon (✿◠‿◠)

You take a long drink. It tastes like kismet and carbonated nothingness.

(Retrospect will tell you that it's meant to be— tiny town, diminutive ambitions, hulking potential. But now, the twinge of an uncomfortable fever crawls up from your collar and makes you want to squirm in your seat.)

“Alright, alright, alright.”

And the smooth baritone against the head of a microphone makes your insides squeeze. Close. Real close— his mouth is pink, hovering millimeters, and that brass is the kind that seeps over your nape, under your skin. Molasses-heavy, slinking the gaps in the meshed grill caging. You blink up at the portable four-by-eight platform.

It's the kind of squeeze along your guts, the heat simmering in your face the longer you stare, that'll taunt you in the ridges of the night. Boxed into this— tonight, under a parapet— comfort zone hovering beyond your periphery, in the nook of the living room you left behind to wrack your head and stare at sin-in-bulk on a mobile stage.

The lively chatter dulls as heads turn, and then swells in eager increments. 

“Alright,” he says, a set of green eyes flickering from the monitor he’s settled over a rejigged high top, bounding sharply to whoever’s just given an overly enthusiastic cry of yes from the horde.

A peal of sparse, scattered laughter blooms in the throng. His mouth quirks.

“Very enthusiastic. How are you?” 

His cresting gaze climbs from the glowy screen, casting light and carving shadow over the sultry features of his visage; an evenly straight slope of a nose, cheekbones feathered by long lashes, a bit of curl that traipses over his forehead. 

His chin swivels to his left, somewhere closer to the platform where a woman leans over the table— her designated team. The corners of his lips curl in response to whatever she’s said. He smiles. Nods. He tips his chin. Makes a creased face like something playful. Says something else, laughs softly, and turns back, shaking his head. 

You tuck the straw into your mouth and take another, long slow sip.  

In the heft of his hand, the stem of the mic nearly resembles a toy. A maquette between the thick of his fingers.

“Hope everyone’s having a lovely Thursday. M’Harry, I’ll be leading the trivia— as I do— so if you’re sitting there going, who is this obnoxious cock, talking into the mic the whole night? Hi, Hello. That’s me— I do trivia.”

You get it now. The infamous cynosure is fit. 

At first, you had been dubious to desert your romcom reruns and your cross-stitch project mid-way (despite the fact that your thumb now resembles a pin cushion) when your friends had swept you off into their regularly scheduled, mysteriously niche Thursday night schemes. Now, you get it. 

The destination— The Black Horse— is a fuggy little space that smells like spilt Michelob and fusty, weathered oak. There’s a no smoking sign pasted in a spare crevice of the backbar, but someone in the far right corner exhales a plume of vapor like they’ve hit their elfbar in the most nonchalantly covert manner imaginable. Shamelessly. It’s a small town— an islet in the heart of an archipelago— and you think you can make out your seventh grade swim team rival perched somewhere off in the front row. 

The Black Horse is nothing special. It sells cheap draughts by the pitcher and parallels a barbershop in the crux of the town, two blocks off the boardwalk, which is arguably the chiseled, shiny musgravite of Treah’s core— a roaring green sea that eats away at the borders of the isle, shrouding vibrantly hued cays, glimmering under the beam of the sun. The majority of the holm’s economy is dependent on tourism (a simultaneous bane— said tourists enjoy uprooting foliage, building infrastructures, and partaking in chunks of housing buyouts), but you can tell that The Black Horse has been …preserved to say the least. It’s four stone walls sewn into a plaza with three other natively owned businesses and looks like something straight out of a cinematic piece set in a rural village, planted into Treah long before you had her first wiggly tooth. 

The Black Horse isn’t what makes attendance worth it. It’s him—

“We’ve got a crowd tonight. If you haven’t played trivia with me here at The Black Horse before, welcome. S’a little different than your typical trivia, though, because it’s…”

The crowd hollers back, as if scripted, “Dirty trivia!” 

“Dirty Trivia,” Harry echoes, and when the edges of his lips crook, dimples burrow beside the corners, “Right, Dirty Trivia. This one’s rated R, so if you’re not old enough to be here, I dunno how you got here, but this is going to be your cue to head out. Any— any children in here tonight? …No? Wonderful.” 

He huffs into the mic, shaking his head and jostling his halo of curls. A jaundiced, warm beam catches on them. “I know that sounds ridiculous, but m’not even joking— a couple of weeks ago someone was sitting in here with, like, a little kid.” 

It’s Harry, with the divots burrowing into his cheeks, the croon into the mic, lighting the crowd alive on an introduction. Incandescent (speckled in stars, spelled out— you don't get that bit, yet.)

You cross your legs. Your friend raises her eyebrows from across the teak table top and says it with her eyes. Told you so; Trivia Man is a cream dream. 

“Yeah,” Harry confirms over the dispersed, appalled eruption of laughter, nodding down at someone seated at a table closer to the stage, “I was, like, …shit,” he blinks back up and motions out, a slow sweep with his free hand, “Friendly reminder, this is not a form of sex ed.” 

Pausing, (lips twitchy over the sown mirth), he brings the microphone back with a newfound seriousness and tacks on, nodding slowly, “…That kid won it for the whole team.” 

He smiles. It's a lopsided spall of a ruddy seam that shows teeth, and that's when you recognize the heinous, gurgling froth of a new addiction. Incipient, blooming along your shimmery, star-struck eyes.

“No, m’joking,” he clears his throat. “M’gonna pass out a sheet and some little note pads for your answers. You’re gonna use one of those little notes to jot down a clever team name, do the same in that team name spot of the sheet, and then pass the note up to me.”

Pussy Posse. A pre-established moniker you have had no jurisdiction over, merely perched as an addition to a settled cadre. Still, you gnaw into your cheek when you watch a friend beside you scribble in the title with a ballpoint. 

“I’ll be coming around between questions to pick those answers up, have a chat, whatever. We’re all here to have fun, yes?” 

You swear he sweeps you with his eyes, like a passing tide gliding the sea. Probably just the way the green in his sockets meets everyone else in the throng, but the moment it happens your molars chew in harder.

“On the topic of fun, let’s keep it nice and fair, yeah? Phones put away— no cheating— you’ll have plenty of time to check those when we have our break midway.”

It feels ignoble to eye-fuck him from behind the sheathes of your empty irises as he paces the stage— after all, this is just a wholesomely clad, virtuously upstanding guy leading trivia, but. The gears behind your skull are mottled with the amalgam of a fawning affliction— cerebrospinal fluid and sticky tar. It leaves you in a goop of thoughtless ogling that renders your head empty. Even when he makes his way to the bar-height table your team curls around, when his eyes linger on you— “A new face.”— you just...

Mindlessly stare. 

Dirty trivia, you learn, is dirty.

It hits you when Harry quips (dare you note, mischievously), “Hoo-hoo-hoo. Starting off strong with the first one.” 

He states, talc flickering from the LED display ahead to the bevy of trivia-players, “What country,” and pauses for emphasis, “has—“ pits grub at the smooth of his cheeks, beside the grin that splinters to show ivory teeth, “the highest average, in the world, for penis size?” 

There’s no source of entertainment like that of trivia held, on a Thursday, on a remote islet, in a poky bar that smells like stale beer and dust-coated, chipping leather. Evidently. 

“I actually don’t know this one,” Harry chimes, raising a wry shoulder, “So it’s trivia for me, as well.” 

“England,” Marina stamps a blow that the teak hasn’t warranted, whisper-shouting over the staggering peals of guffaw and chatter, “He’s hung, I bet you.”

“He’s not going to fuck you for writing in England,” Beth’s chortles clash with your scorned, “Marina.”

“That’s not even an answer,” Bee waves towards the flatscreen framed over the man’s head.

Senegal, Haiti, Ecuador, and Gambia. 

“Where the fuck is Gambia—”

You settle on Gambia. 

You watch Beth scribble it in and dot the i with an open sphere. The edges don’t meet. When Harry winds the rows of tables, plucking answer cards and making small-talk, you cast your inkpools into your glass, pyrexia across the bridge of your nose, brain-rotted with the insinuation of him being …hung.

“Lots of Haiti, lots of Senegal,” Harry states, once he’s smoothed the cards out with his colossal, ringed paws, and looked them over. 

You stare at the bob of his throat as he swallows, directing the mic back to his lips.

“Big reveal?” He pauses, as if for cataclysmic emphasis, riling the crowd enough for you to note restive shoulders and juddering feet. 

“Patience,” Harry says softly into the microphone, raising his eyebrows. It's a muted word that clicks in the speaker with a thump. Throbs between your ribs, under your cold hands.

With paltry warning, he reveals, “Ecuador! At,” squinting at the blue-toned LED, “—a whopping 6-point-nine-three. Solid for the average. Do we have any Ecuadorian men in the audience tonight? Anybody who’s added to that average? Congratulations. You beat us. You beat everyone.” 

There’s a dissonant slurry of responses, some ripostes flung along tables, some bouts of clapping, hollering over the rows, sloshing mugs raised in triumph. 

Harry’s deltoids climb in a shrug, and his head wags from side to side, “Some valiant contenders, those Ecuadorians.” 

“I told you it wasn’t Gambia—“

You ogles the way Harry tilts over the platform towards a table, brows kinked as if trying to pick up something audible he’d missed. In your periphery, Marina prods into Beth’s direction with a palmful of something claret in a pellucid martini glass. 

“What was that?” Harry coaxes into the microphone. 

The corners of his mouth have caved up, and by the time the majority of the trivia-players sink into a piqued lull, he’s slanted over toward the table. A brunette with long, shiny hair arches up out of her seat into her directions, braced to the teak high-top with planted, elbow-locked arms. 

“Where do you fall?” is undeniable the second time. 

Harry blinks. His mouth paints over with a smile. 

“Where do I fall?”

He blatantly bridles a sputter when he winds toward the laptop he’s set up, culls his glass of a golden, pale straw beer that’s lost its layer of foam, and takes a long drink. Clears his throat. “Wouldn’t you like to know. Very forward. Take me out to dinner first.” 

You discover that, despite the ubiquitously crude sexualizing, Harry is sort of like a bird. An Indian Peafowl, preening with its neatly arranged plume— he likes it. The flattery. His tongue peeks out and swipes along as he stares down at the screen. Little dimples pit when it tucks back in— ones he blatantly can’t contain. 

He chuckles and states into the microphone, “…Below. Don’t worry about it.” 

Somehow, you doubt it.  -

-

-

-

You plait yourself into the Thursday Fawn Sessions as a regular attendee, curling up at the same high top to ogle the same man pace a platform with a microphone. Watch him make jesting comments and ask things like, “Axillism is the act of using what strange body part during sex?” 

You find yourself learning a thing or two from each session, and you find that the emeralds seated in his sockets linger on you, sometimes— this absolute clam shell taking up a spot in the bar and chugging fizzy water (ogling his frame in lull every time he approaches your table), too. Pussy Posse is no good at the trivia, more often than not wheedling in second-to-last, but you find yourself much too entertained to mind. 

Franks is a self-explanatory hot dog cart. It stands midway on the boardwalk and operates through sunny mizzles and borderline hurricane cloudbursts, when the green salt chuck is choppy. High tiding. Those are the days you stand out in your jaundiced poncho, salty rain spittle beating at your cheeks, and watch the waves eat at the ipe in a nasty, wet hunger, no customers in sight. 

Midsummer afternoons, though, are good. Busy. When Treah morphs industrious and bustling — tourists like Franks on the boardwalk. 

It’s a slow coda for June. The sea is planate, swaying over steel supports mantled by barnacles. Gulls chortle, gliding low in the ether— it oozes yellow, something balmy like the goo of an egg yolk. You've sold two hot dogs, tallied three joggers (one eager speedwalker), and noted one couple pushing a baby in a stroller, who offered tight-lipped smiles and veganism. You don't entirely mind a slow day, because setting shop on the boardwalk means spending the day on the boardwalk. Breathing the sea until your lungs are full of salt and your eardrums reverberate the crash of the water behind your skull. You taste it at the back of your throat— something like home as home could get.  

There’s another jogger loping— a moving blip of skin color in chiaroscuro against wood paneling. In the distance. Drawing closer. You imagine him passing the cart, the soles of his trainers padding over the row of planks until he’s just another form of lines and shading, faced away. You check your phone. 

The jogger is still a good bit away. You swipe open Wordle. You're on your third attempt of elucidating something that goes blank, I, blank, E, blank (with a P that doesn’t quite fit where you've slotted it)—

“Hi.”

Your eyes crest. 

Treah is a really small town. Not in a prudishly, bible-bashing form of a pastoral village, sheathed in a bosky, wooded moat of thicket and then plains of nothingness for hundreds of miles. But it is an island enveloped by the sea from all sides, sequestered without a boat or a little plane, whose wheels bumpily kiss the asphalt of anearly comically small airport. Even the tourists lodging up in their summer homes, all the same months like annual clockwork, make reappearances. The faces are, nearly always, the same, and you see the same faces often. It was only a (limited) matter of time before you'd coalesced beyond the borders skirting The Black Horse.

In hindsight, you didn’t envisage that you'd be wearing a baseball cap emblematized with a weenie when it happened. Or that his tits would be out and about. 

“Have you got water?”

He’s panting. Casually slippery; coated in sweat that glimmers in the sun and carves the well-toned sinews of his torso, with sunglasses tucked up over his curls like a makeshift headband. He ogles expectantly with a set of jade that puts the hues of the lapping, green sea behind him to shame. A parted mouth, sculpted and cushiony, sucks in breaths from the liminal space divvying their atoms while your own become clogged, somewhere midway an esophageal prison, in limbo toward your lungs. A shaded lepidoptera scored over his tummy flutters, batting its wings in the swell and sink of his diaphragm expanding. 

His shorts are teeny. Tiny, little things. Cobalt. Mirroring laurels carving alongside his V-line peek from the waistband, and a happy trail climbs to kiss his navel. 

You blink. “Yes. Yeah. We do. Yes. …Is bottled okay?” 

“Bottled is perfect.”

He sticks a hand into his pocket, eyes flickering to your face, away, back. Slow-like. You trace the wisps in the sky with your eyes, heat searing up your neck and pooling in the flesh of your face. It’s a sudden, unforeseen stuffiness sweltering for such a beautiful day. You recognize your horrid blunder in his next words. 

“Do I know you from somewhere?” 

You should have ducked your chin, tucked the visor lower, and hoped for the best. Instead, now, you blink, dazed and wide-eyed like a Red brocket saturated by blinding headlights.  

“Oh. I’m not sure. Um. Small …town— maybe?” 

“You come to, uh—“ a nudge with his chin in your direction as you arduously regulate the stuttery pace of your respiration. The jitter in your fingers, like a lovesick school girl. You cache them behind the cart and let them judder. “—trivia nights. At The Black Horse, yeah? I couldn’t forget a face like yours.” 

Harry grins, the way he does. Lopsided, so the left corner turns up a little higher— dimpled with a long flash of teeth. Except now, he’s slippery and half-naked. 

Folie. Miscalculated gaffe in a weenie cap. Your smile is tight.

“Oh—“ again, “…Yeah.” 

“Right,” Harry nods. Smiley. Lingering, looking you over. He buries an enormous hand back into his pocket then, brows creasing like he’s remembered something, and pulls out a little rectangle in cardboard paper. “Hey, actually. I’ve got this coupon here. S’what I do all the other days of the week, ah—“

He extends it out. 

Harve-y a free drink, on us! 

“M’a bartender over at Harvey’s. S’close to The Black Horse, if you’re in that area. Monday and Saturday mornings. Wednesday and Friday nights. If you come by, I’ll fix you up with a drink.” 

It feels impolite to leave him hanging, so you swipe out at the offering, cradling it with slow fingertips. 

“We can do some one on one trivia. Train you up,” Harry tacks on.

You swallow. Harry is an attractive man. His allure is apodictic— a sort of conventional, objective quality that leaves your throat parched when it becomes paired with his unfaltering eye contact. You're not a virgin, and you're an adept swimmer, but his presence feels like viridian saltwater that’s waiting to swallow her whole. The nerves that bubble, a fizz of chagrin, remind you why exactly you enjoy fawning from a distance. Because he makes you feel nervous, and when you're nervous, the dialogue spumes like miasmic word vomit. 

He’s got a thin sheathe of sweat that glimmers in the seat of his cupid’s bow, but it’s not in a gross way. In fact, it reminds you that the rest of him, his denuded skin, is slick, because he’s been jogging along the boardwalk. It reminds you how hard it is not to openly ogle the tattoos he’s got on show. You should have called out from your weenie gig, and you should have refilled her alprazolam prescription weeks ago. 

“Oh,” you tell him, slowly, face creasing, “I don’t— I don’t drink.”

Harry blinks. It’s a weird confession, considering you're a Thursday night regular at a bar that’s really only good for anything that has enough alcohol to shroud the stale taste perfuming the air. Still, nothing beyond open expectancy erupts along his features, and that’s worse. You feel them crawling up your throat, clambering up the back of your tongue like the words have knobby joints. They meet the backs of your teeth, waiting to spew. 

“—Not because I’m a recovering alcoholic or anything, I just don’t like the way it makes me feel. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Or drinking. I actually think it’s so admirable. You know? Like, to be brave… and… and a lot of times those people will attend support groups—“

Harry blinks again. 

“—And they talk about it. I can’t imagine sharing something like that— not that there’s anything wrong with it! But. Um. I always get virgin cocktails at The Black Horse. Or club soda. Or juice.”

Her lips seal over. You entrap the rest behind your traitorous teeth — a drawbridge that never should’ve sunk open. Despite your overly candid, overstated explanation, you don't stick the coupon back out in his direction. You harbor it in your hand, blinking slowly and gnawing into your cheek. 

“…S’okay. We do orange juice, too,” Harry tells her, entirely casual despite your discomfited speech, raising his brows. 

There’s the curbed efforts of a bemusedly mirthy grin at the corners of his mouth, and his nonchalant bearing only makes your face hotter. You feels like you're broiling under the shade of the awning. 

“And club soda.” 

“…Cool,” You settle on, tightly. 

“Sick.”

“…It’s, uh… two dollars,” you tell him when the reticence starts to suffocate you. 

You're going to go home and ram your head through a window. 

“Oh,” Harry casts his gaze to the water (it has the average, entirely typical proportions of a water bottle, but in his hand, it’s nearly miniature), as if he’s forgotten the chilly source of condensation coating his palm. That he’s in arrears. He sticks his free hand into the same pocket where the coupon was stuffed, “Right. I think I’ve got two dollars in here, somewhere.” 

Instead, when he stretches a bill out towards you, it’s worth ten. You avoid eye contact. You reach for the cash box tucked below, and you pry the lid up to delegate his change. 

“Oh,” Harry echoes, raising his enormous hand in effort of halting you, “S’alright. S’yours.”  

“Oh. I… can’t take tips. It’s, like. Against the code of conduct.” 

“Code of conduct at a …hot dog stand?” 

As if you needed to be reminded that you're donning a silly cap with an animated frank, standing on a boardwalk that’s practically empty of prospective patrons. The chagrin churns in your stomach and surfaces in the set line of your mouth. 

“…Yes.” 

Harry pauses, brows kinked like he’s ruminating, and then he inhales and decides, “Well. It’s not a tip, yeah? It’s just… you break it up, put two in the box, and then put the rest in your pocket.” 

“Oh. No. You— you’ve already given me the coupon—“ you argue, frenziedly waving out a mismatched wad of cash.

He raises his hands and ambles in one suavely, lengthy step back. “I’m going now.” 

“No!” 

He’s three away that would fit five or six of your own gait when he declares, “Yes! I hope to see you for that orange juice. On the house. Have a good one.” 

This is a patreon exclusive series. If you'd like to read more, part 2 is already up on my patreon! <3

[tvgals]

‘ BARBIE WORLD ! ‘

the spider teen group w a black barbie reader !!

MILES MORALES —

he was stunned that he pulled you to say the least

imagine when he took you home..

you and miles stand outside of his parents apartment. “and make sure you don’t call them by their first names, they hate that!” miles tells you, biting his bottom lip when he sees you knocking on the door. “i know, miles. i’m not disrespectful!” you giggle, hearing the door unlock. you’re met face to face with a brown skinned woman with her curly hair braided, laying on her shoulder. her face seems to light up when she sees the two of you. “miles!” she beams, engulfing him in a hug, when she pulls away and turns to you, she brings her hands to her chest and smiles. “and you must be y/n! miles talks so much about you!” she says, you smile and look at miles, his face flushed with embarrassment. “these are for you, mrs morales!” you grin, handing her the bouquet of azaleas. “for me? thank you so much!” she thanks you, softly grasping the stems and welcoming you two in. you see miles’ dad sitting at the table, scrolling though his phone. “dad!” miles blurts out, waiting to get his attention. once he looks up, his eyes go wide. “who’s that?” jeff asks, looking around the room just in case this was some prank.

“dad, this is my girlfriend y/n.” miles sheepishly grins, you sending a happy wave his way. jeff stares for a moment. his awkward, teenage son, was able to get a girlfriend like you? no way! “jeff, don’t just stare at the poor girl!” rio laughs. this was gonna be a long night .

HOBIE BROWN —

he loves it

the opposites attract always gets me !!

hobie watched you as you struggled to put on your favorite pair of pink chunky heels onto your feet, your annoyed groans ringing out the room. “baby!” you yell out into the apartment, hoping your boyfriend would just walk in and put your shoe on for you. you think for a second. you’ve worked multiple engineering jobs as an intern, you’ve studied multiple languages and worked many jobs, and you’re currently letting a shoe disrespect you? hobie walked in and bit back a smile at your determined face.

“love, let me help-“ hobie is cut off with a stern, “no” from you, putting your manicured hand up to stop any movement from him getting closer. “princess, just let me help.” hobie chuckles, crouching onto the floor next to you. “no! i can do it by myself. i am a strong, independent woman!” you sputter out, pushing your foot into the shoe. “bam.” you say, looking at hobie’s smiling face. now onto the next shoe.

PAVITR PRABHAKAR —

he lovessss your style

definitely helps you with makeup

“pavi!” you call out to your boyfriend, who was casually hanging off of a web from the ceiling. “yes?” he calls back to you, flipping onto his feet and walking into the bathroom where you were applying your false lashes. “baby, will you go to the mall with me?” you ask, fanning your hand in front of your eyes to dry the lash glue.

“of course! why would i say no to a pretty girl like you?” pavitr says, walking behind you and resting his chin on your head. “pavi, i need to talk to you.” you say, your tone serious and solid. pavitr gets worried, he’s never heard this tone from you like this, not so..strict and firm. “oh no…what is it?” pavitr mumbles, trailing his hands onto your waist, now moving his head to rest in the crook of your neck.

“it’s very important, like i’m talking end of our relationship if you say the wrong answer, important.” you warn him, pulling lipsticks out of your makeup bag. “now you’re scaring me.” pavitr chuckles. “what is it?” you look at him through the mirror and hold up two lipsticks, “rose red or like a light pink?” you ask, turning to actually face him. “jeez, y/n! you can’t scare me that way!” pavitr giggles, dramatically holding a hand over his heart. “but definitely rose red.”

GWEN STACY —

gwen watches you style the wig on the mannequins head, walking over to take a better look. “what are you doing?” she asks you, watching you shimmy the hair curler from the dark brown wig. “styling my wig for this party tomorrow. wanna help?” you ask, inviting her to sit down in the chair in place of you. gwen sits down and you hand her the curler, placing your hand on top of hers.

“so you gotta put the hair into this little part right here and hold it there for like…eight seconds for looser curls. that’s how i like mine.” you shrug, watching her face contort in concentration. when gwen let’s go, a perfect curl emits from the curler, you smile and give her a hug.

“see? you’re a natural!”

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