#like. she's smooth and has good cheek bones so what

[hoshigray]

hellooo! i had an idea i wanted to add onto the sukuna smut you had where he was rebellious student and she was the student body. i was thinking about the reader taking charge of sukuna even after he talked about how she would be under him.

𝐚. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: omfg FINALLY i have time to do this req!! second part to this request.

⊹ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: Sukuna x fem! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - modern setting; Sukuna and you are college seniors - degradation (bitch, slut, whore) - impact play (spanking) - prone bone + cowgirl positions - breast play + nipple play - cervix fucking- dick piercing (frenulum) - unprotected sex (psa: don't be silly; wrap the willy) - creampies - overstimulation - clitoral play (friction/grinding) - pet names (brat, good girl, pet, princess, woman) - implied blackmail - Sukuna being a sadist fuck, per usual - mention of drool/spit.

⊹ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.2k

“—Khhh! Ahaaa, fuuck, ‘Ryoo, slow do—Ahhnn!!”

“Nnnmm…Heh, dumb pet; think you have any right to tell me what to do…”

Being the president of the student body entails many responsibilities. It’s a highly respectable title expected to be exhibited by the poisest of souls—a soul that you behold and have been recognized with for the past four years of your college life. 

Senior year, a time that was supposed to be a smooth sail, unexpectedly brought its own set of challenges. Despite meticulously planning your major and minor courses, the final year turned out to be a juggling act, with five classes and the added responsibilities of extracurriculars and student government. But at the very least, it’s nothing you- student president- can’t handle.

What is one thing you can’t handle, however, is the man who has you all naked and sweating on his red satin sheets.

Sukuna has you face down to the mattress, a hand on your head to keep your cheek smooshed to the silky sheet, while the other pins you down by the waist. From behind, he ruts into your bare ass with a rough pace, jackhammering his cock into your wet cunt that’s already stuffed with his come from the rounds prior. 

Being in a situation like this is not what you envisioned would happen in your last year of college — let alone with the likes of him. You’d rather wring your own neck than be within arm’s length of Ryōmen Sukuna’s perimeter. The named senior has been on your shit list for the past three years, fucking delinquent, only doing what he wants for his pleasure, rules be damned. 

The exact aspect goes along with you, too; the only reason why you’re allowing this bastard to touch you like this is because of the material he has to bring your reputation down—all these years of hard work threatened to crumble down because of some inappropriate pictures and videos of you. To him, he could care less about releasing them and seeing your life diminish before his very eyes. As for you, you couldn’t let that happen, unable to sleep at night knowing the man you hate with your very being has shit on you for his petty enjoyment. 

So here you are, in the sole bedroom of his apartment, stripped of your clothes, your titles, and your dignity. All bare and nude for this vile man to see and use you as he sees fit in the most raunchy ways. I hate this so much...

“Hey, whore. Quit squirmin’ around like that, and let me finish you off.”

Sukuna slaps your ass for the tenth time that night, the skin of your butt hot and stinging with pain from the impacts and pinches of his nails. The sore feeling spreads with the crash of his pelvis slamming on your rear and his girthy dick churning the velvety texture of your insides. Each pound rocks you to submission, drool exiting your lips to the sheets and sticks to your chin. You’re sure you look like an idiot, all tousled because of his rough demeanor. Too angry with yourself that you fight the tears. I hate this so fucking much…

“—Ohhh!!” You wail out, eyes rolling up to your skull from the brush of your cervix. “Nnoohh!! F-Fuuuck! Ahaahnn...!”

The man above you snickers wickedly. “Keheh, look at you, crying like a real bitch in heat.” Another slap to your asscheek has you scream some more; your vocals are dragged out by his fingernails, piercing your inflamed skin. “Shit, can never get enough of this tight pussy. Never expected someone like you to be so good at wringing cock, prez.”

“Mmmph…! Go f–fuck yer’self, Ryōmen…” Even if he has your head pinned, your persistence furls you to throw a glare his way. 

But it only humors the tattooed senior above you. “And bore myself when there’s a perfect piece of ass that can take me?” He slams his pelvis harshly and jabs to your cervix by the tip prompts tears to strike down. “Though you were smarter than that, woman.”

You grit your teeth when Sukuna increases the speed of his thrusts; the piercing of his frenulum rubs on your inner walls without fail. Toes curl from another hard smack to your butt, nearly biting the skin of your bottom lip from yet another twinge of pain. 

“Taaah, ughhh, ohmyGoood…!” You can sense your cunt begin to throb–your orgasm is about to hit. “Su’kunaa, please slow downnn, I’m so–I’m gonna…Mmfffaaa!!”

Shocks tingle up your spine with the climb of your climax crashing down, your vagina contracting around the girthy length burrowing deep inside you. Howls are expressed with a euphoric tone despite the soreness of your poor, aching body. And Sukuna groans at the feeling of you clamping onto him, using slow movements of his hips to enjoy the contraction.

“Hnngh..! Dumb brat, thinkin’ you’re free to cum without my say-so.” A playful slap to your butt has you jolt, your figure still sensitive with your hazy high. It’s not like I didn’t tell you to slow down, you asshole. You sharply gasp at the withdrawal of his member, and his load exudes out with a sloppy force that messes your inner thighs. He then bends to your ear, his cold, sweaty chest sticking to your back. “Dirty slut chasin’ for yer own release. Have you no shame, princess?”

Stop talking to me… You were disgusted by the shudder you felt as he licked your ear.

“Thanks to you, I’m still hard,” he rubs his solid dick on the crevice of your ass, his come-coated member erotically grinding on the soft flesh. “Now stay fucking still ‘till I’m done with you—”

Rarely does Sukuna find himself perplexed. One moment, he’s proudly stationed above you. Then, you surprised him by rolling him to his back in a flash. The action takes him aback–somewhat amazed you could take his weight–and he sees your figure come over with your legs on either side of his waist. 

Now, you were on top of him—a rarity that neither of you expected.

Pinkish orange brows remain neutral, yet his piercing scarlet eyes bore holes into your frame. “And just the hell do you think you’re doing?” 

“What it looks like I’m doing.” You reply with a tiny malice — enough you knew wouldn’t get you into too much trouble with the man you’re on top of. Your hand grasps on Sukuna’s cock and strokes the erect limb. “I’m finishing you off.”

Did you gulp at the motion of a single brow being lifted? Of course you did. Albeit you were stubbornly confident, you’d be a fool if you weren’t frightened. Yet the man sneered after a few brief seconds. “Is that right? The president thinks they can do all the work, huh.” You observed Sukuna bringing his hands to relax behind his head, “Well, what are you waitin’ for? Take care of your fellow student, Miss Prez.”

I hate his ass so fucking much—you can only express your disdain through your inner dialogue, wanting nothing but to wipe that evil sneer off his tattooed face. Yet you know that’s not what’s expected of you now. So, with a gulp and a slow inhale, your hips are pulled up by yourself, and your hand guides the pulsing length in your grasp to your leaking slit. 

You gasp at the contact of his glans kissing your labia, the sight of the some dripping from your vagina sticking to Sukuna’s girth was too repulsive to the eye. Humiliation continues to shrink your core at the display before you. “Don’t keep me waiting, woman. Or I’ll go back and do the job myself, seeing you’re too scared.” The salmon-haired man doesn’t flinch at your scowl. 

“Don’t rush me, Ryōmen,” you threaten with gritted teeth, chewing on your bottom lip as you bring your ass down to take in the fat tip once more. The pain has you wince for a few seconds, hoping to God that the man below doesn’t get too impatient enough to slam you down on his cock himself because you know he wouldn’t give a damn if you’d be in pain or not.

But it does enter you; a sharp gasp erupted out of your frame at the scrape of his frenulum piercing back inside. Your hands involuntarily find something to keep your balance steady, using his chest to do the job.

As for Sukuna, his crimson eyes were honed in on you, taking in every detail of your expressions, your shaky voice, and the twitches of your body as your cunt swallowed every inch of his shaft back into your warmth until you reached the very hilt. “Good girl,” he scoffs at the sudden squeeze of your walls on him. “Don’t let a little praise get to your head; start moving, pet.”

You release a gradual sigh, and your hips begin to move. Your nerves are still under the effects of the recent climax, so your inner walls are still keen as every graze of Sukuna’s tip and piercing has you tremble like a leaf. It almost makes you scared to move entirely, thinking one wrong move will break you. 

“C’mon, Y/n,” you gasp at Sukna’s hands, finding your exposed chest to grope. “Is this the best you can do? With those slow-ass hips?”

You knew he meant to entice you, yet it was working. Your waist gauges the speed of your rhythm, now bouncing on Sukuna’s length with a purpose despite your sensitive nerves having you mewl. And your shrills come out slurred at the rough tweak of your nipples. This fool has no gentle bone in his body, using your sore body in whatever interests him. 

“Mmnngh, yeah, like that,” Sukuna purrs, fondling your breasts with fingers hungry for their flesh to play and tease. “Harder” wasn’t something to question—a simple demand you had to indulge in. You flatten your mouth as you bring your hips down more to the point that the skin of your ass hits his groin and thighs. “Harder,” he commands again, your hips now slamming hard down on him, and you shake at the poke of your cervix, nails digging into his pectorals. And the black-marked man snickers at the display. “Harder.”

You couldn’t keep your frame upright; another pound of your hips onto him caused another poke of your cervix, resulting in you losing your balance and your body falling onto Sukuna’s, who barks a laugh. “Tah, pathetic, can’t even stay upright when taking my cock.” And to make it worse, he criticizes you, his hands now moving to your butt to squeeze and slap onto. “I like the view, though. Not every day do I see a pretty face above me like this.” You scream at the buck of his hips, his dick rubbing on your G-spot with precision. “Just need some help to ease your incompetence, princess.” 

Oh, you hated how close your face was to his; if you weren’t so dazed, you’d spit at him. “—Tch, s-shut up, ‘Kunaa! Go die—Eeyaahh!” Another slap on your asscheek and graze on the upper wall of your cunt has you shrieking.

“Not a chance,” his face gets closer to yours. “Wouldn’t give you the satisfaction…” And then your moan is muffled with the addition of his lips onto yours, the Ryōmen Sukuna kissing you.

When the night couldn’t get any worse, here is Sukuna shoving his tongue into your mouth, exchanging his saliva with yours as your tongue swirls with his before he sucks on it. Fucking sickening, the nerve of this fucker! You hate how passionate the kiss became as his thrusts coincided with yours, getting faster and faster as your teeth clashed with his. My God, just fucking cum already!

You decided it was time to end this session once and for all, the pace of your hips going erratic. Every bounce of your ass came with a twinge of your cunt around Sukuna’s member; the groans he expresses into your lips are just what you’re looking for. And the more you bend forward, the friction of your clitoris grinding on his pelvis gets better. At least you’re getting some pleasure out of this…

You knew he was close to chasing his orgasm the moment his ruts to your cunt synced with yours, so it’s no surprise his fingers grip your butt and keep you grounded on him as he spills another load into you. Fuck, you can feel his cock pulsating inside you, and you can only imagine how messy it looks down there once you’re finally off of him.

Even as he’s experiencing the shocks and trembles of his release, Sukuna doesn’t break the kiss until the very end. A hand comes to the back of your head, keeping your face and mouth on him, deepen the kiss and take your breath away (literally). And once your bodies calm down, his lips finally withdraw from yours, leaving you two panting heavily among yourselves. Spit connects to your lips, but you quickly break the link with your hand covering your mouth.

“Ya know,” Sukuna breathlessly chuckles while his other hand kneads the flesh of your butt. “Think you’re startin’ to enjoy this just as much as I am.”

Eyes narrow at his words, and you turn to the side to spit his saliva out of your mouth. You wipe your mouth with a tiny grin. “You fucking wish…”

© 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲2024 – reblogs and comments are appreciated wholeheartedly ☆ header edit done by me + dividers by @/animatedglittergraphics-n-more.

[holdyourhandinmine]

𝕜𝕖𝕖𝕡 𝕡𝕣𝕖𝕥𝕖𝕟𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕡𝕣𝕖𝕥𝕥𝕪 𝕘𝕚𝕣𝕝 | jackie taylor

♫ 𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕪𝕚𝕟𝕘: keep pretending pretty girl • renee rapp

⍟ you've lost count of how many times jackie's come to you drunk, and begging for kisses ⍟

comphet jackie strikes again! w/c: 1.2k

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jackie is drunk.

and not in the way she likes to be- the way she pretends to be; when she still has control over that part of her brain that screams at her. she likes to get a nice buzz going, just enough so she can dance with jeff freely, without her skin crawling with discomfort.

but that buzz in her head has grown exponentially already, and she hasn't even been here long. she probably should've slowed down but when shauna stood her ground and outright refused to go- no matter how many favours she offered up, and you were no where to be found. she couldn't help herself.

the cup that's been the direct cause of all her inhibitions has been refilled and emptied too many times already, and it is manifesting itself in the way her lips are tingling, and itching for a kiss.

jeff takes it out of her hands- smiling nervously at her. they're leant against his truck bed together, and as he slides closer to her- he pulls her into his shoulder and kisses her gently. well, as gently as a teenage boy that only cares about getting into her pants can be.

she shudders.

jeff- as nice as ever, frowns, offering her his jacket. yes, that must be it, she's just cold.

and she takes it.

jeff is nice. he's a good boyfriend- jackie is sure of that.

but he's not as soft as some other people she's kissed, his hands are calloused and dry- but the other's are soft and smooth, he smells like- well, he smells like boy; dirty and musky and icky, she much prefers the fruity, flowery smell that lingers and follows her around after; it must be a mix of the two of yours together.

and the more she thinks about it, the more she thinks of you.

your lips are softer, nicer, warmer- you're not constantly trying to jump her bones. and she could stare at you for hours if she could.

and it's definitely the alcohol thats leading her now, cause she's pulling out of jeff's embrace without a second thought- throwing some excuse over her shoulder and stalking towards the house.

you're normally hiding somewhere when there's a party, whether it's from the crowds, or from her- she doesn't ask.

she spots nat and lottie in the kitchen getting drinks, and she bounds up to them clapping her hands together.

"charlotte! natalie! just the people i wanted to see."

"she doesn't want to see you jackie."

jackie frowns- noting the look shared between the two. and she notices nat's eyes flicker to the direction of the bathroom, and her face splits into a grin.

"thanks nat!"

she bats her eyes at the few people waiting and they step aside for her.

she knocks, "it's jackie! let me in."

the door creeks open slightly- just enough for her to slip in and shut the door with a thud.

the light must be a bit busted in the cramped bathroom cause her eyes strain to adjust. but when they do- they notice you.

sat on the counter with your back to the mirror- your eyes avoid her, staring at the ground, barely acknowledging her.

jackie frowns- her heads still spinning, her cheeks are flushed, and only now is she noticing her lack of balance, she's on the verge of falling face first into you.

your voice cuts through her thoughts sharply, "what are you doing here jackie?"

jackie's lips part slightly, mouth moving, opening and closing- willing the words to come out. nothing but a pathetic sigh vibrate through the air. it slices though the thick tension in the room. the silence is suffocating, and finally, only then- your eyes meet.

jackie pouts, "i love you."

platonically? yes.

romantically?

barring the fact that she has a boyfriend, it's only now- only in moments similar to this. only when it's just you two, locked away from the prying eyes of the world, and gossip-mill of the school. whispered broken promises, and drunken ramblings.

it makes your heart ache, and stomach drop- you know how this will go.

your voice drops softer, a warning, a plea- "jackie."

she hums- liquid courage still pumping through her veins.

"seriously- i love you."

her hands move to cup your cheeks softly- and she leans in.

and you do nothing to stop her.

then.

all you can taste is the alcohol on her lips.

all you can smell is her perfume.

and all you can feel is her hands wrapping around your shoulders.

your hands find their place on her hips and you part you legs more, jackie slotting right in between them.

it's pure bliss and it comes crashing down when the door swings open. jackie is pulling away from you, wiping her swollen lips. there's a slightly dazed look in her eyes but it quickly disappears. you can feel jackie's immediate panic now instead.

"just me- thought you'd want to know jeff's looking for you jack."

natalie.

jackie doesn't even spare you one last look, as she's barreling past nat to exit the bathroom.

"you know nat- usually when someone asked to keep someone else away, they do as asked."

nat scoffs, "it's not my fault jackie's got some freaky mind reading powers."

-

like usual- jackie never acknowledges the party with you, so you never bring it up with her.

you guess you're a good friend like that.

it's like nothing even happened.

but you don't even have enough fingers- on both hands, to count how many times this has happened.

it still always was nothing though- at least thats what jackie says. something along the lines of; don't worry about it, it's no big deal, friends help each other out all the time- you're just helping me figure it all out- and you'd be more inclined to believe her if she wasn't drunk every time it happened.

you know it's just an excuse she can hide behind-some junior girls made out during spin the bottle and no one battered an eye cause they were so pissed drunk- so in turn jackie is too, so pissed drunk she can barely see straight- literally.

and what's even more pathetic than that? you will always forgive her. you'll bite your tongue, you won't mention anything, you'll laugh with her, and pretend like she didn't crumble your world- and shatter your heart the other night.

she moves through the school like normal- shauna glued to her side. eyes bright, and smile brighter. she says hello to the people they pass.

she's always within eyesight, always within earshot.

she must know what she's doing, she must know she's very good at hovering just close enough to you, to drive you crazy, like a ghostly presence that haunts you.

she has to know she's doing it on purpose.

jackie taylor is going to be the death of you.

it only takes two weeks before another party is announced.

jackie meets your eyes from across the locker room, and you look away.

you know how this will go anyway- you'll be dragged to this party, and you'll avoid her like the plague. but she'll always sniff you out somehow- it's as if she's got some sixth sense to find you.

then you'll kiss, you'll tell her everything she wants to hear, and then, you'll wake up in the morning and pretend nothing even happened.

jackie can keep pretending all she wants- and you'll be happy to indulge her; every time.

pathetic.

[sheaabuttaababyy]

Mamas boy - JU

Josh x Nina

Fluff, Just sum short and cute

The backyard was alive with laughter and music. Smoke from the the grill as juicy ribs sizzled, kids running around playing, and folding chairs everyone. Uncles loud cracking jokes, solo cups in their hands as aunties fanned themselves as they gossiped.

In the center of it all, under the wide shade of a palm tree stood Nina, dressed in a black body con dress and a matching head wrap, her golden earrings and necklaces, shining against her glowing brown skin. In her arms resting comfortably on her hip was her and Josh’s 2 year-old son Kairo, who refused to be put down for more than 3 minutes.

"Mama I stay wif you" Kairo mumbled sleepily, wrapping his little arms tighter around her neck and snuggling his soft cheek against her collar bone.

"I know baby," Nina cooed, smoothing a hand over his curls. "You got the whole backyard to play in with your cousins, but you wanna stay with mama huh?"

Kai nodded like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He was a mamas boy and was proud of it.

Nina smiled, bouncing him gently while chatting with Trinity and one of Josh’s cousins, who were laughing about how attached Kairo was. "Girl, that little boy has not left your side the minute y’all got here." Trinity giggled.

On cue her husband, Josh strolled over in his black tank top and matching shorts, his chain shining bright. A smile on his face that always made Nina melt no matter how long they’ve been together. A plate of ribs as he leaned in and kissed her cheek slow and sweet.

"You looked so good from all the way there, I had to come see what’s up girl" he murmured against her skin then looked at Kairo. "Damn. You mind if I get some love too, champ?"

Kairos eyes were narrowed. Suspicious. Annoyed. Possessive.

Josh leaned In again, this time aiming for Nina’s lips.

"Mwah," he exaggerated, laying a big loud kiss on her mouth, cupping her cheek with his free hand like they were the only two people in the world. "Mhm, is that cherry?" He said with a grin.

Kairo scowled.

"MY mama!" He announced loudly, pointing a finger at Jeys face. Then with furry of a betrayed toddler, he used his other hand to push his daddy’s chest, who didn’t even budge. "Go!"

"Oooohh, we jealous now?" Josh laughed, setting his plate down on a side table, moving closer. "I can’t love on my wife now?"

Kairo turned his whole body sideways, trying to block his mama from her own husband, boy chubby arms spread out in defence. "No kiss! MY mama!"

"Awww, he serious!" Trinity cracked up from her seat, recording the moment on her phone. "Y’all look at him guarding Nina."

Nina was wheezing from laughter, holding her son as he dramatically tried to put space between her and his daddy. "Kai Kai, you betta stop before your daddy does something silly—"

"Oh nah, I’m finna show out now" Josh smirked stepping forward.

He leaned in again, pressing another kiss Nina’s cheek— then one on her forehead, and another right between her collar bone and shoulder.

Kairo lost it.

He flailed his little arms at Josh, trying to push him away with his tiny toddler strength, face scrunched and real betrayal. "Nooooo!! Noo daddy!! My mama!!"

"Boy, you tryna fight me?" Josh teased dodging the baby’s hand swing with dramatic theatrics. "You gonna hit me cause I’m lovin on my girl? Huh? You mad cause she was mine first!?" 

He kissed her again, causing her to giggle against his lips, as he smacked his lips dramatically. "Mwah! What you gon do, little man?"

Kai gasped and smacked his tiny palm against Josh’s shoulder with all the toddler fury he could muster. "Stop"

Nina was laughing so hard she almost dropped him. "Okay enough Josh, leave him alone! He’s gonna start crying for real!" Watching Kai’s little pout.

"Nah, nah it’s war now" Josh said grabbing Nina’s waist from behind, chin on her shoulder. "I’m staking my claim"

Kissing her again, just to push his sons buttons.

Kairo squirmed and yelled. "MY MOMMY!" Before he pulled Nina’s face down with his chubby hands, placing a big wet kiss on her lips. Then turned to his dad and glared at Josh.

Trinity and Jon who walked over to watch were doubled over, with tears in their eyes.

"Oh he petty, petty" Trinity howled.

"He showed yo ass Uce" Jon laughed out.

Josh wiped his imaginary tears. "Alright, I see how it is. My own son done turned on me"

"He loves his mommy babe, what can I say?" Nina giggled, cuddling Kai close, kissing his chubby cheek, as he smiled in Josh’s direction, like he proved his point.

Josh pursed his lips out, nodding his head. "Aight Kairo. Bet. You win today. But tonight when you in bed, best believe I’m gettin all the kisses."

Kai squinted back before waving his dad off.

Then to assert dominance, he threw his arms around his moms neck, leaning into her chest with a satisfied smile, eyes lazily open still on his dad.

"My mommy" he mumbled with a sleepy sigh.

Josh threw his hands up and backed away laughing. "Alright! Im done! I can’t win against a two year-old with dimples. Y’all got it"

As Nina laughed and kissed her baby’s head, Kairo nestled into her neck, eyes closed a little smug smile on his face. Josh kissed his sons forehead before walking away to grab his plate, shaking his head and muttering. "Man, I used to be her baby…"

"Still are!" Nina called after him, sending him a wink.

Josh turned back, that smile tugging at his lips again. "Yeah…I just gotta fight for my spot now" 

🏷 @charmed-dreamssss @usoinked @mselenalovebug @theusotwinzcom @bloodlineslut @trippinsorrows @catxo @whowrotethenote @uceyliyahh @adoreesun @christinabae @mjonthetrack @4milly @punksyeet

[wchswift]

ଓ Home for the Holidays

Pairing: Logan Howlett x latina!fem!reader Summary: you're finally dating Logan, and this year for Christmas, your family, not very mutant-friendly, invites you and Logan to the holiday. Content: fluff, a lot of feelings, slightly angst, established relationship, complicated parents but they redeem themselves, not proofread, English isn’t my first language :) Word count: 5k (I got a little carried away) A/N: like I said christmas prompts are all my head has been coming up with lately lol. This one is totally self indulgent... I'm sorry (not really). I really think Logan would get along great with my latin family so this is what I wrote! Merry Christmas to you all!!! 🎄

mdni 𖤐 18+

The world outside was muffled in white. Snow blanketed the grounds of the X-Mansion, smoothing over the jagged chaos that typically defined the lives of its residents. But here, in this room, everything felt still, warm, and safe.

You blinked awake slowly, your cheek resting against the solid plane of Logan’s chest. His steady breathing was a low hum beneath your ear, and the arm he’d slung across your waist anchored you in place, as if he thought you might disappear if he let go.

For a while, you stayed like that, letting the lazy warmth seep into your bones. Mornings like these were rare. Most of your days started with some crisis or other, but the mansion had gone blessedly quiet for the holidays. Even the younger mutants seemed to understand the sanctity of this lull, their usual chatter and chaos replaced with soft laughter and the occasional sound of Christmas music echoing faintly through the halls.

Logan shifted beneath you, his muscles flexing under your cheek as he adjusted his grip. The calloused pads of his fingers traced absentminded circles on your back, a tender gesture you’d come to treasure.

“You’re quiet this morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep. “Something on your mind?”

You smiled, too comfortable to move. “Just appreciating this.” You turned your head slightly, nuzzling against him. “Don’t ruin it by talking too much.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “Fair enough.”

The quiet stretched out again, the two of you wrapped in the soft cocoon of blankets and each other. You let your thoughts wander, enjoying the rare chance to simply exist without the weight of responsibility pressing down on you.

And then your phone buzzed.

You groaned, burying your face against Logan as the sound shattered the tranquility. “No,” you mumbled. “Not yet.”

Logan reached over to the nightstand, grabbing the offending device without letting you go. “You gonna answer this, or am I tossing it out the window?” he asked, holding it just out of your reach.

You sat up reluctantly, frowning at the screen. The familiar number made your stomach twist, a mix of excitement and apprehension knotting your insides.

“It’s my family,” you said softly.

Logan’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but he didn’t say anything. He just handed you the phone, his steady gaze enough to ground you.

You hesitated, then swiped to answer. “Hello?”

“¡Mija!” Your mother’s voice filled the line, bright and cheerful as ever. “You sound tired. Are you resting enough? Eating well?”

You smiled despite yourself. “Hi, mamá. I’m fine, I promise.”

“Good. Listen, I have some news.” Her tone turned conspiratorial, and you could almost picture her leaning closer, as if you weren’t miles away. “We want you to come home for Christmas. Your papá and I were talking, and it’s been too long since we’ve all been together.”

Your chest tightened. It had been too long. Ever since your powers had manifested, there had been tension, distance. But in recent months, your family had made an effort to mend things, to accept you for who you were. And now, this invitation felt like another step forward.

“I’d love to,” you said after a moment, your voice softer now. “I really would.”

“Good, good. And—” She hesitated, then plowed ahead, her excitement spilling over. “Bring your boyfriend. Logan, right? We want to meet him.”

You froze, your gaze flicking to Logan, who was watching you with mild curiosity. Your mother’s words echoed in your head, and suddenly, the cozy warmth of the room felt stifling.

“Mija? Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” you managed, your throat dry. “I’m here.”

“Well, bring him. And don’t worry—he’s family now, too. We’ll take care of him.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of her words pressing down on you. After a few more pleasantries, you ended the call and set the phone down, your hands trembling slightly.

Logan tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing. “What was that about?”

“My family,” you said, your voice quieter than you intended. “They want me home for Christmas. They want us home for Christmas.”

His eyebrows lifted again, but there was no hesitation in his response. “All right.”

“All right?” You stared at him, incredulous. “You’re okay with going?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He shrugged, his tone casual, but you could see the flicker of something deeper in his expression. “It’s your family. They’re important to you.”

You bit your lip, looking down at your hands. “I just… I don’t know how they’ll react. I mean, they’ve been better about accepting me, but this is different. And you…” You trailed off, struggling to find the words.

Logan reached for you, his hand warm and solid as it cupped your cheek. “Hey,” he said softly. “Stop overthinking it. If they’ve got a problem with me, that’s their issue, not yours. But if you want me there, I’m there.”

His certainty steadied you, and you leaned into his touch, releasing a shaky breath. “Of course I do! I do want you there. I just—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted gently. “Stop worrying. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Okay. Together.”

Logan leaned back against the pillows, pulling you with him until you were curled up against his side again. The knot of anxiety in your chest loosened slightly, replaced by a tentative sense of hope for having Logan by your side.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, and for a little while longer, the two of you stayed wrapped in the quiet, preparing for the journey ahead.

When it was no longer possible to extend the moment with Logan, you got up and started your day. Since it was close to Christmas, the mansion was quieter and less crowded, giving you a chance to relax alone for a while.

The snow seemed endless, a quiet ocean blanketing the world outside. From the wide windows of the X-Mansion’s common area, it stretched out in every direction, softening the edges of the landscape until it looked like something out of a dream.

You sat on the arm of the couch, watching the scene unfold with the same stillness it seemed to demand. Logan was a shadow in the corner of the room, leaning casually against the doorframe. His presence was like gravity—solid, constant, something you could always feel even when you weren’t looking.

But now, his gaze was fixed on you, sharp and unwavering.

“You’ve been quiet all morning,” he said, breaking the silence. There was no accusation in his tone, only a quiet observation. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

You sighed, your breath fogging up the window for just a moment before it vanished. “It’s nothing.”

He let out a low hum, the kind that told you he didn’t believe a word of it. He crossed the room in a few steps, coming to stand beside you. His reflection joined yours in the glass, his dark eyes meeting yours in the faint, distorted version of the world.

“Try again,” he said, his voice softer now.

You looked down at your hands, fingers twisting in your lap. “It’s just… the idea of going home, after too long. And bringing you with me.”

His reflection didn’t waver. “You don’t want me to come?”

“No!” The word burst out of you too quickly, and you winced at the sharpness of it. “That’s not it. I already said, course I want you to come, Lo. It’s just—” You hesitated, your thoughts tripping over each other in their rush to the surface. “I don’t know how they’ll be. My family, I mean. They’ve gotten better about… about everything, but it’s still complicated. And you going too—”

You glanced at him, struggling to find the right words. “You’re not exactly… subtle, Logan. You literally have mutant written all over you. You’re like a storm—intense and impossible to ignore. And I love it so much, but my family, they’re…”

He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“They’re the kind of people who smile through awkward silences and sweep anything messy under the rug,” you finished weakly. “I just—I don’t know if they’ll know what to do with you. And I don’t want them to make you feel like you don’t belong. I don't want them to treat you differently.”

Logan was quiet for a long moment, his gaze still fixed on you. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady, like the rumble of distant thunder.

“You think I care what they think?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he held up a hand to stop you.

“They’re your family,” he said simply. “I’m not going for them. I’m going for you.”

There was something so unshakable about the way he said it, as if the answer was as obvious as the ground beneath his feet.

You let out a shaky laugh, your breath fogging up the glass again. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It is,” he said, and the quiet conviction in his voice made your chest ache. “They don’t have to like me. Hell, they don’t even have to understand me. But if they love you, then they’ll respect the choices you’ve made. And if they don’t—” His reflection smiled faintly, a wry twist of his lips. “Well, they’ll have to deal with me.”

You shook your head, a reluctant smile tugging at your own lips. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he said, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder. “But I’m yours. That’s all that matters.”

Something in your chest unfurled at his words, the knot of anxiety loosening just enough for you to take a deep breath. You leaned against him, your forehead resting against his shoulder. He smelled faintly of pine and smoke, like the forest itself had come to life and taken human form. It was so comforting.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

“For what?” he asked in a low voice, his hand coming up to rest on the back of your neck.

“For being you.”

He huffed a soft laugh, and you felt his lips brush against your hair. “Don’t go getting all sentimental on me now, sweetheart.”

You laughed, the sound lighter now, like the snowflakes falling outside. For the first time all morning, the weight in your chest didn’t feel quite so heavy.

The road stretched ahead of you like an endless ribbon, winding through snow-draped trees and frozen lakes that glittered faintly in the pale winter sunlight. The hum of the car engine was the only sound for a while, a quiet rhythm that matched the pulse of your thoughts.

Logan drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console where his fingers occasionally brushed against yours. It was a casual touch, almost absentminded, but it anchored you to him in a way words never could.

You watched his profile as he drove, the sharp lines of his face softened by the morning light. There was a quiet intensity about him, like a storm that seemed less threatening and more comforting. He was like a force of nature, capable of demolishing obstacles while also providing a protective haven —a force of nature that could tear down walls and shield you from the worst of the world all at once.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asked without taking his eyes off the road.

You smiled faintly. “Are they worth that much?”

“Probably more,” he said, his lips twitching into the smallest of smirks. “But that’s all I’ve got on me.”

You laughed softly, the sound easing the tension in your chest. “I was just thinking about how far we’ve come. I mean, from where we started… to this.”

Logan glanced at you, his brow furrowing slightly. “This isn’t just ‘far.’ This is everything.”

His words were so simple, so unshakable, that they left you momentarily speechless. He had a way of doing that—cutting through your overthinking with a clarity that left no room for doubt.

You turned to look out the window, the snow-covered landscape blurring past. “You know, when my powers first showed up, I thought… I thought I’d never have this. A life. Someone like you.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, but you felt his hand move, his fingers intertwining with yours on the console. “Guess I’m lucky you were wrong.”

You blinked, surprised by the softness in his voice. When you looked at him again, his eyes were fixed on the road, but there was something unguarded about his expression—a glimpse of the man behind the claws and the growl.

“Logan…”

He shook his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Don’t go getting mushy on me now, sweetheart. We’ve got a long drive ahead.”

You snorted a laugh, leaning back in your seat. The warmth of his hand in yours stayed with you, a quiet reassurance that no matter what waited at the end of this journey, you wouldn’t face it alone.

By the time you pulled into the driveway, the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. Your family’s house was just as you remembered—warm, inviting, and alive with the kind of chaos that only the holidays could bring.

Lights twinkled along the roofline, and the faint sound of music spilled out into the crisp evening air. As Logan helped you with the bags, the front door swung open, and a wave of noise and warmth hit you like a tidal wave.

“¡Cariño! ¡Por fin!” Your mother was the first to greet you, wrapping you in a hug so tight it stole your breath. “I’ve been waiting all day!”

“Mamá,” you managed, laughing as she fussed over you.

And then her attention shifted to Logan. Her eyes softened, though her tone remained brisk. “And this must be Logan.”

He nodded, his posture relaxed but his expression carefully neutral. “Ma’am.”

Your mother’s lips twitched, but she didn’t comment. Instead, she turned to usher you both inside, chattering about the food, the decorations, and how your father was already working on his second plate.

The rest of the family followed in quick succession, a whirlwind of introductions, hugs, and rapid-fire questions. Logan handled it all with a quiet patience that surprised even you, his gruff demeanor softening just enough to put them at ease.

Your younger cousin tugged at his sleeve, wide-eyed. “Are you really Wolverine? Like, claws and everything?”

Logan raised an eyebrow, glancing at you as if to ask, 'Should I?'

You shrugged, trying not to laugh. “Might as well get it over with.”

With a sigh, he extended one hand, the metallic claws sliding out with a faint snikt. Your cousin’s eyes widened further, her jaw dropping.

“Whoa…”

The rest of the family crowded around, their curiosity breaking any lingering tension. Logan didn’t say much, but the faint smirk on his face told you he didn’t mind the attention nearly as much as he pretended to.

As the evening wore on, the chaos began to settle. The smell of food and cinnamon filled the air, and the house hummed with laughter and music. Logan had drifted to a corner of the room, where your father showed him an old photo album.

You watched them from across the room, your heart swelling at the sight of Logan fitting into this world you’d been so afraid to share with him.

“Mija,” your mother said, pulling you aside. Her voice was softer now, her eyes warm. “He’s good for you. I can see it.”

You smiled, your chest tightening with emotion. “He is. More than I ever thought I deserved.”

She cupped your face, her hands warm and familiar. “Don’t ever think that. You deserve everything, and more. I wish I had told you that more often. I'm sorry, nena.”

For the first time in a long while, you believed her.

Dinner had barely ended when the music started, a lively rhythm spilling from the speakers and filling every corner of the house. Chairs were pushed back, plates cleared away, and the living room became an impromptu dance floor.

You watched from the edge of the room, laughing as your cousins dragged reluctant uncles and aunts into the fray. The Christmas lights blinked in time with the beat, casting a kaleidoscope of colors over the scene.

And then you felt a hand on your wrist.

“C’mon,” Logan said, his voice low and warm.

You stared at him, incredulous. “You? Dance?”

He smirked, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “I’ve been around long enough to pick up a thing or two. Don’t make me regret this.”

Before you could protest, he pulled you onto the floor. The music swelled, and for a moment, you forgot the chaos, the noise, everything but the warmth of his hand on yours and the steady strength of his other hand resting lightly on your waist.

He wasn’t perfect—his steps were a little stiff, and his timing faltered now and then—but his confidence made up for it. You couldn’t stop smiling, even as your family whooped and cheered around you.

“Not bad for a grumpy old man,” you teased, your voice just loud enough for him to hear over the music.

“Careful,” he warned, his smirk widening. “We are at your parents' house but if you keep this up, that won't stop me from punishing you." He whispered against your ear for only you to hear, his voice firm but with a hint of humor.

You laughed, the sound pure and unrestrained, and for the first time that night, the weight of your nerves began to lift.

Later, as the music faded into softer melodies and the crowd thinned out, you found yourself in the kitchen, refilling glasses and helping your mother plate desserts.

“That Logan,” she said, her voice thoughtful. “He’s different.”

You froze, unsure of where she was going with this. “Is that… bad?”

She shook her head, her hands deftly arranging cookies on a platter. “No. Just… surprising. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, you can tell he means every word. And the way he looks at you…” She paused, her gaze softening. “You deserve that kind of love, cariño. The kind that doesn’t waver.”

Your throat tightened, and you turned back to the counter, suddenly very interested in the stack of plates waiting to be carried out. “Thanks, mamá.”

But before you could continue, the sound of approaching footsteps drew your attention. Your aunt appeared in the doorway, her ever-present smile firmly in place.

“There you are!” she said brightly, stepping into the kitchen as though she hadn’t just been eavesdropping. Her gaze flicked between you and your mother, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. “What are we talking about?”

“Logan,” your mother replied, her tone light but guarded.

“Ah,” your aunt said, her smile sharpening at the edges. “He’s… an interesting choice.”

You stiffened, the warmth from your mother’s words quickly fading. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing,” your aunt said breezily, but there was a calculated edge to her voice. She picked up a cookie, examining it as though it were the most fascinating thing in the room. “It’s just—well, a man like that doesn’t seem very… stable.”

Your mother frowned, "Paloma don't start…" she said with a warning tone, but even so, your aunt continued, her tone dripping with faux concern. “No, I just mean, he's a mutant! And with his background—and those claws… He seems a little aggressive too, It must be exhausting, keeping up with someone like him.”

The words hit like a slap, dredging up the old insecurities you’d worked so hard to bury. Your grip on the platter tightened as you struggled to steady your voice. “Don't you dare! You don't know anything about him. Logan is not aggressive, he is a good man, kind and caring.” you said evenly, refusing to rise to her bait.

“Of course, I’m sure he is,” your aunt said, her smile widening. “But he is still a mutant, don’t you think—”

"And my daughter is also a mutant, Paloma, so you better stop this, " your mother replied, her face completely serious now.

"I didn't mean to offend, I'm sorry," she said sarcastically. "But it's funny you should say that since you never were okay or wanted to deal with the fact that she was a mutant either."

Your breath caught your throat, chest tightening as you felt anger take over.

"You're right, I lost my relationship with my daughter just because I didn't understand her, and I was wrong. All I want most is to make up for it and change. So I won't accept any more of your prejudice, not with my daughter or with Logan." Your mother's voice was firm and steady, her posture confident and despite the moment I smiled to see the change in her. The way she defended you.

“Everything is fine? Anyone got something to say about me?”

Before your aunt could answer, the deep, gruff voice cut through the air like a blade, silencing the room. You turned to see Logan standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable but his presence commanding.

Your aunt faltered, her confidence wavering under the weight of his gaze. “I—no, of course not,” she stammered, her smile faltering as she fidgeted with the cookie in her hand.

Logan’s gaze didn’t waver, and his voice was calm but firm as he added, “Good. We wouldn't want to cause a scene on Christmas, right?”

Your aunt nodded, muttered something about needing to check on the drinks, and scurried out of the kitchen, leaving an awkward silence in her wake.

Logan crossed the room in a few strides, his hand finding yours. His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, grounding you. “You okay?” he asked softly. “Need a hand?” This time he looked at your mother, his gaze light and tone gentle.

Your mother stepped aside with a knowing smile. “She’s all yours.”

You smiled, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

Logan’s hand tightened around yours. “C’mon,” he said, his voice low and meant only for you. “Let’s get out of here for a minute.”

The night had settled into a comfortable lull by the time Logan led you outside. The snow had stopped falling, but the cold still bit at your cheeks and turned your breath into faint clouds in the air.

“Busy night,” he said, his tone dry but not unkind.

You laughed softly, the sound muted by the quiet of the world around you. “You handled it pretty well.”

He shrugged, his hands buried deep in his jacket pockets. “Your family’s all right. Loud, but all right.”

You nudged him with your elbow. “That’s high praise coming from you.”

He didn’t respond right away, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The silence stretched out, not uncomfortable, but heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Finally, he turned to you, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it. “You were scared about bringing me here,” he said, his voice a quiet rumble.

You let out a breath, watching it curl into the night air. “I didn’t want it to go wrong—for you, or for them. I thought maybe… maybe I was asking too much.”

Logan stepped closer, his presence like a shield against the cold. “You never ask too much from me,” he said firmly. “But you’ve got to stop carrying all this by yourself. You’re not alone in this anymore.”

His hand found yours, the roughness of his fingers a contrast to the gentleness of his touch. “You don’t need to protect me. And you sure as hell don’t need to protect them from me. That’s not how this works.”

Your throat tightened, his words cutting through the tangled mess of your insecurities. “I just… I don’t want to mess this up,” you admitted, your voice trembling.

He tipped your chin up, his eyes locking onto yours. “You won’t.” The certainty in his voice was unshakable, and it felt like he was holding more than just your gaze—it felt like he was holding you together.

"I can't lose you, Logan," you breathed, desperation lacing your words. "And sure as hell I wasn't going to lose you because of my family." As he leaned closer, the frigidness of the world outside seemed to fade, replaced by the warmth radiating from him. His forehead grazed yours, a gentle touch that sent a shiver of connection coursing through you.

His breath was warm, his voice a whisper that carried only for you. “Whatever happens, it’s you and me. That’s not changing.”

The words wrapped around your heart, soft and unyielding all at once. “I love you,” you whispered, the confession slipping out before you could stop it.

He smiled then, a rare, fleeting thing that lit his face like sunlight breaking through clouds. “I love you too,” he said, the rough edges of his voice softening with the weight of the truth.

And then he kissed you, slow and deliberate, like there was nothing in the world but this moment. His hands moved to your waist, grounding you, making you feel like everything would be okay.

Later that night, the house was quieting down. The children had been sent to bed, though the muffled sound of giggles hinted they weren’t asleep just yet. Most of the adults had retreated to the kitchen for coffee and one last helping of dessert. You sat with Logan on the couch, the glow of the Christmas tree casting soft shadows across the room.

The space felt smaller now, more intimate, as if the noise and chaos from earlier had wrapped itself around the house and left behind only warmth. Logan had his arm draped along the back of the couch, and you leaned against him, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to you.

“Y’know,” he said, his voice low, “I’ve been around a long time. Seen a lot of families. Never really… been part of one.”

You tilted your head to look up at him, surprised by the confession. “Not even before—?”

He shook his head, cutting you off gently. “Never had anything like this. The noise, the mess, the way they’re all in each other’s business.” He chuckled softly. “It’s good. Feels like life.”

You reached for his hand, your fingers lacing with his. “They’ve accepted you, you know. You might not think it, but they have.”

He looked down at you, his brow furrowed. “How can you tell?”

You smiled. “Because they’re treating you exactly the same way they treat me—asking too many questions, teasing you, shoving food at you like it’s the answer to everything. That’s how they show love.”

Logan was quiet for a moment, his eyes glued to your intertwined fingers. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. “It’s nice. It’s… good to feel that. To feel like I’ve got a place.”

You pressed a kiss to his shoulder, your heart swelling at the vulnerability he rarely let show. “You do. With them, and with me.”

The sun was barely rising when you woke the next morning, the soft glow of dawn spilling into the room. Logan was still asleep beside you, his breathing slow and even, one arm draped possessively over your waist. For a moment, you just watched him, marveling at the way the years seemed to fall away when he was at peace.

The sound of children’s laughter broke the stillness, followed by the creak of floorboards and the distant rustle of wrapping paper. Logan stirred, his eyes blinking open as he looked at you.

“Mornin’,” he mumbled, his voice gravelly with sleep.

“Merry Christmas,” you whispered, leaning down to brush a kiss against his lips.

He smiled against your mouth, his hand moving to the small of your back to pull you closer. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

The two of you made your way downstairs, where the living room had transformed into a chaotic wonderland of presents and decorations. The children were tearing into their gifts with wild abandon, while the adults watched with coffee cups in hand and fond smiles on their faces.

“¡Mija! ¡Logan! Ven acá!” Your father waved you over, a brightly wrapped package in his hands.

You sat on the floor beside Logan as your father handed you the gift. “This is for you two,” he said, his voice warm.

Inside was a framed photo of the family taken the night before, everyone crowded together under the Christmas lights. In the corner, Logan stood beside you, his expression reserved but his hand resting on your shoulder.

“We wanted you to have something to remember this Christmas by,” your father said. “So you’ll always know that you have a place here. Both of you.”

You glanced at Logan, your throat tight with emotion. He met your gaze, his arm coming to rest on your shoulders, gently pulling you against him as he gave you the smallest of nods.

By the time the car was packed and the goodbyes were said, the sun was high in the sky, casting long shadows across the snow. Your family stood on the porch, waving as Logan started the engine and pulled out of the driveway.

The road stretched out ahead of you, the silence in the car a comfortable contrast to the noise of the past two days. You leaned back in your seat, watching the snow-covered trees blur past.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” you said, glancing over at Logan.

He huffed a quiet laugh, his hands steady on the wheel. “Could’ve been worse. Your uncle Pablo was about two shots of tequila away from a fight, though.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “He’s always like that. But he liked you, you know. They all did.”

Logan didn’t respond right away, but the faint curve of his lips told you everything you needed to know.

As the miles stretched on, you found yourself reaching for his hand, your fingers lacing together over the console. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin.

“You’re happy,” he said after a while.

You smiled, resting your head against the seat. “I am.”

He glanced at you, his expression soft. “Good. You deserve that.”

And as the car continued down the snow-dusted road, you realized that you finally felt completely at peace.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

[temporarywelcome]

Home Run - Spencer Reid

Wordcount: 2.6k

Summary: The FBI's baseball team needs a fill in for their game against the Secret Service, Morgan being able to convince Reid to take up the role. However, the boy genius does not have an athletic bone in his body, Morgan recruiting the genius' girlfriend to help.

Warnings: some swearing, Spencer is like a baseball magnet

A/N: my inbox is open! Currently working on my first request right now, and will hopefully have it posted tomorrow! This also can 100% be read as a standalone, though it's kind of a continuation of my first Spencer fic "Smooth Criminal". All information needed is in this fic as well though! ok ill stop yapping

-------------------

It might have been the worst day of Spencer’s life. 

Trudging along the field as sweat trickled down his neck and back, the sun beaming down at his pale, vulnerable skin. His tongue was dry, throat closing in on him. He could see spots clouding his vision. 

This wasn’t good.

“Jesus, Reid, we just got out of the car,” Morgan chuckled, hitting Spencer’s back, “This isn’t a desert,”

It wasn’t a desert, it was actually a baseball field. Which was just as bad to the boy genius. 

“You couldn’t ask Hotch or Rossi to do this?” Spencer mumbled nervously, eyeing the field as if some jock baseball player was going to come out of the dug out and murder him. 

“You’re young. Nice and nimble. Lots of potential-”

“They said no?”

“Yes, they said no,” Morgan sighed, placing down his bag on a bench in the dug out. Spencer did the same, awkwardly looking around once again. “Look, it’s only for one day,” 

“One day too many,” 

Morgan shot him a look, taking out his baseball glove and a ball, “We’ll start simple with some catching and throwing, yeah?” 

“This is so embarrassing,” Reid grumbled, grabbing his glove as well (which he has never used before, just buying it this morning). 

“Did you break it in like I told you to?”

He shook his head, “I got it two hours ago…”

Another sigh left his friend, who walked out into the disgusting sun. Spencer hesitantly followed.

And within fifteen minutes, Spencer was laid out on the ground in a starfish position, his life flashing before his very eyes. He thought this was the end.

“Shit! Reid! Reid!” Morgan sprinted towards the young genius, crouching next to his still figure, “Are you okay?” he touched Spencer’s cheek, already starting to turn red after connecting with the ball. 

“Shit, that hurts!” Spencer hissed, slapping Morgan’s hand away. The first sign of life. He slowly sat up, cradling his cheek, “I feel concussed,” his other hand went to the back of his head. 

“Be for real,��� Derek muttered in worry, “It’s that bad?” Spencer had quite a low pain tolerance, so neither of them could tell how bad this really was. “I mean, you almost passed out just being in the sun.”

“I could feel my cells mutating,” 

“Let’s hope you’re just being dramatic,” 

_________________

Luckily for them, Spencer was being dramatic, and was back to normal activity the day after.

Like most days, his girlfriend, Y/N, drove into the bureau parking lot and parked, waiting for Spencer to get out of work. She was reading sheet music for her next show when there’s a knock on their window, making her gasp, snapping her head in the direction of her window.

Derek Morgan.

With a sigh, she pressed the button, window inching down slowly, “What the fuck was that for?”

Morgan laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck, “Sorry, Y/N. I know Spencer is trying desperately to keep you away from the team, especially after the fiasco last time we saw you, but…”

Ah, yes. Last time. Y/N and Spencer have been dating for a year, but he has kept the relationship extremely secretive from his team, until Garcia was able to finally crack the case and find pretty much everything to know about her, discovering she was a diagnosed kleptomaniac. The team (minus Hotch, who was peacefully in his office during the whole ordeal) was completely eager to meet this kleptomaniac girlfriend, and Y/N had a) admitted to not being able to pronounce JJ’s last name, and b) stole Rossi’s keys.

Yeah, Spencer wanted his girlfriend and friends far, far away from each other. 

“I really need your help.” Morgan finished.

“With what?” She asked in curiosity.

“I don’t mean to creep you out, but when Garcia did her whole ‘background check’ on you, or whatever you would want to call it, she found you used to play softball?”

“Yes, I’ve played since I was five,” She confirmed with a nod, “Still do, occasionally,”

“Well, the FBI has this little team I play on, and next weekend we’re going against the secret service, but we’re short one player, one of us has an injury. I convinced Spencer to fill in,” he noticed Y/N’s shocked expression, “Yeah, I know. I convinced him to fill in, really because no one else wanted to, and we went to practice yesterday-”

“Oh, yes! He’s got a huge bruise on his cheek, he said it was from some special training though,” Y/N laughed, “I guess he was embarrassed. He was hit by a ball?”

“Yes, he was on the grass fifteen minutes into our practice. It’s bad. He doesn’t even want to practice anymore, but I need him for that game. We haven’t beaten the secret service in years.”

“So you want me to convince him?” She concluded.

“Not just that. Maybe he’ll be more willing to learn if you’re also there to teach him?” 

“Hm,” 

Derek frowned, “Please, Y/N?”

She playfully narrowed her eyes at him, “How much?”

“What?”

“How much did you bet on this game?”

“Oh,” he awkwardly cleared his throat, “Five hundred,”

“Damn,” she whistled, “We gotta whip Spencer into shape,”

___________________

Spencer loved Y/N.

He loved her dearly.

However, right now he hated her with a burning passion.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Morgan asked as Spencer ran from home to first base. “What if this just makes him quit again?”

She had Spencer running laps. “He won’t.”

He only did two runs around the diamond before he came back to them, panting dramatically, hands on his knees, “Why… why do I have to… do this?” he gasped.

“Because, drama king, when you hit that ball, which you will, you need to be able to get to the bases on time,” Y/N replied, handing him a bottle of water.

“This is hopeless,” he began to carefully sip the water, not wanting to choke in his desperation for hydration. 

“We just started, baby” Y/N sighed, rubbing his back, “Now, c’mon, break’s over. Two more laps and we’ll practice catching and throwing,”

“I hate you,” Spencer huffed, handing the water back to her. However, he went back to running. 

“I love you too, darling,” Y/N rolled her eyes with a soft laugh. She crossed her arms over her chest and smiled as he clumsily ran along the diamond. 

Morgan glanced at her, “Thanks for this.”

“Of course. I love seeing Spencer suffer,” She joked with a chuckle, watching her lanky boyfriend move. He was so cute, despite the fact he looked incredibly pissed off. She sighed, soft smile on her lips, “I know you guys are all probably iffy about me, but… I do love him. Genuinely, I do.” 

Morgan’s lips curled up, “I know.”

Spencer finished his second lap, looking at Y/N and Morgan with an annoyed expression, “Okay,” he panted, “I did it. Now what?”

“Catching and throwing,” Y/N slipped on her glove, grabbing a ball, “Alright, we’ll start with the basics.”

“How hard can it be?” Spencer said, putting on his glove (which Y/N had broken in for him). 

“Eh, best not talk, you might end up with two bruised cheeks,” Morgan chuckled, nudging him. He was not amused.

“Alright,” Y/N began, “When you throw the ball to someone, you have to aim for the other person’s chest. As a beginner, you can practice by using the hand you’re not throwing with, so the gloved hand, to aim. Like this,” Y/N faced Morgan, holding out her gloved hand and throwing with the other. Morgan caught the ball with ease. “See?” Morgan threw the ball back at her the same way, which she caught. “You try.” She tossed the ball to Reid, who was, like, two feet away.

He fumbled the ball, scrambling for it as it landed on the ground. Once it was in his hand, he stood up awkwardly. Spencer got into position, following Y/N’s instructions. He threw the ball to Morgan, it landed a few feet in front of him.

“You’re releasing it too late,” Y/N explained, “Try again”

Once the ball was in his hand again, he took a deep breath, throwing it again. It flew way past Morgan’s head this time.

“Okay, at least you got a strong throw,” Y/N said, trying to stay positive, “Now you released it a little too early. We’re getting somewhere. Try again.”

A few tries later, the trio went on to catching. It ended with Spencer thrown onto the grass once again in a starfish position, Y/N and Morgan both running to his side. 

“Well, now your cheeks match,” she said, making Spencer groan. 

They decided to end the fieldwork, getting Spencer to bat next. He had a helmet on and everything, determined to not actually get concussed. 

“Alright, baby,” Y/N began, handing him the bat, “Knees shoulder-width apart. Bend your knees slightly. This elbow up,” she gently touched his arm, bringing up his elbow, “Keep your eye on the ball. The ball should be chest-height when thrown to you. If it’s a bad pitch, don’t swing.” 

Morgan goes to pitch, Reid’s brows furrowed as he eyed the ball. 

“Hold on,” Y/N stopped him, “I can see the gears turning in your head. No calculations, none of that smart boy stuff. Just put on a mean face, spit in front of you, and hit that home run.”

“Spit?” Spencer gasped, “That’s disgusting.”

“It works,” Y/N shrugged.

“I’m not doing that,” he deadpanned, making her giggle. He faced Morgan, a determined look on his face. “Let’s do this,” 

“Hell yeah, baby,” Y/N grinned. 

With a grin, Morgan pitched the ball to Spencer, who grunted, swinging the bat as hard as he can.

Losing his grip in the process, the bat flying through the air. 

__________________

A week had passed, game day approaching fast. The BAU all sat together to cheer on Spencer and Morgan, Y/N awkwardly with them. Garcia was friendly enough, yapping away, which caused Y/N to yap away as well.

Until it was Spencer's turn to bat. 

Y/N rushed to the fence, clapping, “You got this, baby!” He turned his head and gave her a look that resembled a deer caught in headlights. Prior to the game, she said she won't embarrass him. She had to promise it, because he knew how competitive she was.

Spencer gave her a thumbs up, going to the home plate and getting into position.

“Bend those knees, baby,” Y/N called. Members of the secret service glanced at each other smugly, making her scowl.

Spencer did as told, eyeing the ball nervously. The pitcher was a mean-looking guy with a vicious bulldog expression. He pitched the ball, and Spencer squeaked, swinging at nothingness as the ball flew past him.

“Nice try, baby, nice try!” Y/N said. He turned his head to glare at her, before looking back at the pitcher. “Oops,” she said, making Garcia giggle.

Spencer ended up striking out, incredibly embarrassed. He had a girlfriend coaching him at the stands and a team that was completely pissed at his inability to even catch the ball. He was humiliated.

Until he turned his head, seeing Y/N, camera in hand, taking pictures of him with a huge smile on her face. She grinned, doing a finger heart, and Spencer felt his spirits lift slightly, raising his hand and doing one back at her.

And then a ball went flying into his abdomen. 

After that setback, the FBI was back to batting. Morgan landed on third, this guy Ron at second. The FBI was at two outs already, losing to the secret service by one point. 

And it was Spencer's turn to bat.

He heard some other agents groan from the dugout, making him feel like absolute shit. As he trudged to the home plate, the secret service members were all chuckling to themselves, already knowing they won another year in a row. 

Spencer felt awful.

Then he passed Y/N. She had a determined look on her face as she stood in front of the fence. “Baby, he's a shitty pitcher. Don't swing at every pitch.” 

Spencer took a deep breath, nodding. “O-Okay.”

She cracked a smile, “You got this. Make them cry. I already don’t like them.”

He laughed, nodding and going to the home plate. Morgan nodded from third, and Spencer clenched his fists around the bat.

Putting on a mean face, he gathered the courage to spit, staring at the pitcher straight in the eye (who looked a tad bit grossed out). He planted his feet shoulder width apart, bent those damn knees, had that elbow raised.

The pitcher threw his first ball, and as instinct, Spencer swung, missing. He cursed under his breath.

“Chin up, baby, chin up!”

Spencer turned his head to Y/N, who was smiling wide. Then his team, all cheering for him in the stands. His family.

The pitcher threw again but Spencer got himself, not swinging the bat.

“Good job, baby, that pitch sucked!” Y/N said proudly. She paused, “I mean, it didn't suck…”

“We're going to get kicked out,” Rossi muttered to Hotch, who chuckled softly in agreement.

The ball went to Spencer again, and this time, with a low growl, he swung hard, bat connecting with the ball and sending it flying.

Everyone gasped, watching the ball descend into the air, until Y/N shouted, “RUN!”

Spencer snapped out of his trance, bolting towards first base while Derek sprinted towards home. Once at first, Y/N shouted for him to keep going, and so he did, rushing to second.

Longues burning, he dashed for home, throwing himself onto the plate.

And saving the game.

The FBI erupted into cheers, everyone rushing towards him and hauling him to his feet, slapping him on the back and shouting in joy. After a few hollers, Spencer was lifted off of his feet, laughing excitedly after their victory.

Once the crowd dispersed, Spencer immediately ran to Y/N who was waiting for him, a big grin on her face. She already had her arms open, which he dove into.

“You saw that, right?!” Spencer asked her, practically vibrating in eagerness.

“I did! I told you spitting works!”

He was pretty sure the spitting had nothing to do with it, but he didn't argue. “I can’t believe I made a home run!” He pulled away to greet his team, but Y/N stopped him.

“Jesus, baby, you’re lucky you didn't trip. How embarrassing that would have been,” She chuckled, gesturing to his untied sneakers. She kneeled down, tying them for him.

Prentiss, who was still sitting with the rest of the BAU, noticed the exchange from the corner of her eye.

Maybe Y/N wasn't too bad.

When Y/N finished tying his shoes, she stood up and kissed his rosy cheeks, red in embarrassment. She then patted his back and nodded, silently telling him to go to his team.

With a grin, Spencer rushed off to them, babbling about his hit.

_______

A few weeks had passed, and Y/N was with some friends at a softball field, getting ready for a game. Slipping on her glove, she turned her head, smiling at Spencer who was seated at the bleachers. He waved, and that's when she noticed Derek and Penelope were sitting next to him.

Y/N's eyes widened and she grinned, waving back at them.

Then, surprising her even more, Emily Prentiss took a seat with them.

It seemed that, little by little, Y/N was winning over the BAU.

[imaslutforwritingshit]

Edward Cullen Imagine (XF!READER)

PART TWO

Warnings- smut, p in v, cunnilingus, faint jealousy (Jacob), passionate (lovey) sex

P.S I’ve actually never made smut where the characters actually loved each other😭 it’s mostly just desire. So this is actually kinda well written , just a foreword to the poetic shit she says.

Read PART ONE here ;)

I didn’t understand what he meant when he said that. I didn’t understand, until his cold fingers snakes down the bones of my hips, and he covered me with his strong body, like the crevices in my pelvic bone were made solely for his hands.

“You,” Edward strained, his voice gravely, unlike the normal smooth charisma he embodied. As he spoke in my ear, he pushed my shorts down with his thumbs, the cheeky underwear I had picked out this morning on a whim now on full display to him.

When Edward let his fingers graze the shape of my ass, his hand wavered on my skin, like every movement was delicate- and yet something he couldn’t contain. “You are making me lose myself. The way you sound, look, smell,” Edward inhaled sharply, grinding his hard cock across the sheer fabric of my underwear. The feeling sent shivers and tingles down the nerves of my stomach.

I wanted more. I’ve never wanted anything as much as I wanted this. His voice was amplifying my desire for him, each rough syllable a new jolt of electricity through my body.

Edward groaned as my panties rose up, his dick deeper in the planes of my ass. I could practically feel the veins of his body sliding on the skin of my ass cheeks.

He finished his sentence in a husky tone, each word getting harder for him to speak. “You make me want to do horrible things, Calypso. I want to be selfish with you. To you.” The lowness of his voice, if I didn’t know him as my boyfriend, would be straight up deadly- and terrifying.

My heart melted at the thought of Edward getting what he wanted, a strange mixture of lustful hormones and admiration for the words. Everything Edward has always been was good, and gentleman-like, and selfless.

So, yeah. I want him to be selfish. I want him to have what he wants, just for this evening.

I arched my back, pressing my entire ass against his erection. “I need you to be selfish, Edward. I want to see you lose control.”

Edward stopped moving for a second, breathing heavily over my body. I could feel his cock twitching on my underwear, and I bucked my hips backwards, urging him to keep going. He stopped my movement with a rough push on my hips, bringing my entire body to the cushion.

“Callie, Callie. I will never lose control.” he felt my body up, each grope electrifying my senses. “I desire ruining you. My body begs to. The amount of times I fantasized of killing you when I met you…You drive me insane, beautiful.” He paused, and I could almost feel a smile on his face. “But I’m not a dog. I wouldn’t eat you alive the first chance I get, for my own filthy benefit.” Edward bit his lip, tilting his head in a dangerously playful motion. “Unless, of course, you would prefer that. Canines?”

Realization dawned on me. Jacob. He was mocking me about Jacob. Where was this coming from?

“Edward, I don’t care about him. I want you.”

Edward draped his head by mine, the graceful stands of his hair falling on my cheek. “I don’t know why you enjoy that so much, Calypso. The thought of being weak. Under Jacob’s ruthless control.”

The words were true, but still irritating. I could only assume this fire of emotion was coming from his episode of lust, but my body was getting too many mixed emotions to understand how to feel about it.

Edward thumbed my panties now, sliding the strings down in a slow, taunting manner. “I know that animal would love to see you like that. Begging.” He snarled quietly at that, and took a quick breath as my underwear slid off my ass. “To see you asking him, pleading him to take control from you.”

I whimpered, a strange thrill coming from the anger in his voice. He was jealous- because he wanted me.

Maybe I’m sick for that having fueled my desire more.

But then again, maybe I’m sick for loving a vampire.

He kissed my shoulder blade, a soft contrast to the hardness of his words. “I’ve thought about tasting you for a long time.”

My blood.

A strange, unusual spike of fear entered my heart.

This was Edward. But he’s different now- fueled by emotions, unpredictable.

Is he gonna hurt me?

Edward kissed the small of my back, dragging his hands to my waist.

“I’ve thought about tasting you, Calypso. I just never said how.”

Edward grabbed my side, rolling me to be on my back. I stared at his eyes, animalistic and wild, blending in with the dark of the forest behind him.

“Spread your legs, my dove.”

My heart was pounding so fast, I could feel the pulse all over my body. Specifically throbbing in the area between my thighs, which I spread out per his orders.

Edward sucked in a breath in his teeth, the fangs in his mouth sticking out in a predatory manner. Only staring at my naked body, like the very sight was granting him vitality. He didn’t drop his frighteningly focused stare, and instead leaned over me, kissing my thighs. Each touch was tipping me over, teasing me in a painful way.

I remember what Edward had told me a month ago.

“So the lion fell in love with the lamb.”

I was indeed, a stupid lamb.

He grazed the skin below my stomach with his lips, tracing the lines of my hips with a trail of burning kisses. I was practically rocking my hips, a silent beg for more.

Edward pushed his cold, comforting hands on my hips again, forcing me down.

God, I could live in this moment forever.

This is my life now. He is my life now. I can’t see anything farther than this.

This is my past, my present, my future all encapsulated in one small, fleeting moment.

Edward stared at me, with intense, hot eyes, dragging on my breasts, my hips, and the slow trail to my clit. It would embarrass me- the heavy eye contact, with anyone else.

But Edward’s not like anyone else.

So I kept my gaze on him, as he kept his eyes on me, and let his warm tongue heat the area between my folds. I shivered from his godlike touch, unable to tear my eyes from the beautiful scene of his mouth on my body. He grasped my thighs harder, tracing circles with the perfect pressure on my clit.

As if he couldn’t control the quick movement, he snaked his tongue down to my wet opening, rolling movements inside of me. I mewled, gripping the sheets with white knuckles. My toes were already curling from the very idea of him touching me like this.

Edward bite down a little harder on the top of my pussy, licking my body like I was his last meal. Every touch was strategic, but am I surprised? He had 104 years of experience.

Orgasm was rising to my surface too quickly. I grabbed his hair, increasing the screaming thoughts of my mind, hoping he’ll understand. But the desire took over him- and he began flicking his wet tongue more, causing me to jerk my head backwards, clasping my thighs over his head.

“Please, Edward.” My gasps were filling the empty space, all of his movements sickeningly perfect.

He let go of me, the warm tongue exiting my folds, and I clenched my thighs together harder as he kneeled over me, his breath ragged and heavy. His lips were sleek with my fluid, and I felt my ears go red.

He was looking at me like I was the most beautiful thing to exist. He watched me, so intense that I could cower from his breathtaking gaze. Edward pulled his shirt over his head, the pale, shimmering color of his skin mesmerizing me.

The sun was out. Fading over the large pine trees of Forks- as if the universe had some perfectly divine idea of the first connection of our bodies.

His eyes were light brown in the sunlight, the lines of his abs sparkling in the warm orange of the sun.

“I’m crazy about you.” My confession was soft, so soft I wasn’t sure he heard it.

Edward slowly shook his head, but all I could focus on was the color of his eyes. It was the only thing tethering me from heaven.

He was a fallen angel, looking at me like I was the cure to his sin.

“Calypso. You are my destruction.” His breath quickened, his lean chest rising and falling with the pace of my own.

Edward’s mouth met mine one more time, one more soft, passionate time. I grazed my fingers over the muscles of his back, memorizing every part of this moment. Solidifying it in my nimble, mortal mind.

He let the tip of his dick slide on my wet pussy, staring at me with lustful eyes, eyes waiting for confirmation.

I nodded, biting my lip in preparation.

Edward let his thick shaft slide in my cunt, and I yelped, clenching his thick shoulders.

It hurt. His dick was so big, I was hardly prepared for it. But Edward, with the last remaining piece of willpower he had, slowed his movements, his hard body meeting the spongey, untouched area inside of me.

He hissed, dropping his body on mine, and he grazed his fingers through my hair, each thrust getting more powerful.

With that, I realized something.

Edward is a vampire.

A vampire with exceeding amounts of supernatural strength, and… stamina.

He showed no signs of reaching climax as he warmed my body with his cock, each stroke inside of me causing pleasure to shoot to my stomach.

I could faintly hear my reaction- unreal, loud moans that I assume the deers of the forest could hear. I mewled as he slowed down, pushing his forearms into the cushion. Edward let out a soft groan, stroking my face with his thumb. He repositioned his position, pushing his dick back in, and reaching new lengths of pleasure in my insides. I moaned, shamelessly, letting my fingers dig into his back.

The warm ball of nerves were heating at my core, a sign that I was reaching climax. Edward’s mouth dropped to my collarbones, sucking sharp hickeys as he thrusted inside of me, each movement rolling my eyes back.

I whimpered, stammering from the euphoria shaking my legs. “I’m-close…”

Edward moaned, a sound so beautiful I could’ve just watched him now, an artist and a masterpiece. He ground his hips to mine, hissing with the feeling of his body completely in mine. I let my hands fall over my head, closing my eyes to try to preserve the orgasm rising in my gut.

“No.” Edward’s voice was strained, the softness of his movements gone. Each thrust inside of me was hard, rough, matching his untainted desire. “Don’t close your eyes. I need to see you.”

I need to see you.

How could I love someone so much it hurt?

I opened my eyes weakly, meeting the heavy lidded, black pits of Edward’s. His abs clenched as he pushed inside of me, his hips bucking with a renounced speed. I gasped at the feeling of his dick hitting my cervix, trying to focus on his face, overwhelmed with pleasure.

“Please,” I begged one more time, the need for my climax forcing my legs to shake on his.

Edward managed a smile, and dropped his body again, fully covering mine. He rocked into me, and I whimpered in his ear, letting my hands drop over his neck.

Nothing has ever felt this good. Nothing will ever feel this good.

Edward groaned, the thrusts getting so hard it began to hurt again, with a strange, overwhelming pleasure that came with the pain.

“Callie…” His voice was soft for the jerk of his hips, a warm sensation rolling over my body.

“Edward!” I squirmed, peak taking over my nerves.

“I know, love.” Edward’s breaths were fast in my ear, the jerk of his hips creating the sounds of skin slapping throughout the room. He let a heavy groan slip from his lips, and I felt the leak of precum making the inside of my pussy even more liquid.

“I’m going to-” Edward’s voice was nothing more then a raspy groan in my ear.

“Please, please!” I whimpered again, clenching my legs around his abdomen to avoid the painful desire of climax. He had edged me on for so long, I don’t think I could’ve waited anymore.

Edward’s movements turned hard, fast, a ripple of sensation arousing my body again. He growled, our skin smacking together with new volume, and orgasm blinded my vision, making me roll my eyes back, and arch my back until my clit touched the root of his cock. I screamed, scraping my nails on his back until I could’ve been sure there was blood.

Edward didn’t protest; in fact, he thrust harder with that, each movement causing him to heave breaths, the warm air hitting my ear. He moaned, a vibration in the mess of my hair, and quickly pulled his warm, wet body from my own, shooting strings of hot white on the base of my stomach, dripping down my sensitive cunt.

Edward rolled off of me slowly, collapsing on the small couch, both of our bodies reeling the affects of the tiresome fuck. I attempted to catch my breath, feeling my heart beating so fast I couldn’t hear the birds chirping anymore. Hesitantly, I turned my body to meet his, but Edward was already staring at me, the warmth of his expression a relief to me. He bit his lip, his chest rising the similar pattern mine was.

I processed everything, opening my mouth to speak, but not understanding how to phrase it.

“Edward?”

He smiled, the soft, mesmerizing action in my peripheral. “Yes?” The melody of his voice still left me catching my breath.

I couldn’t say the words. They rung in my mind, an untamable message dancing through my heart.

Three words.

I love you.

Edward let his eyes fall on mine, hearing the silent plea of my mind.

“I love you too, Callie.” His mouth was parted, and his lips were red from before, and he read my mind and read those words. I couldn’t help it when I draped over his body, kissing him like it was the first time all over again.

He snaked his arms over my bare body, his smooth knuckles tickling my spine. His lips draped over mine as if we were two puzzle pieces, separated for too long, and now here, and alive, and in love.

I loved Edward Cullen. I had the very first day I met him. And even if I die a mortal, holding the hand of the boy who will exist forever, I know I’ll live until the day he ceases to.

I’ll live in Edward’s heart,

And he’ll live in mine.

Because that’s what love is, right? A taste of forever.

And we were forever.

Okay that’s it byeeee

I am super open to constructive criticism and feedback, as well as recs. Thanks for reading ! :> <333

[nakidoriii]

Trouble (Part 1)

Nanami Kento x Y/N Reader

Warning: sexual tension ||| MDNI

This is the third week in a row that Nanami has seen you at the library. You were a music theory tutor that was hired in the beginning of month. Nanami often watched you while he read. You first caught his eye when you bumped into him three weeks ago, carrying a stack of sheet music and books. You both often think about that interaction. The way you accidentally touched his hand while picking up the sheets of papers, how smooth his voice sounded when he spoke to you, him complimenting your eyes…. Just for you guys to never have a real conversation after that. The only reason you know his name is because you took it upon yourself to look it up on the check in computer. You were gonna have a conversation with him today, though. You planned it.

“Good morning.” You say to the receptionist as you walk into the library.

“Good morning, Y/N. You’re here early?” She flashes you a look of suspicion. “Trying to beat Nanami here so you can finally talk to him?”

You jump at the true accusation, getting shy over her noticing.

“Whhhaaaa,” the pitch of your voice being high. “Can’t I be early to the job I love SO much?” You play off your nervousness.

Your coworker laughs and says , “I saw you look up his name that day, girl. You’re not slick. Besides I don’t think he’s married, or has kids or anything.” Married? That thought didn’t even cross your mind. “This is the perfect morning to talk to him, Your first student cancelled and then you have office hour, then lunch.”

“This is the motivation I needed, thank you, girl.” You walk to your cramped office and place your things down. You immediately stand in-front of the full body mirror by your book shelf, making sure you look perfect. You wore a black fitted blouse, that accentuated your waist. You unbuttoned one more button to reveal abit of your breasts. Your smokey grey skirt hugged your hips and stopped a couple of inches above your knees. You turn around, revealing the slit in the back of the skirt. You silently thank your mom for blessing you with a perfect ass and rack to match. You face forward again, fixing your stockings. You check the time, shit, he should be here any minute.

“I need perfume.” You say rummaging through your purse. You spray a couple spritz, put away your things, and hastily walk to the library.

“Good morning, Nanami.” You hear the receptionist say.

He softly smiles at her and says, “Good morning. They got you working by yourself?”

“No, Y/N is here too.” Your coworker pointing over at you, pretending to look through the go back cart.

“That’s good. Don’t work too hard.” He says as he swipes his card to check in.

Today he wore a fitted blue dress shirt, that showed the outline of his chiseled chest and arms. He had worn this shirt before and personally, it was your favorite. You smiled lightly at him and waved as he walked up to you. You didn’t realize how much taller he was than you until he was standing right in front of you.

“Good morning.” You say turning your head to face him.

“Good morning. I know I come here once or twice a week but I don’t think I ever got your name?” His question jump starting your pulse.

“Y/N L/N. Pleased to meet you.” You hold out your hand for him to shake it. His big calloused hands engulf yours as he says, “Nanami Kento. The pleasure is mine.”

His face was perfection up close, prominent cheek bones, sharp jaw line, and nice lips. All you needed to know is if you were his type, then you wouldn’t be nervous. He lets go of your hand and you awkwardly smile at him as you keep sorting the books.

“What do you like to read?” You blurt out. You were gonna talk to this man whether you like it or not.

He lets out a “hmm” as he looked up to think. He stuck his hand in his pockets and said, “This is a broad answer but fiction or non fiction. What about you? You seem like you have good taste.”

Okay, what did he just say? You seem like you have good taste? He’s flirting with you but you still need more convincing. You stop sorting the books and turn your body towards him.

“When I’m not reading music theory books, I enjoy romance. It’s a nice change of pace after talking about how to build Neapolitan sixth chords all day.” You feel his eyes burning holes through you, your not even sure if he was listening. His wandering eyes taking in every detail of your body. You’ve felt this gaze before, now that you think about it. However, you didn’t know it was him on the other side of it. He’s been caught and that was the evidence you needed to really take control of the situation.

“How long have you done music for?” His eyes shifting back to my eyes.

You smirk and say “20 years. I’m currently 25.”

“I had no idea you were such an impressive young woman.”

“There’s lot you don’t know about me. What about you, Mr. Nanami ? What do you do for work?” You start pushing the cart and he follows. It seemed like he wanted this conservation to continue. He spoke to you the entire time you were doing the go backs, an hour passing the both of you by. Thank god the library is dead this morning.

“Y/N, your office hour starts now.” Your coworker says from across the room.

“Thank you.” You reply.

“Office hour, huh? I assume you have to leave now?” He says lightly.

“Not quite, you can come read in my office… if you’d like.”

He slightly blushes at your words and says, “I won’t get you in trouble, will I?”

“As long as you don’t tell anybody.” You wink at him and push the go back cart back to the front of the library.

You exchange looks with your coworker at the front as she puts her headphones in. You mouth the words “thank you” before heading back into your small office, with Nanami sitting in the chair infront of your desk. He had his book in hand and already hung his bag next to yours on the wall. You make eye contact with him as you close the door, knowing it’s gonna be a tight squeeze when you pass by him to get to your chair behind the desk. He knew this too.

“Excuse me, I’m gonna get right past you.” You say as you shimmy your way infront him. Your plump breasts being a hairsbreadth away from his face. He got close enough to get a whiff of your perfume and that was enough to jumpstart his pulse.

You turn on your computer as Nanami starts reading. You sat in silence for a few moments with each other. You both were exchanging glances every now and then. He loosen his yellow spotted tie and runs his hand through his hair. He leans back in his chair, spreading his legs slightly; putting his whole body on display for you.

Your intrusive thoughts take over and you rub one of your heels against his ankle. He looks up from his book to see your reaction. Nothing. You kept typing on your computer and ignored his glance. He went back to his book. You did it again, this time wondering up to his knee.

“Mmm.” He lets out as he flashes you warning look.

“You good?” You ask playing dumb.

“Mhm.” He plays along.

A few minutes pass by and you repeat your actions. This time, running your heel up to his crotch. You feel him squirm under your leg. He puts his book down and locks his gaze on you. His hands slowly wander up your stocking covered leg.

“Don’t get yourself in trouble.”

WHEN THIS IDEA CAME TO ME I HAD TO WRITE IT DOWN. I hope you all like it!

Part two

Masterlist

Please do not alter or steal my writings ©️

[bumblesimagines]

When Fire Meets Fate

Part 13

Request: Yes or No

Summary: With war comes the death of innocents, and Luke was merely the first of many. Upon learning of Prince Jaehaerys demise, (Y/N) and Rhaenyra are forced to confront the man behind it.

CW/TW: Typical GoT/HOTD warnings, spoilers for S2, mentions of the death of Jaehaerys,

Had to deal with a hurricane, power outages, the ongoing process of moving, no wifi, and a sore knee before I could finish this part😭 the universe really said hold your horses but you know what? i thank it for making me wait cause i just got the book from libby this morning

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The waves crashed against the rocky cliffs, droplets of salty water rising and falling with each continuous crash that filled the air with the comforting smell of the ocean. He listened to it, the heartbeat of the ocean, and felt his beat along with the rhythm as he swirled his ring around his finger. His thoughts refused to stop, refused to ease into something comprehensible. The Realm had been at peace for many decades under the rule of the Old King and King Viserys, flourishing and blissful; now like his mind, it was broken. War... such a frightening word. The very thought of it made his insides twist and his throat tighten. 

"My Lord," (Y/N) tore his eyes away from the dark water and pushed himself away from the balcony to face the troubled Ser Erryk. "The Small Council has called an urgent meeting with news from King's Landing." 

A multitude of things raced through his mind as he strode through the halls of the Stone Drum, his unease and confusion heightening when he noticed the grim looks on a few of the lords' faces. Rhaenyra appeared as puzzled as him, her eyes flickering to him questioningly, but she found no answer in his features. She watched him take his seat beside Rhaenys before she turned to Maester Gerardys, giving him a small nod to speak his piece. 

"Tragic news from King's Landing, Your Grace, My Lord," Maester Gerardys began shakily, his lips forming a grim line. "There was a funeral procession this morrow for the son of Aegon and Helaena Targaryen who was slain in the middle of the night. It is yet unclear how the Keep itself was breached. The boy's head was severed from his body. Thousands witnessed the procession."

(Y/N) felt the world still for a moment. The crashing of the waves ceased and the crackling of the fire grew muffled as the information settled into his bones. He inhaled deeply through his nose and held it, his eyes bouncing around the designs carved into the table. Helaena... sweet little Helaena, the very definition of innocence and curiosity. He bit his inner cheek when Alicent slipped into his mind and a dull ache in his stomach awakened. 

Rhaenyra stared forward, completely aghast by the revelation, by the underlying tone and unspoken words reinforced by the suspicion and accusatory glances around the table. "And.. they are accusing me of having a hand in this?"

Maester Gerardys's brows pulled into a sympathetic furrow. "It appears so." He confirmed softly, and (Y/N) resisted the urge to slump back into his seat, his mind still working on who would even think of bringing such harm to gentle Helaena, much less to a boy as young as her son. "There have been messages sent to that effect throughout the Realm."

"We must send our own messages, denying this vile allegation," Rhaenyra ordered swiftly as she stepped out from behind her chair to stand before it, her fingertips pressing into the Painted Table. There was a flicker in her eyes, one filled with worry, likely for the lives of their own young children.

"I will do so at once, but I am not sure they will be received in good faith." 

"And we must double our guard, here and in Driftmark," Rhaenyra added, smoothing out the back of her dress as she lowered herself down into her seat, prompting the rest of the lords to follow suit. She swallowed and lifted her head, sparing her husband a glance before observing her lords. "There will be swift retribution in one form or another-"

"I have seen to it, Your Grace." Lord Celtigar interrupted, drawing (Y/N)'s gaze away from his wife and onto the older man with a stern glare. The older man pointedly avoided looking in his direction as Jace strode into the room and stood at the end of the table, sharing an encouraging glance with Lord Celtigar.

"Let me fly out on Vermax." Jace offered and both of his parents snapped their heads toward him. Lucerys faint laughter echoed in his father's ears, the image of his eyes that so often reminded (Y/N) of Gwayne's flashed in his mind. The shaky breath Rhaenyra released was subtle but he picked it up nonetheless. "Rhaenys is needed in the Gullet and I can watch for moves from King's Landing."

The answer lacked hesitation: "No."

Lord Celtigar inhaled deeply and turned back the Rhaenyra, clearing his throat lightly to garner her attention once more. "It must be said that the damage to our position is immeasurable, at a time when we most need loyalty to our cause." He spoke carefully, clasping his hands behind his back with the accusation in his tone evident. 

"But it is a lie." Rhaenyra scoffed, her eyes wide as she looked amongst her council when none of the lords bothered to raise their disagreement of Lord Celtigar. "Having lost my own son, that I would inflict such a thing on Helaena, of all people. An innocent."

A moment of solemn silence passed over the room and (Y/N) pushed himself back further into his seat with a quiet sigh. His thumb pressed and rubbed against the ring of his index finger, tilting his head to look toward Jace once more only to notice the withering stare Rhaenys sent across the table toward the Targaryen sat opposite of him. He turned to the prince and felt his heart skip a beat at the look in Daemon's eyes. 

Seven fucking Hells.

Ser Alfred cleared his throat next, his eyes lingering on Lord Celtigar before sliding over to Rhaenyra. "The death of Prince Lucerys Velaryon was a shock and an insult. A mother so aggrieved might, naturally, seek relief in retribution-"

"Are you suggesting, Ser Alfred-" Rhaenyra shot up from her seat, the lilac of her eyes bright with offense and voice heavy with anger. "-that my grief drove me to order the decapitation of a child?" 

"I merely thought, perhaps, an action taken in haste-"

"Mind yourself," Rhaenys steely voice cut through the air for once, and the tone of the older princess proved enough to silence the men at the table.

With a quiet scoff and light shake of her head, Rhaenyra sat back down in her seat as (Y/N) rose from his. He met her eyes and she managed a smile, one that he could not return when he flickered his eyes between her and Daemon. Her brows furrowed and she turned to look at her uncle, studying his features until slowly but surely, the horror and realization dawned on her. Her brows softened then and her eyes widened, lips parting with a quiet inhale. 

"Let it be known that Her Grace nor I ordered the sickening murder of a child." (Y/N) began icily, his hands folding before him and vexed stare lingering on Daemon before it moved onto Ser Alfred and then Lord Celtigar. "Helaena is a gentle soul and she has never spoken ill of any of us despite whatever poison she has been fed throughout the years. To imply that Her Grace would purposefully bring harm upon her sister and nephew, that she would stoop as low as Aemond did, is a great offense and insult. It certainly says a lot of the men you are as well, to not only believe such a thing but to regardless defend it. I should not be standing here like a disappointed parent lecturing their children when many of you are men old enough to be my father. We expect better from the men of this council." 

When Rhaenyra rose from her seat once more, her steely gaze still locked on Daemon, the rest of the council did as well. (Y/N) offered her his arm and she took it, a quiet and tired sigh escaping her. "If that is all the news to be discussed this afternoon then this meeting is over. Thank you, Maester Gerardys, for informing us as soon as possible." The lords dipped their heads and bowed in return, waiting for the couple to leave before they returned to their previous tasks. 

Rhaenyra and (Y/N) strolled to their bedchambers, only stopping to have a servant summon Daemon and locate Baela. He arrived moments later, his attention on the floor until he found a seat and slumped down in it as if it were all a mere inconvenience. (Y/N) sighed heavily and placed his arms atop the nearest chair, his teeth grinding slightly as irritation swirled in his stomach like a storm waiting to reach land.

"Tell me it is not true." Rhaenyra stared at her uncle as her calm demeanor chipped away when he simply poured himself a cup of wine and took a sip from it. "Did you truly send assassins to murder children in their beds?"

"I sent the queen's vengeance for her son." He answered quietly, swirling the cup around as if it hadn't just admitted to being partial to the death of a child. (Y/N) rubbed his palm over his face in exasperation as Rhaenyra walked forward toward her uncle with purpose.

"What did you tell this vengeance? What did you say to him, Daemon, that a boy lies dead and I am accused of killing him?" Rhaenyra's hands slammed down against the table, her shoulders heaving and necklace jingling with her movements. (Y/N) studied her but remained silent. He'd be a fool to intervene between two dragons, even more so when they were Daemon and Rhaenyra Targaryen; perhaps the most stubborn and fiery of the family.

"Mysaria provided me with names and a subterfuge." Daemon started and raised the cup to his lips again, his adams apple bobbing with each swallow and lips growing tainted in a subtle red tint. (Y/N)'s memory flickered back to Ser Erryk and the stowaway, and his eyes fluttered shut. "I was clear in my instructions: Aemond, the brother of Aegon the Usurper. I cannot be responsible for a mista-"

"Cannot be responsible?!" Rhaenyra glowered, the disbelief and annoyance in her tone finally prompting Daemon to meet her eyes. She leaned back, wetting her lips and taking slow steps closer to the man before bracing her hand against the table once more and leaning toward him with barely contained anger. "If Aemond was not to be found, what were your instructions then?"

"They did not concern, in any way, that of a little child."

"You said that it was your aim to spill Hightower blood, and if not Aemond, then anyone would do."

"No."

"You have wounded me!" Rhaenyra exhaled weakly, leaning back with softened, near-watery eyes. "Weakened my claim to the throne, my ability to raise an army, my standing among my own council!"

"I said no." Daemon asserted more quietly, his own eyes softening ever so slightly at the emotion in her eyes before hardening again when she scoffed under her breath and leaned back. Rhaenyra stared at him, her fingers curling into fists before uncurling again, the loose strands of her hair swaying when she shook her head.

"I don't believe you." She told him, stalking away from him with a chest rapidly rising and falling. Rhaenyra's brows moved into a fixed furrow, her lips pulled down into a deep, disappointed frown. She returned to her husband's side, her lips parting to release the quickened breaths and eyes fluttering shut to calm herself. (Y/N)'s hand grazed hers and she took it, rubbing her thumb over his skin as if to soothe herself. 

With an inhale, she looked at Daemon. "And so we come to it, at long last." Her words came out quiet and hurt, the implication blatant enough for Daemon to lean back in his seat with narrowed eyes. "Cannot trust you, Daemon. I've never trusted you, wholly, much though I wished to, willed myself to. But now I have seen that your heart belongs only to you. And when I was a child, I took this as a challenge to prove myself worthy of being your equal. But I am older now. I have challenges enough." The more she spoke, the louder she got, the hold on (Y/N)'s hand growing tighter and tighter until she released him to begin pacing. 

"I have served you faithfully." Daemon managed out through gritted teeth, his fingers drumming along the armrest of his chair. 

"Have you?" Rhaenyra snapped. "Or have you used me as a tool with which to try and grasp at your stolen inheritance?"

Her words seemingly struck a nerve within the older prince; shooting up from his chair and smacking away his cup and pitcher. The items flew across the room, clattering against a candle holder and then onto the floor where wine and wax mixed. Rhaenyra flinched and staggered background, her movements combined with Daemon's outburst instinctively prompting (Y/N) into slotting himself between the two before the ill-tempered prince could reach his wife.

Daemon stopped before him, his nostrils flaring with each deep inhale he took and wild violet eyes piercing right into him. (Y/N)'s heart rammed in his ribcage and every nerve in his body demanded he get away from the prince but he remained rooted in his spot, shoulders squared and ears picking up each ragged breath from his wife behind him. His eyes flickered away when Daemon raised his hand and the prince hesitated, his features contorting as different emotions flickered through his eyes before he reached forward, his calloused hands pressing into (Y/N)'s cheeks and thumbs roughly rubbing over his cheekbones.

"It was I you entrusted with dealing with Vaemond Velaryon; it was I who drank and feasted with you all these years in Dragonstone; it was I who encouraged Rhaenyra time and time again to pursue her desire for you. I am not your enemy." Daemon spoke lowly and his head lifted to address Rhaenyra. "When Ser Erryk brought you the crown, did I not hand it to your husband so that he may place it upon your brow?"

"Yes," Rhaenyra breathed. "But before that, you sought to lead a council of war while I labored in my bedchamber without you once making an attempt to ensure my health and safety. And afterward, when I thought it meet to consider the terms our foes put before us-"

"A folly!" Daemon spat, releasing (Y/N) to whirl around and stalk away from them. Rhaenyra placed her hand on her husband's arm and swiftly checked his face for bruising before following after her uncle as he crossed the room. (Y/N) rubbed his tender flesh, feeling it tingle lightly under his fingertips. "A folly to give up my brother's throne to the traitorous lies of Otto Hightower!" 

"My throne, Daemon, mine!" Rhaenyra shouted and Daemon slowed down, his jaw visibly clenched as he turned to look at her. Rhaenyra's shoulders slumped, soft panting leaving her. "I think you used my words as an excuse to take your own revenge, to indulge the darkness you keep sheathed within you like a blade."

Daemon sneered, brushing past her to rest his arms across the chair behind her. "You think me some kind of monster-"

"I don't know what to think of you," Rhaenyra admitted. "I don't know what you are, or who it is you serve-"

Daemon laughed then in disbelief. "Am I not on my way, even now, to Harrenhal to raise an army in your name, Rhaenyra?! Yours!"

Rhaenyra shook her head again, more lightly, and tears glittered in her eyes, her body turning to take some steps away from him. Her shoulders trembled with an inhale and she faced him, the tears threatening to fall from her lashes. "Do you..." She began softly, quietly. (Y/N) pressed his lips together and retrieved the pitcher and cup Daemon knocked from the ground, setting them on the table and meeting the prince's eyes. "...accept me as your queen and ruler? Or do you cling, even now, to what you think you lost?" 

Daemon's gaze slowly drew away from the lord to look at her. "What I think I lost?" He echoed just as softly.

"You did not lose it." Rhaenyra chuckled despite her quivering lips, her dress kicking up the dust along the floor when it dragged as she walked toward them. "You gave it away because you thought ever and only of your own glory, and not of my father in his grief who needed you!"

"Your father was a coward who knew I was the stronger son, that I was the leader of men, and he was afraid to be seen in my shadow. Do you believe he made you heir because of your great wisdom? Because of your virtue?" Rhaenyra's lips rolled into her mouth and her arms raised, smacking against her sides and body twisting away from them again. "Or did he merely use you as a tool to put me in my place because he was afraid of me?"

"You were disinherited because you could not help yourself, Daemon." (Y/N) leaned forward slightly, bringing the attention of the two Targaryens onto him. Daemon's eyes narrowed again and he straightened up, his grip on the chair turning his knuckles pure white. "Your inability to keep your mouth shut disinherited you, Daemon. What do you think would have happened if King Viserys allowed you time and time again to get away with insulting the King of Westeros? A brotherly spat behind doors is one thing but to mock his dead child and by extension his dead wife before the smallfolk? They would think him weak, Daemon. You gave him no choice and proceeded to prove it as the right decision by throwing a tantrum like a child!" 

"You-"

"And more so, it is not an achievement to believe your own kin was afraid of you. The downfall of any house, of any family, begins when kin turns against kin. It has been said time and time again, why do you think Rhaenyra desires peace? If dragons dance, dragons will fall, and with them their riders; who will that leave if not ashes and bones? Parentless children? The Realm ripped apart and struggling? By slaughtering a child, you are no better than Aemond."

Daemon stared at him unblinking. "It was a mistake." He hissed lowly. 

"A mistake is making the wrong move during training... spilling the blood of an innocent is a choice; one that I, and everyone else who has come to meet you, knows you capable of making. You... you relish in fear and bloodshed... and that is how you will die if you do not accept change within yourself. How can we keep you close when we cannot be sure what you will do next?" (Y/N) watched him, exhaustion clinging to his body and seeping into his voice. 

Daemon peeled himself away from the chair and stormed past Rhaenyra, slamming the door leading into their bedchambers shut. Rhaenyra staggered forward and slumped down in the chair, bracing her arms on the table and resting her head on her hands. She sniffled quietly and sighed shakily, her head lifting when (Y/N) moved closer and ran his fingertips through her hair. 

"Daemon is... complicated." (Y/N) reminded her softly, lowering himself down to sit beside her. "But he may yet prove himself in Harrenhal, Rhaenyra." 

"One can only dream of such a thing." Rhaenyra sighed, her hand finding his and bringing it to her lips so she could press a soft kiss to the back of his hand. Despite the conversation sucking much energy and emotion of out them, he gave her a gentle smile."But for our sake... I hope you are right."

The doors creaked when they opened and Baela strolled inside, clasping her hands before her and dipping her head. "You wish to see me, Your Grace, My Lord?" Baela questioned softly, stepping further into the room. The splatter of wine and a candle Daemon knocked over in his outburst drawing her attention to the floor momentarily. She grimaced. 

Rhaenyra rose, offering her an exhausted smile. "When morning comes, take Moondancer and keep a watch on King's Landing. I need to know which course they take next. We depend on you, Baela. Stay high and keep your distance." She ordered gently, her hand still clinging to (Y/N)'s. Baela straightened up at her words, a familiar twinkle passing over her eyes that brought a small smile to (Y/N)'s face. "We can afford no further mistakes."

"I will be vigilant." The young girl assured, glancing toward the floor again. Her lips formed a few words, seemingly attempting to find the right ones to say before she cleared her throat and tilted her head slightly. "My father?" She pushed gently, her brows knitting together slightly and a flicker of concern passing over her face.

Rhaenyra pressed her lips firmly together, her shoulders lowering with a heavy exhale. "He must follow his own path." She said simply, and Baela's face fell with a harsh swallow and nod. 

"Baela," (Y/N) called softly when she turned and began making her way toward the door again. She stopped and looked over her shoulder at him questioningly. "You remind me of your mother more and more with each passing day. She'd be proud of you." Baela inhaled sharply, her eyes and features softening at his words. She gave him a thankful smile and turned away to leave the room. 

Once the door closed again, (Y/N) leaned back in the chair and gazed at their hands, watching the glimmer of her rings in the sunlight pouring through the window. "The woman he spoke of... Mysaria, the White Worm, was a stowaway onboard one of our ships. Ser Erryk claimed she wished to speak with me when she was taken but I allowed Daemon to see to her. She may have information for us, about King's Landing or possibly Daemon. But we mustn't hold her prisoner without knowing her intentions and what she may desire, Nyra." 

"I see." Rhaenyra nodded, her eyes downcast and tired. She brought a hand to her stomach, massaging her palm into the clothed flesh that still ached from the painful labor. "Let us speak to her, then, as soon as possible." 

(Y/N) studied her, taking in the watery glaze in her eyes and the tightness of her furrow. A semblance of guilt, perhaps? He couldn't be too sure. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze to draw her attention toward him and tilted his head questioningly. His wife exhaled shakily and released his hand, her back turned away from him and palms running over the skirt of her red dress. 

"I... I cannot help but be... relieved." Rhaenyra admitted quietly. "If Aegon were to die, the Greens would have turned to his child, to the boy. They would have rallied behind him, raised him up against me. My hand would have been forced, eventually, (Y/N). Just as it is now being forced."

"You cannot allow anyone else to hear those words, Rhaenyra. You have spoken of peace time and time again-"

"Yes, yes, I know," She exhaled shakily, her fingertips pushing back a strand of hair. "I... I do not want to be named a kinslayer. I do not wish to follow in the footsteps of Maegor the Cruel. Tales say he was cursed by the gods for slaying his nephew and bled on the throne for all to see. I cannot risk it. No one will follow a kinslaying Targaryen again."

(Y/N) set his hand upon her back and drew her into his chest, hooking his chin over her shoulder and feeling her sink back into him. Rhaenyra's eyes fluttered shut, her head tilting to lean her head against his. "It is admirable to search for peace when many believe bloodshed will solve all problems. A good ruler seeks what is best for their people. The Greens are led by those chasing after their own desires." He pressed a gentle kiss to the side of her neck and leaned back. 

"Let us speak with this White Worm."

"You barely touched your supper, Rhaenyra," 

In all the haste and preparations, (Y/N) had nearly forgotten what the scent of an old book smelled like, eager to be read after many ages. The gallery itself was ancient and filled with books and scrolls primarily used in teachings by maesters and septas but now they found use in providing ancient advice to Rhaenyra. Her ancestors, she reminded him, were no strangers to war and infighting. She sought out their knowledge and strategies with no older relative apart from Rhaenys to provide it. 

"I was not hungry," Rhaenyra responded, clutching a book to her chest and approaching the table covered in scrolls and candles. She set it down and flipped it open, sorting through the pages written in Valyrian and running her fingertips over the illustrations of ancestors long dead. She pursed her lips when he stuck a plate of sweets in her face, blocking her vision with sights of honey-covered biscuits. He lifted his brows and she rolled her eyes, lips threatening to tug up into a smile. Plucking one sweet from the plate, she stuffed it in her mouth and pushed aside the plate to resume her reading. 

 The clanking of metal brought their attention to the entryway where Ser Steffon entered with a woman following. He dipped his head in greeting before motioning to the woman. "The Lady Mysaria, Your Grace, My Lord." (Y/N) had expected an older woman deep into her later years but Mysaria seemed youthful in appearance. She was skinny, her cheekbones prominent against her tan skin, and her long dark hair was messy and falling over her shoulders. A former lover of Daemon, no doubt, given her history in Flea Bottom.

"Thank you, Ser Steffon." (Y/N) dismissed the knight and leaned back against the table, folding his arms over his stomach as he took in the White Worm. She shifted from foot to foot, uncertainty in her posture, even when she bowed her head. She hardly seemed like much of a threat, though most succumbed to nerves when presented to a Targaryen, he supposed.

Taking a seat at the table, Rhaenyra rested her arms upon the table, her fingers lacing together as she raked her eyes over the woman. "You're aware of yesterday's events in King's Landing? Tell me what part you played in their unfolding."

Mysaria glanced between the two of them, her brows slowly furrowing. "I had nothing to do with it." She answered quietly, voice heavy with an accent known to those with YiTish heritage.

At her response, Rhaenyra scoffed. "I know you are entwined with the usurpers, that you aided them in denying me my birthright."

"I took profits from an inevitability," Mysaria admitted with a slow nod, her dark eyes jumping away from them and cracked lips pursing. "I regret it now."

"I'm sure you do," Rhaenyra muttered, staring at her for a moment longer before rising from the chair. "Who are you?"

"A prisoner," Mysaria answered, eyes jumping toward (Y/N) when Rhaenyra drew closer with a widened plea. "I gave Daemon two names. That is the extent of it. And I did not wish to do that much. He said it was the price of my freedom." She seemed to grow unsettled when Rhaenyra remained silent and began circling her, visibly swallowing. "Does.. he say otherwise?"

"Daemon has left, Lady Mysaria. For Harrenhal, we presume, and we cannot say when he will be back." (Y/N) piped up, watching her face fall for the briefest of moments before she mustered a blank face, her jaw clenching. Rhaenyra stopped at her side and stared at her, eyes soaking up her features and brows slightly raising. 

"You remember me now," Mysaria mused with a hint of amusement, subtle enough to almost dismiss as nothing. Her head tilted toward the silver-haired queen, shoulders sagging slightly in some relief.

"He said he would marry you," Rhaenyra recalled with semi-widened eyes. "He said you carried his child-"

"Not everyone found the jest funny." Mysaria looked away with a scoff, her eyes rolling at the mention of Daemon's past doings. Ah, (Y/N) remembered then, the old memory of Rhaenyra having to fly out to fetch the egg Daemon had taken that'd once belonged to little Baelon. There'd been mentions of a woman but he hadn't been all too interested in the details. "And now it seems he's done it again, made a promise and then slipped away." 

"Is that why you desired to speak to me when you were found hidden within one of the ships?" (Y/N) piped up with a question, his eyes following Rhaenyra as she returned to his side and leaned against him. 

Mysaria nodded. "I heard of how the King Consort was... kinder than his kin. I had hoped you would listen to my pleas for freedom, my desire to escape from Flea Bottom and any chains Daemon Targaryen could wrap around me. Perhaps I should have refused him, lied, and pretended to know little, but you know how he can be. I can do nothing now to reverse what he has done... I can only ask you to honor his promise in his absence." Mysaria pleaded softly, her voice soaked in genuine exhaustion. 

"You trade in the secrets of the Red Keep. Your web runs unseen through King's Landing." Rhaenyra frowned. "It would not serve me to set you free. At best, I lose an asset to my cause. At worse, you betray me in some foul way." 

"I have no interest in betraying you, Your Grace. I was brought to Westeros with nothing. I toiled in service, I stole. I sold my own body for coin or bread. And I listened. I collected confidences. I made myself valuable to powerful men. Bit by bit, I made my living. A house, a household, a home... then, they set it all aflame." 

"Who did?" 

Her eyes flickered toward (Y/N). "The Hightowers, I assume. The Hand.. did not like it when I showed my teeth. But I thank him for it. For too long, I made it my aim to be of consequence. But now, I see that was the wish of a child. Daemon.. Otto Hightower. Makes no difference. They will never accept me." She gave a dry chuckle. "I may as well have remained a whore." 

The Hightowers had always been a noble family, but all noble families kept their statuses through secrets and skeletons hidden within the foundations of their homes. Quiet orders, spies, assassins, betrayals, bloodshed. He knew well the capabilities of nobles; he'd grown up listening to the drunken tales shared with laughter and smirks that most would consider to be horrid. His father ordering a flame be put out for threatening to grow brighter than him? He believed it, wholeheartedly. 

"You've given us much to think about, Lady Mysaria." (Y/N) told her. "You will hear of our decision soon."

[hollyhomburg]

Before I Leave You (Pt.81)

(Sneak Peek)(Omegaverse au, Mafia au, Bts x Reader)

Summary: Your heat is oh so close to breaking, but first, you need your whole pack even closer, but nothing seems close enough…

Tags: heatsex, Dumbification kink, Dacryphilia, Crying during sex cuz its so good, overstimulation, Double penetration, Two Knots one hole, sope x reader, settling spanking, subspace, dom! Namjoon, Dom! Seojin, Holecheck, fluff, Comfort no hurt,

W/c: 11.1k

A/n: honestly how do i tell you guys that there's double penetration in something through a moodboard???? like i struggled so hard with this one you're just going to have to believe me. i went with more of a nostalgic vibe because the ending of the heat is actually really sweet and pretty.

Previous part - Masterlist - First part

It isn’t the first time Tae has used your bare back as a rest for her notebook. It’s comforting. The feeling of the paper against your bare skin. Her non-dominant hand tickles over your shoulder as you doze, not fully asleep lazing in the water.

Yoongi leans his cheek against the ball of Tae's shoulder, nuzzling briefly. He peeks over as she writes and scrawls and she tilts the paper so that he can see better.

You’re spread across Jimin’s lap now, body half tipped into the water. occasionally hands grip under your arms, readjusting so that you don’t actually drown as you sort of fall asleep. You’re so tired, a bone deep exhaustion that cannot be roused.

And it's so warm, the places where they touch you blend and move, sudsy and slippery.

Your face gets gently washed, gentle fingers in smooth circles and when Yoongi tilt’s your chin, you notice that his fingers have already gone pruny from how they’ve sudsed you up between your legs to your knees, every inch of you clean. even the hem of his pushed up sleeves are damp.

Finally.

when she’s done with her little poem, Tae recites it for you three. The steam turns the air hazy. it sort of feels like a love letter that turns into a poem. You’re distantly aware of it as always, that this poem is about you.

But then again, most of the time when Tae writes, it’s about you. (Jimin too, but mostly- you).

You think when she finally lets you read her book, that you’re going to see little bits of your love story in-between the pages, you’ll notice flashes of you. Sweet reminders that you are loved and as treasured just as dearly as one of Tae's characters, that you live in her head just as they do.

8 months ago, she would have never shared a poem with any of them so soon after it popped into her head. She’d at least have edited it a little. Tae's words used to be kept under lock and key.  

But you have made Tae into someone brave enough now. She is not so scared of showing the delicate parts of her. You curl your hand around her thigh in response. Cheek resting on her knee as you listen to her voice. 

“I long to be careless with my heart, to not know what it feels like when it burns. To give it thoughtlessly again, so that I might prolong those firsts with you."

There is a lump in her throat, you can hear it as she says the words, it makes them come out hushed, like she is close to crying. The ending of these firsts has never bothered you. First kiss, first date, first heat. all crossed off a list. Maybe when you're more lucid, you'll tell her you can play pretend and go on as many first dates as you need too to get it right. Until she stops feeling it- the burn.

"As the firsts become fewer and fewer, I find myself pausing, making it last, savoring it.” You rub your cheek into Tae's knee, and Yoongi’s hand runs through your hair, then tae's.

“A bite, a blush, a secret shared.” Jimin’s hand lingers around the curve of your shoulder, holding you out of the water.

“The love on the blankets, your kiss ruddy on my hands. The feeling of your knees between my knees, your heart and other banquets upon which we feast.”

Tae's hand thumbs over your lip, and when you look up at her you find her watching you. Reading off the words without looking at the paper, like she’s already committed the words to memory.

“A first meal or last like any other. Regardless, I eat.”

Coming Saturday February 22 at 5pm EST (Time Zone Adjustments Below)

[allisluv]

Finnick reacting to someone slutshaming reader in front of him🤭🤭 (it could be both about about clothes or body count)

-🎸

safe and sound

pairing: finnick o’dair x fem!reader

content warnings: slut shaming, finnick being protective, not edited, suggestive themes

word count: 726

"Here you go, honey," Finnick slides up beside you and hands you a glass of red wine. His hand lands on your lower back and he smooths his fingers over the bare skin that the slit in your dress exposes.

"Thanks," you murmur, pressing a chase kiss to his cheek. Red lipstick smudges onto his face and you lick your thumb, trying to rub it off his sun-kissed skin. Finnick smiles into his flask of champagne and you drop your hands to your hips. "What?"

"Nothing," Finnick mutters, pulling you snug into his side. "I just think you're cute, that's all, baby." He rests his chin on top of your head and leads you over to the food tables that are scattered strategically around the outskirts of the room.

You fall into step with your boyfriend, and he grabs your free hand with his own. He sets his drink down on the table, grabs two paper plates from the stack, and starts piling them high with an array of finger food.

You can feel a pair of eyes watching you, and when you angle your head to the side, you catch sight of two Capitol women staring you down. You shift uncomfortably and offer them a tight-lipped smile that freezes on your face when they start to whisper, making no effort to keep their voices quiet.

"Look at what she's wearing," one of them announces. "She looks like a slut. I bet she'd sleep with anything that has a pulse."

"I don't know how Finnick puts up with having her as a girlfriend," the second say through a laugh. "I mean, he has people queuing up around the block to go out with him and he settles for some... some, what? A common whore?"

The words feel like a slap to the face and suddenly, your dress feels far too revealing for your liking.

Finnick's always been in tune with your emotions, and as if he can sense you clamming up, he abandons his drink and food at the table. "What's wrong, honey?" he murmurs, intertwining his fingers with your own.

"See?" A loud, shrill voice cuts through the air. "She'd jump his bones without caring who's watching. What a tramp."

You can almost see Finnick brimming with anger and you grab hold of his suit-jacket, trying to pull him back and stop him from doing something he regrets, but he's far too strong for his own good.

"Finnick, leave it, please," you beg, tears brimming on your waterline. "It's fine, it doesn't matter."

"It does matter," Finnick insists, breaking free of your hold and charging towards the two women like a man on a mission. The two Capitolites wear smug smiles as he makes a beeline for them. "Hey!"

"Looks like someone finally came to their senses," one of them says.

"I beg your pardon?" Finnick clenches his jaw.

"I mean, you could have your pick of the litter. It's about time you open your eyes and see that you need someone more... classy."

"I wouldn't fuck you if you were the last woman alive," Finnick sneers. You slap a hand over your mouth, stifling a laugh. "And I’m sure most other men on the planet wouldn’t want to settle for someone as awful as you, anyway.”

"You can't talk to me like that!" she scowls, face as white as printer paper.

"I just did," Finnick grabs you by the hand and leads you through the crowd that have formed to watch the infamous Finnick O'Dair rip a poor woman to shreds. He can see the headlines already, but he has tunnel vision when it comes to you, and he doesn't stop moving until the two of you are safe and sound in the hallway, where the dance music is muffled. "Are you okay?" He reaches up and cups your cheeks in his hands.

"I think that may have been the hottest thing I've ever seen," you blurt out honestly.

Finnick grins. "Hm, is that so?" His hands slide down to grip your hips and he leans forward, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Why don't you let me show you how hot I think you are?" You tilt your head to the side, a smile playing on your lips. "I like the sound of that."

[yandere-yearnings]

HEAVENCALL (??? x Fem!Reader)

feat. Cecilia Romano

♡ oneshot, approx. 1k words

♡ post-specific warnings: NSFW, sub + bottom afab reader, fingering (reader receiving), 'good girl' used on reader, depictions of gore and violence, masochism & sadism, Stockholm syndrome, abuse, collaring, blood play, (extreme) knife play, implied mind break, implied imprisonment, vaguely implied reference to cannibalism, extreme toxicity, DDDNE

♡ a/n: most important thing to anyone reading this is to pls be mindful of the content warnings above and to not read if you think it could be triggering for you. this is vv dark fiction and i legit cannot stress that enough. a lighter christmas fic will be posted soon, which can be viewed alternatively.

this is @unhappy-last-resort's gift for our secret santa fic exchange!! unhappy i'm gonna need you to forgive me for how shitty this turned out lmao. i lied when i said it would be my last rewrite and got wasted so i could churn smth out before today. i'm burnt out to all fuck and too tired to fix the medical inaccuracies drunk me did not consider so pls pretend that the femoral artery does not exist and the bleeding is venous otherwise our reader is technically dead and not just passed out💀 this is purely a work of fiction. yandere behaviour in real life is a cause of concern. proofread, unedited.

♡♡♡

It was because you hadn’t seen light in days. Chained up to this wall, waiting like a dog for your angel to come down to you — sensitive eyes, slithers of blinding white around her silhouette looking like a luminous halo. Deaf to her footsteps, blind to the blood on her dress or the stench of it, all you knew was her when she put her hands on you. Learning to treasure it, since it would only be you here grieving every touch you were deprived of when she left.  

“Miserable thing,” fingers smoothing out in your hair turn violent, she tugs, “feel special yet?”

When she chokes you, you do. You think the collar might just cut into your flesh from the force as Cecilia pulls on it. Lips meeting hers, you are whole again with the way her nails dig into your cheek, like she wants to rip the skin right off. Bringing the claim she has on each corner of your soul right to the surface, the sole thing that has become easy for you to understand is that you are ruined for this world.

“Please…” you beg, and you remain unaware of what for. There is something pulsating inside of you, blood beating bones from depths in which a consuming rot grows ugly. Cecilia’s scalpel shows an animal starved, and you recognise that it’s you. The spit and drool come like magic, she wets your dry throat easy with just a few fingers in your mouth — you are hungry. Her knees hit the ground for you, in turn your heart wants to come right up as penance for your unworthiness.

Thin gown bunched up into the crease of your groin, too light to feel any warmth from it — and you are too taken by the coldness of the blade on your thigh to care. Aching for the push, so your body could give way and you could feel the sharpness nestle inside of you, to wrap around something, to bury it in the grave of an open wound. Cecilia keeps a distance your cuffed wrists cannot close, and your desire drips from you with nothing to hide, nor cling to.

Spine lined with explosives, the first graze has the pleasure spark seriatim; the release of pressure you had been neck-deep in brutalises you, and you are delirious on the feel of being ripped apart without the motions. Each score burns. New layers of you are uncovered and exposed to this world and Cecilia wrenches your head down to watch. 

Mouth agape, your drool parts a translucent line over the pooling sangria. “More,” pleading for it, despite how muffled it came out. You want her to rip this chunk of you right off. You want to be between her teeth and down her throat. You want, and it’s butchering. “Deeper,” the tears come with your chest squeezing, come with the choked up moan when her digits bear down on your tongue harder. Your mistake is clear to you the moment you see the wash of those baby blues lock on you, the reverie of bringing the sky down to your prison and the vastness as you lost your mind to it has your breath hitching.

Ringing in your ears dulled to the scattering greys when Cecilia hits you, cheekbone smashing against the wall, sending the vibrations all throughout your skull. Ecstasy takes on the taste of metal. Sure enough, the savage inside of you is unsettled, is not yet satisfied.

“When have I ever let you command me?” Her knife edge twists, makes ribbons of your tissues — makes you writhe deliciously. “Do you think you have a will?”

“No.” The answer needs no contemplation, it has been ingrained in you. “‘M sorry,” your vision spots when you crane your neck, you’ve been putting more and more of your weight into the bricks, your shackles sting. “Was so good I went dumb, ‘m sorry. I won’t do it again,” you sniffle, “p-please…”

Acutely aware of the moment the surgical steel leaves you; biting your lip to suppress your whimper when the air hits. “That’s better,” and you are sure this is a punishment until Cecilia takes your face, “see, you know how to be a good girl, don’t you?”

Something hot floods your guts, you’re nodding before you even have a chance to rub your thighs together — not that you’d be allowed to. Her palm is pressing right to the laceration, she keeps you splayed apart like that, and her nails are mere millimetres away from showing you a supernova. Red tracks streak a trail all the way to your core, the fabric in contact with it is damp, is threading clear strings to a place that’s throbbing with need to be desecrated.

All your nerves fray when she sinks in, and just like that, the ability to latch onto her human caress is wasted on you. Only remembering how to stay agape, how to curl your toes and tear from your bottom lip to hold back your moans. Your walls are sopping for her, they slobber just as much as you do for the euphoria Cecilia imposes into you. Gasping her name, flashes of a world outside you no longer want to return to, legs trembling when her thumb comes up. She plays you so well, makes a mess — makes a masterpiece out of all your misery and mortality alike.

Whispering, “you were my best decision,” — and like a blessing, your undoing lays rest to you. Pink slick and pain, everything becomes sweet in this swarming black. Angels. Her laughter, a hymn. Singing. Heavencall.

[acewritesfics]

Never Stopped Loving You | Tommy Shelby

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Reader

Request: From anon

Warnings: Swearing. Mentions of war, heartbreak, jealousy (?), a tiny little bit of Grace bashing but just so you know this is based between season 1 & 2 (more towards season 2) so readers dislike towards Grace is after her betrayal not her death

Word Count: 2,276

Tommy Shelby Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Y/N watches from the other side of the Garrison as Tommy sits across from a woman, a pretty brunette she hasn't bothered learning the name of. She didn't hate the woman; she didn't even know her but she did pity her. In fact, she pitied any woman that came across Thomas Shelby. All but one. Grace didn't deserve her pity.   

It's a business meeting, she knows that. Polly informed her yesterday during her visit to her home. She doesn’t know why Polly told her or why she cared to remember it. After the day she had going over last minute details for her sister's wedding, she wanted a drink before she went dancing with some friends and she'd been hoping to catch up with John to see if him and Esme needed any thing as they await the arrival of their new baby.  

After ordering another drink, she looks back to her former lover and his new potential business partner and takes the woman in. There's no denying she's pretty but she can also see the way she's looking at him. It was the same way they all eventually look at him. Yes, she pities all but one woman that comes across him.  

Thomas Shelby always had a certain charm about him. It wasn't just those stunningly beautiful blue eyes, high cheek bones, the scatter of freckles that covers his face, how impeccable he dresses, or the smooth tone of his voice that has the ladies enraptured by him. Even before the war, he knew how to get what he wanted, his main weapon being that silver tongue of his.   

"Does he know that you're here?" She hears Polly say from beside her as she joins her at the bar. Polly orders herself a drink before she turns to face her, leaning against the bar.  

"Would it matter if he did?" she answers with her own rhetorical question.  

"You know nothing gets past him," Polly reminds her, picking up her drink off the bar and takes a drink.  

"I did," she also reminds Polly.  

Y/N had been one of those pitiful women who found herself under Tommy's spell. But back then they were just kids. Two fools who thought that not even a war could separate them. How foolish they were.   

Before the war, it was good. Tommy smiled and laughed more, he was more loving and kinder to himself and those around him. He didn't have blood on his hands or a distant look in his eyes. His eyes sparkled with the good kind of mischief, a love for life and hopes and dreams that didn't include violence and him becoming a man to be feared of. He was a sweet man with a beautiful soul and so much like his mother. She'd fallen completely in love with him and when he proposed a month before war was declared, she didn't hesitate to say yes.   

During the war, when he would come home for breaks, she could see and feel him putting up walls and becoming distant with her. The light in his eyes was slowly fading. He was less kind, less loving and less like the Tommy she'd fallen in love with. But she still loved him so much that she would stay beside him and be there for when he needed her.  

But by the time the war was over, Tommy was but of a shell of his former self. Eventually the couple parted ways with Tommy acting as though their break up had no affect on him while her heart completely shattered into a million pieces.  

Y/N couldn't stay in Small Heath after that. She moved to London for a year before coming back when she got a job offer from the Small Heath school only to witness Tommy fall in love and open up to another woman who would only end up betraying him. It was six months ago, she moved to Bristol to help her brother take care of his sick wife and three children. But now she's back again, not able to stay away from her home town. This time it isn't permanent. Her younger sister is getting married tomorrow, and she couldn't miss it, no matter how much it hurts to be back in the city that brought her so much joy and heartache.   

"He's a fool for ever letting that happen," Polly says, letting her bitterness over their break up be known even though it's been a few years.  

"We were both fools for thinking we'd make it through anything," she finishes her drink and places the empty glass on the bar top as she stands up from the stool she's sitting on.   

"You know he's still got it," Polly says stopping her in her tracks as she begins to walk away from the woman who is like an aunt to her. "I watched him take it to the cut. He contemplated throwing it away but he couldn't bring himself to do it."  

"Maybe he wants to use it for the next woman who falls under his spell," she says keeping her back to the older woman and leaves the Garrison.  

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Miss!” an elderly gentleman exclaims, handing Y/N a beautiful rose as she walks down the street to the store the next day. She’d forgotten about the silly day in the midst of rushing around to get things sorted for her sister’s big day, which just so happened to be today of all things.  

Looking at the man and seeing his large smile, she couldn’t bring herself to disappoint the man. She takes the rose and smells it. “Thank you, sir. You’ve just made my day so much better.”   

“Do you not have a valentine?” he asks her. “A pretty lady like yourself should have all the men falling to her feet.”  

“Well, to be honest, even if there were I would still choose none of them,” she admits.   

“Whoever broke your heart, he’s a right fool,” the man says.   

“Oh, you have no idea,” she chuckles.   

“If I wasn’t married to me Mrs., I would be your valentine.”  

“Your wife is a lucky woman,” Y/N smiles.  

“I’m the lucky the one,” he admits. “I’ll let you get on your way. You looked to be in a rush.”  

“Thank you for the rose,” she thanks him and says goodbye as she carries on her way.  

Entering the store, she grabs what she needs to, pays and heads back to her sister’s home, smiling the whole way.   

“Where have you been?!” her sister shouts as she walks through the door. “I have to be ready and at the church in an hour. Where did you get that?”   

Y/N’s eyes follow her sister’s gaze to the rose in her hand. “A lovely old man gave it to me.”  

“Are you into older men now?” her sister teases. “I guess all the men your age are married now. What’s better than a rich widowed old man?”  

“I’ll have you know, he was being nice,” Y/N frowns at her sister. In her time away from Birmingham, she’d forgotten her younger sister could be mean. “Clearly something you know nothing about.”  

“I can be nice. So nice in fact, I've invited the only man you’ll ever love to the wedding.”   

Y/N wants nothing more than to smack the smug smirk of her sister’s face but decides to play ignorant instead. “And who would that be?”  

“Don’t play daft, dear sister,” she laughs shaking her head as she gets into her wedding dress with the seamstresses help. “Tommy, of course.”  

“Well, don’t be too disappointed if he doesn’t show up," she says causing her sister to roll her eyes. 

Tommy surprised Y/N. He'd come to the wedding. She could feel his eyes boring into her through out the ceremony. Keeping her eyes on the bride and groom, she tried to ignore it. Even now as she dances with her new brother-in-law, she can feel her former lovers eyes on her and as he stands behind her, his cologne invades her senses. It's the same cologne that she'd bought him for his last birthday they spent together. 

"Mind if I cut in, mate?" His smooth voice reaches her ears as he asks Paul. Her body stiffens, her heart dropping into her stomach as her plans to ignore him and his overwhelming presence is dashed. 

"Of course, Mr. Shelby," he smiles and steps away from her. She goes to stop him, only for Tommy to take his place.  

"Did you really think I wouldn't notice that you are back?" he asks, his arm moving around her waist as she takes one of her hands into his.  

She hesitantly places her hand on his shoulders as they start to dance, "I was hoping you would be too busy to notice. You seemed rather busy last night." 

He had seen her in the garrison the night before. If he hadn't been in the middle of a business meeting he would have gone after her when she left. Instead he decided last minute to accept the invitation to her sister's wedding, hoping he to get a moment with her. 

"I saw you," he admits. "I was hoping you would stay long enough so I could speak to you." 

"Is that why you're here?" she asks him, still knowing him better than anyone else. 

"I had to see you some way," he tells her. 

"There's nothing that needs to be said between us, Thomas," she removes his hands from her and steps back from him. Tommy was her first love. He was her only love and as much as she tried to move on from him, she couldn't. She leaves the dance floor and grabs her purse before leaving the venue without saying goodbye to anyone.  

Instead of walking back to her mother's house, where she's been staying for the past week, she finds herself down at the Cut, under the bridge her and Tommy would sneak under when they first started their relationship.  

As many of the happier memories with Tommy flood, her eyes begin to sting from the tears forming in them. The young couple had many happy memories with each other and they far outweighed the bad. Closing her eyes she remembers the way his lips felt against hers, the way his fingers would lightly trace circles on her skin when his hands slipped under her shirt and how tightly he would hold her against him as if he were afraid she would leave him.  

Her eyes shoot open as she hears footsteps coming towards her, quickly wiping away her tears she tries to make her exit when the person comes into view. It's Tommy.  

She finds her feet no longer want to work as she freezes on the spot. He looks just as surprised to see her. After a moment of just staring at each other, YN decides to speak.  

"You were right about us needing to talk," she begins. "I've been wanting to say this for a while and you are going to listen and not say anything until I am done." 

Tommy goes to interrupt her, opening his mouth to say something when she holds up her hand, stopping him.  

"I love you, Tom, more than I've loved anyone," she tells him. "When we ended our relationship you we're supposed to fight for it. But you just stood there, a blank look on your face, saying nothing at all while my heart broke into a million pieces. You were supposed to fight for me, fight for us. Instead you fell in love with another woman who broke your heart and-" 

"I love you too," Tommy says cutting her off as he steps closer to her. "You're the only woman I've ever loved. Grace didn't break my heart because it was already broken from the war and letting you go. She was only a distraction to stop myself from going after you. You deserved better than me and who I became. I wanted to give you the world, promise you things would get better, be the man who deserved you. I didn’t want to pull you into the mess I created. I loved you to much for that. You’re so innocent and good and I’m nothing but a bad man who does bad things." 

“Not all of us are angels, Tom,” she says.  

“But you are,” he tells her.  

“Well then, I’m an angel who’s fallen in love with the devil.” 

“And the devil just so happens to love her back,” he adds, his arms moving around her waist to pull her closer. 

This time she lets him, no longer wanting to get as far away from his as possible. “We still have a lot to work through.” 

“We’ll work through it all because I’m not going to let you go again,” he tells her. “I made that mistake once. I don’t plan on making it again. I’m going to make it up to you.” 

“And you can start by kissing me like you use to under this bridge,” a small hint of a smile appears on her lips. “And then we can go from there.” 

Tommy smiles, cupping her face and plants his lips on hers, kissing her softly as though he’s resting the waters. When she doesn’t reconsider, he kisses her harder and holds her tighter like he’s afraid she’ll leave him again. He ends the kiss leaving his lips only an inch from hers as he tells her, “I never stopped loving you.” 

“I never stopped stopped loving you too,” she replies, pressing her lips back to his. 

[inkykeiji]

character: bonten!mikey x fem!reader notes: a day or two ago teddy and i were daydreaming about sucking on our Daddies’ fingers and i genuinely haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since!!!! warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, daddy kink, hair pulling, oral fixation (finger sucking), somnophilia + minimal prep, mention of drugs words: 1.3k

If he’s being truthful, Mikey doesn’t really mind when you suck on his fingers—kind of likes it, actually; likes feeling useful, likes the way your tongue pulses and jumps just a bit as you draw him in a little further, suck around him a little harder, likes to pacify you—provided that it’s feasible.

You know when to ask, know that if Daddy’s busy cleaning his guns or cutting his drugs that he needs both hands, that his pretty girl can’t be greedy, now, just because she needs something to suck on. No, on those days you can usually be patient enough, can usually wait until Daddy’s finished with whatever important business he has to take care of. But sometimes, if you’re really needy, and you’ve been extra good, you might get lucky—he might let you stick his cock down your throat, let it sit all heavy and hard on your tongue as you kneel sloppily between his spread thighs, chin on the edge of his chair, hands planted between your folded knees and palms pressed flat to the floor, all conscious and intentional, since Daddy has a rule against touching during times like these, claims it distracts him, and we can’t have that, now, can we, sweetheart?

No, Daddy. Of course not, Daddy.

Daddy has a rule against sucking at times like these as well—this isn’t about getting him off or making him feel good, after all, he had told you. This is just about giving his whiny little baby something to fill her mouth with, something to fill her mouth up, to keep her occupied and quiet while Daddy works. If he feels your tongue start to curl around his shaft, if he feels your lips begin to pucker and your cheeks begin to hollow, he’ll be yanking you off his cock in one harsh, swift motion, with his knuckles rooted at your scalp and a growled curse spit through his teeth—and then you’ll be in real trouble, and you definitely don’t want that! 

But it’s when Daddy’s sifting through boring paperwork and poring over mind-numbing files and notes—full of gruesome photographs and disturbing details—that the perfect opportunity arises to lend you his hand, to let you wrap both palms around his slim wrist and take his fingers into your mouth.

He knows that’s exactly what you want when you curl up next to him on his plush office couch, gazing at him with glittering eyes and your bottom lip siphoned between your teeth, but he won’t give it to you; not until you say it, of course, not until you explicitly ask for it—because good girls ask for what they want, don't they?—keen stare veiled by feathery lashes and voice trembling with a desperate sort of humiliation. 

But he’s sweet as syrup when he nods and allows you to suck two of his fingers into your eager, waiting mouth, silky praises falling from between smirking lips. Because you’re so good for him, swallow so well for him, take his index and ring finger all the way in for him, right to the third knuckle, the edges of your teeth gently scraping the sharp protruding bones. 

The metal of his rings clacks against the back of your teeth, platinum and white gold warming in the heat of your mouth as your tongue coils and curves around the bony digits, laves over the bumps and ridges of each knuckle and joint. Foamy saliva pools in all of the dips and crevices of the jewellery, coats the surfaces all slick and slimy and leaves the gems encrusted in the metal gleaming. 

The underside of the rings feel smooth on your tongue, tip tracing around the arc of each one, slow and studious, almost as if committing them to memory. The metal has a slight tang to it, smearing the zest of sweat across your tastebuds, bitter and salty with a hint of the rusted blood still caked beneath his nails and lining his cuticles.

The pads of his fingers stroke your tongue in slow, rhythmic motions, petting the slippery little muscle in a tender caress—mindless, soothing, habitual—as tired onyx eyes skim the pages crumpled in his free hand. Delicate fingers hook around the bangles encircling his wrist and tug, begging for more and whimpering nonsensically around his flesh—more, Daddy, more, more, gimme more, pretty please.

And he does, of course, his sweet, greedy little girl, permits you to draw him further down your throat, copious amounts of drool oozing from the corners of your mouth as your lips tighten and your tongue squeezes—so much so that it’s trickling down your chin and dripping off your jaw in heavy, viscous cords, drizzling all over your chest and clavicle.  

It leaves behind the prettiest streaks of shimmering spit, and Mikey can’t help but press down on the back of your tongue, enraptured as another tiny torrent of saliva seeps past his fingers to spill down his hand and collect in the lines of his palms.

The action earns him a pitchy yelp, sound vibrating around the tips of his fingers, and he snorts a little, fingers rubbing your tongue in a crude sort of apology. 

Sorry, baby, sorry, he’s murmuring in response, though that smug, sadistic little smirk toying with the corners of his lips tells you that he’s not sorry at all. 

His fingertips are pruned by the time he’s finished shuffling through his documents, soaked and soggy with your saliva. Your mouth’s finally gone slack, a telltale indicator that you’ve fallen asleep, dribbles of drool rolling down the side of his hand and his wrist as you breathe, calm and even and soft, around the digits lodged down your throat. 

Your teeth have left cute little indents in his knuckles and the underside of his fingers, but he doesn’t mind, running the tip of his own tongue over the jagged little craters carved into his skin and humming softly to himself.

It always has his cock twitching in his trousers, straining against the thin material, and on the nights where he really needs it—when the day has been abundantly challenging, excruciatingly exhausting, full of collecting debts and deaths—he’ll rearrange your pliant body, push your head down and hips up and panties aside and use his already sopping hand to wet you just enough to comfortably take his cock, burying himself to the fucking hilt in one swift, sharp thrust and revelling in the gorgeous little gasp of surprise that claws its way past your sleepy lips. 

Stay sleeping, sweetheart, he always tells you, murmured into the skin behind your ear and punctuated with a chaste kiss. Just let Daddy take what he needs.

And so you do, every single time, ever his good girl, his best girl, nodding into the corduroy couch cushions and mumbling out some garbled sentiment of affirmation. 

It’s never graceful, always shameful, lacking his usual skill and subtlety as he pathetically ruts into your sweet cunt, flush hips grinding into your thighs gone sticky and slippery with desperation, humping away unevenly at you until his cock is pulsing viciously and he’s breathing out a curse against the damp nape of your neck, filling you with thick cream.

He always takes a moment to admire you after, too; to admire the mess he’s made of you, the masterpiece he’s made of you, calloused thumbs spreading your fucked-raw lips and watching as his cum cascades out of you slow and sticky, using the hardened pad to smear it across your cunt—glazing your clit and your slit and your inner thighs; painting you in him, pressing into the splotches of navy and grey those sharp hipbones carved into soft flesh—before he hoists you up, collects your boneless body in a heap in his arms and decides it’s time for bed, finally, for the both of you.

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

The Heart of Your Home pt 8

Summary: Arthur comes across a woman in need. What he thought was a simple good deed would take him down a much further path than anticipated.

Warnings: A bit of violence, cursing and tension

Word Count: 5,900

A/N: I got stuck on this one for a bit, but here's part 8!

The house has been impossibly quiet for the past week. 

Cooking food that only sated your hunger briefly, cleaning the same few areas that gathered a speck of dust in a 24-hour period. 

You couldn’t find it in you to sit for too long, lest your thoughts wandered too far. But it was one particularly warm day that you found yourself resting on the porch, basking in the mid-morning sunshine as it heated the surrounding forest. Your eyes drifted over the tree line often, as if you were looking for someone. 

Hell, not just anyone. Not random visitors, not your husband. No, you were looking for Arthur. 

And every time that blue-eyed devilish and wondrous man crossed your mind, you had to scold yourself. You shouldn’t be thinking about him. Those two days of bliss…weren’t meant to be anything more. Just a way to quell the growing attraction between the two of you before parting ways, him to return to his life as an outlaw, and you to go back to being the housewife…the lonely housewife, whose husband hasn’t crossed the threshold in almost a month. 

You pursed your lips as tears pricked your eyes, and you abruptly wiped them away before they could fall. Why? You weren’t sad, more so just…frustrated. Disappointed. The nefarious action of infidelity aside, to even consider having deeper feelings for that man was just ridiculous. 

Ridiculous, but…why didn’t it FEEL that way? 

You’d fallen asleep in his arms that final night, and in the morning, the two of you shared a quiet breakfast. The goodbyes were short, but the emotion in his eyes gave away everything he wanted to say but couldn’t. He couldn’t even mask it, and neither could you. You’d barely managed to keep yourself together until he and his stallion disappeared into the forest. 

“Take care of yourself,” he’d murmured, those calloused fingertips grazing your cheek with such gentleness your knees would’ve buckled. Those were his last words to you. You allowed yourself to cry just that one day before attempting to quell the sadness, even if it remained in the back of your mind like a predator waiting to strike. 

Your wedding ring felt heavy on your finger this past week, as if its presence absorbed those deeds and held them like a dirty secret. More than once, you contemplated on removing it, just for that minute relief. 

But even then, it felt like a betrayal. 

You sighed heavily, gripping the arms of the chair you sat in. What could you do to absolve yourself of this guilt? Pray? Confess in church? Tell Frederick? 

God, what would happen if you were to tell him? Would he be angry? Heartbroken? Maybe no reaction at all, given that he spent more time conducting business than spending time with you at home. Maybe that was even worse. 

A swear slid from your lips. Nothing about this situation made sense, but how long would you be stuck in this limbo of indecision and uncertainty? 

You stood up then, the restlessness that preyed upon you this past week returning in full force. The confines of this house was no longer a spot you wished to be in. 

Twenty minutes later, you’d tacked up your mare and strode silently along the worn path, allowing the sun to warm your further. Your horse was just equally as restless as you over these past few days, no doubt missing the companion she found on Arthur’s stallion. At least in the shared solitude, you had each other. 

Your fingers idly smoothed along her black and white mane as the other rested on the reins. Riding was a nice way to clear your head, to expend that otherwise pent-up energy lingering within your bones. You haven’t done much exploring outside of Valentine since that encounter with the wolves. 

The revolver Arthur gifted you sat in the saddlebag now. Not that you ever hoped to use it, the knowledge of its presence and that you now knew how to use it was strangely comforting. It was as if you had a small piece of Arthur with you, protecting you even when he couldn’t physically be there. 

Your lips pursed as the sudden overwhelming wave of sadness crashed over you, and you allowed it for just a few short seconds before tamping it down. There truly was a chance of never seeing him again, but you couldn’t mourn. What sense did it have? 

Sighing, you urged your horse into a smooth lope. You had no destination in mind, but the speed and wind allowed your mind to be carried off into different thoughts. 

Eventually, you made it into Valentine. It was the only immediate landmark you knew, of course, never daring to venture further in quite a while. Your mare slowed to an easy trot on the outskirts, the strong earthy smell of the stockyards filling the air. There was a steady puff of smoke in the distance, indicating the train wasn’t too far off from pulling into the station. 

You watched as people started toward the platform, and you remembered the day you and Frederick stepped off the train for the first time some months ago, taking in the scenery in awe. It was your first time out West then, the landscape so different than the home you grew up in. Frederick’s palpable excitement for a fresh start still lingered as if you’d just heard those words yesterday, and your shared eagerness for building upon a new unknown loomed in the back of your mind like a shadow. 

The train chuffed slowly into the station, steam billowing from underneath its iron belly and its whistle sounded, doors opening and people departing the coaches. 

“All aboard for Saint Denis!” a conductor shouted, ushering a new wave of passengers in, and suddenly a prick of envy welled in your chest. You’d never been to Saint Denis, and how nice would it be to visit? 

You glanced over your shoulder, as if Frederick would somehow materialize to scold you for the sudden idea forming in your head. 

If it were just a short visit...overnight, and you’d come back home in a jiffy. He would never know, unless he somehow was on his way home now and discovered an empty house. 

But you’d gone to Blackwater just fine, perhaps it could just be a little white lie. You were visiting your cousin because you couldn’t stand being in an empty house for much longer. 

A little white lie to add on to the others that were beginning to pile up. 

What was one more to ease the gnawing loneliness and boredom just for a day? 

Dismounting your horse, you hurriedly tied her to a post and rushed inside. Five minutes later you boarded the train just seconds before it pulled away from the station, settling into a cushioned seat and watching as the landscape rolled away. 

A spark of excitement ignited in your stomach, like how you would feel as just a young girl, sneaking behind your parents’ backs to have some harmless fun. It was just enough to forget those other brooding thoughts, even if it were just temporary. 

A few hours passed, and the scenery changed from the plains and plateaus of New Hanover to the gently rolling hills of Lemoyne. You’d dozed off, only awaking when the train stopped in a small town called Rhodes, red dust billowing in the afternoon sun. Thick trees soon gave way to the swamps of southern Lemoyne the further you traveled, until the smoggy outline of a city appeared in the distance, a stark contrast against the calm waters bordering the state. 

Your excitement grew, the change of pace was refreshing, and you were ready to expel all that restless energy that taunted you for far too long. 

Within minutes the train pulled up to the station, revealing the brick-and-mortar jungle so unlike Valentine and even your previous dwellings. You stepped out with the crowd into the street that was already bustling with people and carriages alike, the thick, humid air abuzz with life. 

But without any sense of direction, you stayed rooted in your spot, contemplating your next move. 

A trolley caught your attention, and after a short moment of thought, you figured it would be an easier way to absorb the sights without worrying about losing your way. You hurried over, climbed in and settled in a seat just before it rolled down its track. 

In the few cities you’ve visited in your life, nothing quite matched the opulence and grandeur of Saint Denis. The streets were lined with gorgeous trees and the houses looked even better in person. Men and women dressed in their finest walked arm-in-arm along the sidewalks, and the sight both made you smile and churned your stomach. 

After a full lap around the city and creating a mental plan of what you intended to do, the next stop you were off with a pep in your step. 

--- 

The sun steadily sunk beyond the buildings. The past few hours had been busy, having stopped at multiple places, from a Chinese restaurant to a street market, to a theater and a clothing shop full of garments that were just a touch out of your price range. Even if you couldn’t afford them, it was nice to browse and even try them on, allowing a brief fantasy of another life. 

There was a bit more to see, and you convinced yourself to explore just a bit more before wanting to turn in for the night. The largest cemetery you’d ever seen offered a few moments of quiet when you strolled through. The sky was darkening by the time you’d exited, lamplights flickering on. 

It really wasn’t until then when you realized how tired you were. The thick humidity felt like a heavy blanket on your body, and your legs and feet were sore. It was time to turn in for the night, and you asked someone nearby about a hotel. 

He directed you up the closest street and to the right, indicating it would be at the far corner of the next street. With a grateful thank, you headed off with renewed energy and an eagerness to climb into soft sheets for the night. 

The street itself was quiet compared to the main paths the trolley and carriages frequented. By now, most locals you’d seen earlier had disappeared into their homes after the shops closed. The clacks of your boots echoed off the building walls, far louder than the muted sounds of the much busier pathways. 

When you turned the corner, you could see the hotel in a location you’d recognized from the trolley ride earlier. It was just a block away and your relief was growing. One last intersection crossed, and your legs were feeling heavier with every step. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt so tired. 

You were halfway down the block now, smiling a little knowing that you were just minutes away from a comfortable bed and a plush down pillow, perhaps even a hot bath to soothe your tired muscles– 

Passing by an alleyway, a prickling sense of awareness trickled down the back of your neck, causing the hairs to stand on end. It was an eerie sensation, and one you’d felt just once before. When you heard the chorus of howls before your mare took off in fright, and you were surrounded by a pack of wolves. 

Danger. 

Before you could even signal your legs to run, as tired as they felt, something slapped across your mouth, muffling the scream that crawled up your throat and an arm wrapped around your waist, yanking you from the golden lamplight into almost complete darkness. You tried to scramble away, only to fail and be shoved against a solid wall. The back of your head cracked against the surface, sending a jolt of pain and dizziness. Your mouth was still covered by...a hand, and when the stars faded from your vision and the pain dulled only a hair, you were face to face with a man. 

He had you locked tight between him and the wall, his body pressed against yours. His beady eyes were bright, and a wicked grin crossed his lips. 

“Now what’s a pretty lil’ lady like you, wandering these streets for, all alone?” his words were like the caress of a snake, cold and unwelcome. “Don’t seem very smart.” 

You tried to force a scream, only to have it muffled by his hand. The only movement you could achieve was to try and push him away, raising your hands to which he swiftly grabbed, pinning them against the wall above you. 

“It would be a shame if something were to happen,” he continued as if your actions didn’t faze him. 

With your mouth free, you took a deep breath to attempt another scream. He moved then, one hand painfully pinning both your wrists in his hard grasp while his other retrieved something at his waist. The cold, sharp blade of a knife was pressed to your throat. 

You froze, wide-eyed and terrified. 

“Scream, and I’ll slit your throat,” he promised with an oily grin. “Play along, and I... might let you live.” 

Something told you that no matter what, you won’t be leaving unscathed. “My husband,” you tried frantically. “H-he’s waiting for me, he’ll come looking.” 

The predator chuckled. “If I had a nickel for every time some poor damsel said that to me,” the knife pressed harder, the blade stinging your skin. “I’d be a rich man.” 

Dread pooled in your stomach as you wondered how many others fell victim to this...wretch. 

“Please, don’t,” you whispered. You had no defense, nothing to help you escape or even fight. You hadn’t even considered taking the gun from your saddlebag before your horse was taken to the livery in Valentine for temporary stay. Having your throat slit would be a quick death, but complying could mean a few more minutes for an opportunity. 

Either way, you were trapped with no safe way out. Not unless a miracle happened. 

You squeezed your eyes shut as your tense body loosened, any hope of a fight leaving you. 

“That’s a good girl,” the man purred as the sharp blade left your skin. “Now—” 

“Let the lady go.” 

That voice. That all-too familiar voice that haunted your dreams and lingered in your fantasies. Was it your imagination? The panic conjuring up a hallucination to protect yourself from what came next? 

But the man’s weight on you shifted, and you opened your eyes. In the dimness of the narrow alleyway, a silhouette stood a few feet away, and the unmistakable glint of a black revolver caught the faint ray of a lamplight from the street. 

Arthur. 

Relief flooded your system, until the knife was suddenly replaced by the cold barrel of another gun, this time pointed at your temple. The fear renewed itself, twisting at your insides. 

“Don’t think so,” the predator replied with a sneer. “Unless you wanna clean up her brains.” 

Arthur didn’t waver, his eyes hidden by the old leather hat. There were lines of tension around his mouth, his finger hovering over the trigger. 

“Y’better move, of you’ll regret bein’ here tonight,” he warned in a low, dangerous tone you’d never heard before. 

The click of a hammer sounded, and your entire body locked up. You’d seen how quick Arthur was with a gun, but how fast could he be now? 

And then it happened. Arthur’s wrist flicked, a fire of a gunshot, a howl of pain followed by another gunshot, one that erupted in an excruciatingly sharp ringing in your ears. The weight came off you and you fell sideways in surprise, tripping over your own two feet. You landed rear-first onto the hardened ground, wincing from the impact. 

As the ringing in your ears dissipated, the sounds of struggle pulled your attention. Arthur was locked in a fist fight with the other man, who was a little smaller than Arthur, but still putting up a good fight. A fist slammed into the side of Arthur’s face and you winced, until Arthur landed a mirroring blow. 

The fight continued, and for a minute it seemed like neither man would hold the upper hand. Arthur dodged a few blows and so did the other man. After blocking another punch, Arthur landed a rib jab which caused the predator to grunt in pain, hunching over slightly from the impact. In that moment of weakness, Arthur rushed forward. His hands clamped around his opponent’s throat, pinning him to the very same wall you were against just moments before. The predator’s eyes flew wide as he struggled to free himself from Arthur’s grasp, but Arthur was strong. The man’s choked gasps and struggles lessened until his hands fell limp at his sides. The panic in his face slackened. 

When Arthur drew his arms back, the predator crumpled to the ground. 

He was dead. 

The silence stretched, and your stomach roiled. You were alive, but Arthur... 

This was the side of him he’d warned you about. The truth of him. 

He was a killer. The outlaw on the wanted poster. 

Arthur’s gaze flicked to you, concern etched in that beautiful, blood-flicked face. He approached you, crouching down to your level. “You alright?” 

“I...” were you? 

His hand raised to your face, and you flinched away. 

Arthur tensed, a frown deepening on his lips as he lowered his hand. A split second later, his attention drew behind you, toward the street. “C’mon, we can’t stay here.” 

Numbly you stood up, and it was then when you heard shouts and the pounding of hooves. No doubt the sounds of gunfire would be attracting the lawmen to check the disturbance.  

He grasped your hand and tugged you further into the alleyway, into what looked like some sort of courtyard. Further you went, passing through and following him through a maze of narrow passages until the sounds of alarm grew faint. Eventually, you ended up in the mouth of another alleyway facing a completely different street. Arthur was about to pull you out when a lawman on horseback thundered past, and he ducked back into the safety of the shadows just in time. 

Arthur sighed heavily and finally released your hand. “Gonna have to wait a bit,” he murmured, turning to face you, his eyes scrutinizing. “You alright?” he asked again. 

The fear from earlier festered in the pit of your stomach, mixing with relief that you were alive. Arthur arrived just in time, and the thought of what could’ve happened if he hadn’t... 

“I’m alive,” you whispered, as if having to confirm it for yourself, wrapping your arms around your midsection. 

“You hurt?” Arthur pressed. 

Your head ached from being slammed against the wall, and your hand flew to your throat at the memory of the knife. Your other hand went to your temple, where the gun had been pressed. The pain had only just been from the sound of the gunshot. Nothing more. “My head’s sore, but no.” 

His eyes sharpened. “He didn’t do anything to ya, did he?” 

You shook your head. “No,” you answered. “He...grabbed me from the street and shoved me against the wall, that’s it.” 

A lump in your throat formed as the echo of his threats repeated in your mind, but you swallowed around it.  

Arthur stared for a long second before leaning closer. He raised his hand again, though stopped midway, hesitation plain on his face. “Can I?” 

The memory of him fighting, him choking out that man with what appeared to be minimal effort…those capable hands were also not a stranger to murder. Was it your leftover fear that made you flinch? Or was it common sense finally beginning to kick in? 

But he wasn’t intending to hurt you. Nodding silently, you held his gaze as his hand came up to gently grasp your chin. He turned your head left and right with tender movement, as if needing to double check your word. “Bastard,” he grumbled. “I heard what he was sayin’.” 

You said nothing, a shiver rolling down your spine. 

 Arthur’s hand slowly slid away, and he folded his arms. “What’re you doin’ here, anyway?” 

Taking a deep breath, you broke from his gaze. “I wanted to...come here for a day. I’ve never been this far south before.” 

“So you decided to come here, all by yourself,” Arthur murmured, a slight hardness in his tone. 

“Is that surprising to you?” you asked him pointedly, looking to him again. 

“I thought you’d be smarter than to go somewhere you ain’t familiar with, without protection, again,” Arthur replied with a scowl. 

You winced, his words hitting a little closer to home than you’d like. Foolish as it was, you argued back, “I couldn’t help it, Arthur! I couldn’t stand just staring at those same four walls for another day! You of all people must understand how trapping it feels!” 

Arthur stood rigid at that, his scowl melting slightly. He then huffed a sharp breath and began to pace. “Already tryna cause trouble for yourself? What woulda happened if I weren’t there to save you?” 

“It wasn’t like I was trying to put myself in danger, Arthur,” you pointed out. “All I wanted to do was just enjoy a day somewhere new. Something other than doing what I do every single day, waiting for my husband or...” you trailed off, thinking of how much you missed his presence. 

Arthur stopped pacing, a conflicted look crossing his face. “Or what?” 

You silently cursed yourself for even saying that. “You know what I’m gonna say.” 

He released a heavy sigh, throwing his arms out in exasperation. “We really back to that?” 

“Do you really expect me to forget?” you demanded. “All week I’ve tried to forget, but I can’t. You’re in my head all the time. And I needed...I needed a distraction.” 

Arthur’s head dipped at your words, his eyes once again hidden by the brim of his hat. You could tell he was thinking, your admittance laying heavy by the tension on his mouth. A long moment passed as you waited for him to say...something else, and you were beginning to think you might’ve shocked him into silence, until he turned his attention to the street, peering out left and right. Finally, he looked back at you, tilting his head toward the street. “C’mon, let’s go.” 

You blinked in surprise. “Where...?” you asked warily, confusion settling in. 

“To the hotel,” he answered, reaching to grasp your hand again. His gloved hand felt so warm as he tugged you into the lamplight. 

“The hotel?” you repeated dumbly. “But what about the lawmen?” 

“We’ll get there another way,” he explained, beginning to walk nonchalantly, but releasing your hand as you walked side-by-side. “I already got a room there.” 

--- 

Arthur was quiet the entire walk, and so were you even when there was much more you wanted to say. After maybe ten minutes he led you around to a main street lined with trolley tracks and bright lights. The breath you’d been holding ease from your lungs along with some of the tension in your shoulders. You were safe, and when the hotel was in sight, your relief crashed into the fatigue that you’d all but forgotten about. 

Arthur ushered you into the building, greeted by a dark interior heavy with the mixed scents of whiskey and smoke. The bar on the opposite side housed a bartender, fixated on wiping a glass clean and only offering a quick glance your way before returning to his task. A single poker table off to the side held two people intently focused on their game, cigarettes in each of their mouths. How late was it, and had any of them heard the shots? 

The hand on the small of your back guided you to the stairs, and you quietly made your way across and up the steps. Your legs burned with each further ascent until coming to a small hallway, to which Arthur stepped forward and opened a door. 

You followed him in silently, observing just how opulent the room was. The bed looked so comfortable you had to keep yourself from wanting to collapse in it right then and there. 

Arthur stepped in behind you, and you turned to face him quizzically. “Am I...staying in here? Or am I to have another room?” 

“S’only one available,” he explained, “You can have the bed though, I’ll sleep on the floor.” 

For some reason that made your stomach twist. You glanced toward the bed, noting there was more than enough room to share. It was even bigger than your own bed at home. 

When you opened your mouth to argue, he shook his head. “I’ve slept on worse, the floor ain’t gonna kill me,” he insisted, gesturing to the bed. “Go ‘head, I’ll even step out t’give you some privacy.” 

When you once again tried to speak, wanting to point out that wasn’t necessary since he’d seen you as bare as the day you were born, but something told you not to push it. Arthur stepped out, closing the door behind him. 

Staring at the door, you pursed your lips. He was being awkward and distant, just as he had before. Logically it was the best choice, after agreeing on keeping separate after that fateful day. Heart sinking into your stomach, you sighed and began undressing. 

A few minutes later, you were sitting at the vanity, gently detangling your hair from the half-mussed plait when Arthur walked back in. You just had on your chemise and bloomers, and your eyes met Arthur’s in the mirror. 

His eyes flared for a fraction of a second upon realizing what you were wearing, and his gaze flitted away. 

Was that how the entire night would be? Stolen glances and tense silences until the morning, when you would inevitably go back to the monotony of your home in New Hanover and pretend like tonight never happened? 

Another night to file away into that crevice in your mind that was quickly filling with more secrets. 

A few minutes later, you found yourself nestled in the comfort of the bed while Arthur settled on the floor next to you, his satchel serving as a pillow while his hat, gun belt, and boots rested nearby. The lamps were off, the only light remaining was the dim glow from the streetlamps outside. 

But as tired as your body was, the lull of sleep seemed to evade you. Instead, you stared up at the ceiling, thoughts buzzing. 

This had been the second time a spur-of-the-moment decision almost led to your demise. And twice, you were saved by Arthur just by pure coincidence. You thought back to that very first time, when he was just a kind stranger that you offered a warm meal in return for his help. A stranger that soon invaded your thoughts, and your heart. 

And the more you found out, you realized you wished you hadn’t. It would’ve been better off if he’d just been that stranger, and maybe it would’ve saved you the conflicted feelings of heartache. 

Some part of you refused to believe he truly was…a dangerous man. The wanted posters and the stories, the bloodshed from the O'Driscoll men, it hardly seemed real, until tonight. Until he proved just how deadly he could be. 

“Arthur?” You spoke quietly in the dark. 

“Hm?” By his voice and quickness to respond, it didn’t seem he could sleep either. 

“That man, did you…kill…him because it was me out there?” You asked, swallowing around the word. 

Arthur didn’t answer right away. “I woulda killed him regardless, if it was or wasn’t you. Man like that, don’t deserve to live.” 

His answer made your heart flutter, and that was stupid. You shouldn’t be falling further for him. There was a glint of goodness in him that he’s proven time and time again. The man that saved an ignorant woman from a pack of wolves. The man that returned your horse even when he had no idea it was yours in the first place. The man that went out of his way to bring you herbs and meat to cook with, to patch a leaky roof, to teach you basic self-defense, to save you from a terrible fate at the hands of a disgusting excuse of a person. 

“You afraid o’ me?” He asked next when you hadn’t responded. 

The question surprised you, and logically it should have a simple answer. You should, especially after tonight. You’d never witnessed a murder before, even if it meant keeping you alive. It once again reminded you just how dangerously capable he was. But saying yes…would be a lie. 

“No,” you answered finally. 

“You flinched from me,” Arthur reminded you, his tone flat. “Y’don’t have to lie.” 

“It’s not a lie,” you rebutted, sitting up to peer down at his dim figure. “I know I should be scared, but you saved me again, Arthur.” 

“I saw the fear in your eyes,” Arthur mumbled, turning his head slightly to meet your gaze. “You saw what I really am. A cold-blooded killer. A mean, nasty sonuva bitch.” 

Your mind flashed back to that moment. Pure terror held you in its clutches, of course. So much had happened in just a few short moments you couldn’t really comprehend…anything. Killing a man that would’ve killed you was justifiable, right? Just like he’d killed those O’Driscoll men in self-defense. 

He had reason to kill. He painted himself in such an ugly light, but never once did you ever see him as a cold-blooded murderer. Hell, you remembered he didn’t want to cause such bloodshed in Blackwater, only for his idea to be turned down. 

He didn’t slaughter for fun. A cold-blooded killer was not him. 

“It wasn’t…from you. A lot happened,” you admitted. “And I hit my head on the wall.” 

Even in the dark, you saw Arthur’s jaw tense. He looked away. 

“I’m not afraid of you, Arthur,” you reaffirmed. “And I don’t know why…but it’s like I said before, I can’t forget.” 

A long moment passed, and you thought he might’ve fallen asleep, until he mumbled, “You should be.” 

—- 

The next morning was just as uneventful as it was when Arthur decidedly crossed your threshold one last time. He was up before you, once again allowing privacy to prepare for the day, and offered a filling breakfast from the bar below. 

Few words were exchanged, and the tension from last night didn’t lessen. When the two of you stepped outside into the humid, stifling air, a raindrop hit your nose and Arthur directed to toward his horse. A storm was brewing in the horizon, as iron gray clouds rolled low over the rooftops. 

He helped you up first, sitting just behind the saddle before settling on himself, and your arms immediately wrapped around his waist as the stallion trotted on the cobblestone path. 

The closeness was a necessity so you wouldn’t bounce off the steed’s rump, but you allowed yourself to enjoy these short, sweet moments nonetheless. He sat rigid in your arms, hard abdomen rising and falling slowly beneath your grasp with each breath.  

Much too soon the train station was in view, and Arthur brought his horse close before dismounting and helping you down, his hand barely grazing your lower back to lead you to the window. As you were ordering your ticket back to Valentine, Arthur produced a crisp bill to hand the clerk. 

You blinked, about to insist you could pay for your own ticket. He met your gaze and shook his head, handing you the ticket. “Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he murmured, “You jus’ need to get home.” 

Hell, you couldn’t argue with that. After last night, staying at home indefinitely sounded almost ideal. You allowed him to lead you to the platform just as the whistle sounded in the distance. 

The droplets of rain soon turned into a downpour, drowning out almost everything else as others hurried to the shelter of the covered platform. The steam engine rolled into the station slowly, the shrieking brakes hardly dulled by the oncoming storm. 

As the train stopped, steam billowing, you turned to face Arthur. He stood just inches from you, hands resting upon his gun belt as he met your gaze. 

As you stared into those blue eyes that could steal your heart all over again, you took a deep breath. What could you say to him, truly? Would this be the very last time you’d ever see him? Or would you perpetually encounter him again, either by happenstance or by choice? 

A formal goodbye seemed too...impersonal. But pouring your heart out to him in these last few moments didn’t seem ideal, either. Pursing your lips in thought, you glanced down at the ground. 

“Stay outta trouble,” he murmured to you. “Stop tryna get yourself killed.” 

You don’t know why, but that brought a smile to your lips. Looking up to him again, you finally said, “Then you’d have no reason to save me.” 

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head but you detected a glint of amusement in those eyes. It then faded away all too quickly. “I mean it,” he responded, tone serious. “I ain’t always gonna be there.” 

“I know,” you quietly agreed. “Thank you, again. I would invite you over for stew, but...” you trailed off. 

Arthur nodded once in understanding. “You don’t need to thank me, jus’ get home safe.” 

Before you could reply, a train conductor called out over the torrential downpour for everyone to board, a clap of thunder following, vibrating your bones. 

You glanced over your shoulder, then back to Arthur. “You stay out of trouble too, you hear?” you said, and without thinking, you stepped in and hugged him tightly. 

Arthur stiffened in your grasp for a heartbeat, and then hesitantly returned the hug, his strong arms wrapping around your torso. Another heartbeat passed before his body eased into the embrace. 

Face buried into his chest, you melted into his body and breathed in his scent. Leather and tobacco, and the faintest trace of something herbal. You committed it to memory, even if it meant that memory may be painful, it was something to hold on to. 

You felt his chin on your forehead, and a quick squeeze from his arms before his grasp softened on you, fingers trailing from your back to your shoulders, to your neck, and finally to cup your cheeks. 

Arthur stared into your eyes for a long moment with a troubled expression, before tilting his head to rest his forehead against yours and then brushed his lips across your own. 

Your lips tingled, and your body flushed from that brief contact. God, did you want more. Need more. All you wanted to do was to drag him onto that train with you, or march right back to that hotel room. 

“I can’t forget either,” he murmured, just as the conductor announced last call. 

Arthur stepped back from you then, hands slipping away as he gestured for you to board. 

Your heart squeezed in your chest, staring at him for a too long moment before turning to board the train, before you could convince yourself to run right back into his arms. 

[itsluckylolita]

Of Winter’s Flame | CHAPTER THREE

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

The room stunk of incense and sickness, a detailed miniature carving of what Y/n assumed to be Old Valyria standing between her and the King. Alicent had already glided past the structure, smooth steps taking her to the shadowy bedside of her husband. Y/n followed slowly, watching Alicent whisper to the figure which was sitting up in bed.

“Come closer, child, so that I may see you.” The King’s voice was frail, weaker than Y/n had imagined. He sounded like no king at all, barely a whisper of a man. As Y/n got closer the details of the King’s state became more noticeable. He was skinny, with none of the fat on his bones that Y/n had been told would be there. His hair was in thin strings, barely holding onto his blemished scalp, while his face was creased into a look of pain. Age and whatever illness he held did not do him well, the cracks on his lips apparent as he licked them with a tongue white as milk. Alicent beckoned her forward, her hands looking like a child’s compared to the King’s knobbly digits.

“May I present Lady Y/n Targaryen, daughter of Daemon Targaryen and Morgana Stark.” Alicent formally introduced Y/n to the King, still keeping hold of her hand while the other was gently stroking her husband's shoulder. Viserys smiled, reaching out a shaky hand to take Y/n’s. His skin was scaly and wrinkled, blackened nails tightening around Y/n’s fingers.

“You have your fathers eyes.” He smiled, the wetness sitting within his chest making his breaths labored and small.

“So I have been told, your grace.” Y/n curtsied as best she could, eyes moving between the King and Queen.

“You are just as I hoped you would be from our writings,” Viserys swallowed, letting go of her hand gently, “I have awaited your arrival eagerly, my dear.”

“I too have been anxious to meet, your gra—” Viserys shook his head, pursing his lips.

“We are family, Y/n. In private you may refer to me as ‘uncle’. Such formalities are only needed at court.” He waved, Y/n nodding along to his words.

“Of course, Uncle. You seem to be doing better than when we last spoke, I see that the wound on your cheek has healed.” Y/n commented, although his right eye was still clouded by a greying spot. What made Y/n happiest about looking at the King was seeing the youthfulness in his good eye, the awareness it presented despite his body betraying him.

“Yes, let us hope it stays that way.” Viserys laughed, Alicent letting out a polite chuckle.

“You have come a very long way Y/n, I’m sure you desire to bathe and such. I am glad to be the first of your family you have met here in the Red Keep. We shall talk again, perhaps over dinner tonight.” The King hummed, squeezing the hand Alicent placed on his shoulder.

“I will show you to your chambers.” The Queen said, kissing her husband's forehead before escorting Y/n out of the room. They walked in silence to Y/n’s chambers, bidding each other good-day as Y/n closed her door. Her maids were still organizing her things, all quietly working to make Y/n’s stay a comfortable one.

“May I have a bath drawn, if possible?” Y/n asked the woman nearest to her, the young servant bowing before enlisting others to help. Before long Y/n had undressed and was guided into her tub, a few maids staying to help wash her. Y/n breathed in the sweet scented oils and goats milk swirling within the hot water, leaning back as an older southern maid unbraided her hair. Half of the women in the room were her maids from Winterfell, and the other half were attendants the Queen had so generously offered her.

“What is your name?” Y/n turned her head slightly to address the maid combing her hands through her hair, the tan-skinned woman raising her brows before she responded.

“Lysana, my lady.” She bowed her head briefly, continuing to search for knots within Y/n’s dark hair.

“Lysana, how long have you worked within the Red Keep?” Y/n questioned, the maids beginning to scrub gently along her body.

“Since the late Prince Baelon was born, my lady.” Lysana answered curtly, taking oils from beside her and patting them into Y/n’s hair.

“Then you must know of the Queen’s children, yes?” Y/n stared forward at the tapestry that hung in front of her, two dragons encircling each other in what she interpreted as a mating dance.

“Yes, I was the wet nurse to Prince Aegon when he was a babe, then his younger sister Princess Helaena.” Lysana sounded proud when she revealed what she’d done, a confident smile gracing her freckled cheeks.

“Would you tell me about them? My cousins?” Lysana hummed for a moment at the request, beginning to re-braid Y/n’s hair, only it didn't feel like she was repeating the same pattern.

“Your cousins are much like their mother, the only thing that sets them apart is the colour of their hair.” Lysana rolled her eyes, platting faster.

“I have only heard rumors about the way they act, would you tell me in truth who they are? I will not punish you for being honest.” Y/n needed to hear what she was going into from someone who wasn't the Queen or King or her biased uncle.

“I…I suppose, if it’s what my lady wishes. Your youngest cousin, Prince Daeron, is off in Old Town with the Queen’s family. The other three reside here within the Red Keep. All of them are…unique in their own ways. I would suggest spending your time around the Princess Helaena. She is a sweet girl, and she has not yet been burdened with the gift of motherhood.” Lysana chuckled at the thought.

“The Queen told me that she often resides by the Weirwood tree in the gardens, is this true?” Y/n asked, Lysana shrugging her shoulders.

“From what I know, it is the truth. Perhaps my Lady would like to be escorted to the gardens after her bath?” Lysana tucked the last piece of Y/n’s hair in, passing a mirror to her.

“You know the northern styles?” Y/n laughed, her hair in a familiar updo which she had not done in quite some time.

“I learned for your arrival, my Lady. Many servants of the crown come from all over Westeros, we teach each other the ways of each land.” Lysana helped Y/n get out of the bath, the maids toweling her dry.

“Lysana, I believe that visiting the gardens is a wonderful idea. Would you escort me once I am dressed?” Y/n allowed the ladies around her to begin the process of dressing her, soft linen undergarments being pulled on first.

“Whatever my Lady wishes.” Lysana bowed, cleaning up around the bath.

Y/n checked herself over in the mirror one last time, playing with the soft sleeves of her dress. It was lighter than the one she arrived with, more suited to the warm southern weather than her heaps of furs. She had made many like it, all of northern style but with southern fabrics like the ones she had seen the Queen wearing. A maid opened the door for her, Y/n’s guards standing at attention and following close behind with Tohrren as Lysana led her towards the gardens.

When Y/n stepped outside into the gardens it was like she was stepping onto a whole new continent. The trees were livelier, with multi-coloured flowers and flourishing bushes lining every pathway. Although she would die for the north, Y/n had to admit, northern greenery could not hold a candle to what the south possessed.

“Would you like me to show you to the Weirwood tree, my Lady?” Lysana asked. Y/n shook her head, unleashing Tohrren and beckoning him to go forth.

“No need, Tohrren and I will enjoy exploring on our own. Thank you, Lysana.” The woman curtsied, departing back into the Red Keep. Y/n turned to face her guards, dismissing them as well although they attempted to protest at first. What Y/n needed was to be alone with her thoughts; alone aside from Tohrren, of course.

Y/n strolled lazily through the tall hedges and blossoming trees, Tohrren running wildly up and down the pathways they traversed, chasing butterflies as if he had never seen one in his life. The scents of the garden were strong, floral and pine surrounding her like smoke. Tohrren stopped running abruptly, ears and tail piqued as he looked down a pathway. He let out a small bark, inquisitively tilting his head.

“What is it, Tohrren?” Y/n questioned, coming to his side. She looked down the pathway as well and it took a moment for her eyes to focus on what, or rather who, was before her. It was a young girl, a bit older than Y/n, with familiar waves of silver hair and a book nestled neatly in her lap. Behind her stood the Weirwood tree, its carved face bleeding the soothing red sap Y/n had grown used to. She approached slowly, Tohrren following suit, the young girl lifting her head at the approaching footsteps. The girl had periwinkle eyes, almost misty with the way they regarded Y/n.

“Hello.” Y/n curtsied, arriving in front of the girl. She nodded her head with a restrained smile, marking the page she was on in her book and closing it.

“Hello.” The girl repeated, eyes wandering but never looking into Y/n’s.

“My name is Y/n Targaryen, or Y/n, if it pleases her highness.” Y/n pet Tohrren to calm her nerves, the girl looking intensely at the hound.

“Please, call me Helaena.” Helaena gripped onto her book, still looking at Tohrren.

“Would you like to pet him?” That made Helaena look up, the princess nodding without uttering a word. Y/n released him, coaxing him forward to Helaena’s side. Y/n sat down on the bench beside her, Helaena laughing when Tohrren licked her palm.

“He seems quite taken with you.” Y/n noted, Helaena nodding with a grin.

“I’ve never seen a northern hound before, only spiders.” The Princess hummed, turning her head as Tohrren did.

“You keep northern spiders?” Y/n asked, beginning to understand why Helaena held the reputation that she did.

“Yes, northern, southern, western, and one from Asshai.” Helaena turned to face Y/n, tapping her book. Y/n looked at it, the title reading ‘Arachnid History’ by one of the many maesters of the Citadel.

“How does one become the keeper of an Asshai spider?” Y/n tried to ignore the crawling feeling she got at the mention of the small insects, instead playing with the hems of her sleeves.

“My mother got it for me, for my birthday last year. Merchants in Pentos collect them to sell for their poison, but not many sell them alive, not like mine.” Helaena frowned, the lilt in her voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh, well then it is a good thing that your mother was able to find one. Similarly, my uncle gave me Tohrren for my birthday when I was very young.” Y/n scratched behind his ear, his tail wagging behind him.

“He is a good gift.” Helaena praised, her hands now neatly within her lap.

“You are Prince Daemon’s daughter, correct? The one who came from the north?” Y/n nodded at that, copying Helaena and placing her hands in her lap.

“I believe that the south has a gift for you as well, yes, a marvelous gift made of lightning.” Helaena stood up, Y/n following her actions once more.

“Lightning? I’m not sure I follow,” Y/n shook her head, confused at her cousin's words.

“No need to follow, you will know. I am glad to have another girl in the Red Keep, I’ve always wanted a sister.” Helaena giggled, patting Tohrren’s head. She gave Y/n a tight hug before curtsying.

“I must go now, but I hope that we may talk in the future, good sister.” Y/n wanted to say something at the insinuation that she was Helaenas sister by marriage, but the girl turned and skipped down another path back into the garden, leaving Y/n standing beneath the Weirwood tree. Y/n chuckled, now realizing why the realms second princess was regarded as such a unique character.

Y/n returned back to the Red Keep, hoping that she would meet her other two cousins over supper later that evening. Perhaps their reputations also held some truth, maybe the eldest prince was a whore-drunk swine and the middle son was a heartless warrior. Although, Y/n did wonder what rumours surrounded her; the unwanted first child of the Rogue Prince.

Y/n rolled her shoulders, relaxing back into her chaise as she waited for her invitation to dinner. Whatever reputation she held the King seemed to have no qualms, his only opinion being that Y/n had loose-handed penmanship. Y/n closed her eyes, Tohrren resting like a heavy blanket within her lap. Whatever she was meant to be doing here, she was sure it would all be fine. She was certain.

She had to be.

[supercorpkid]

Fever Dream

Supergirl. Kara Danvers x Reader.

Word count: 3k

The knock comes late. Too late for your neighborhood, too late for anything good. It’s the kind of knock that makes your stomach twist, because nothing good happens after midnight. You hesitate, but open the door.

Kara is on your doorstep, rain-soaked and shivering, looking nothing like the unshakable force you’ve always known her to be. Her coat is drenched through, strands of golden hair clinging to her face, raindrops slipping down the sharp angles of her cheekbones. She’s not just wet—she’s small. Barefoot. Wide, vulnerable eyes.

And human.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen her like this. Not once. Even in the worst of moments, she’s always carried an otherness—something just beyond reach, something more than the rest of you. But now—now she’s just a girl in the rain, arms wrapped around herself like she’s holding something broken inside. You don’t even know what to do first.

“Kara?” The name comes out strangled, uncertain.

Her lips part slightly, like she has something to say, but the only thing that comes out is a breath—small and shaking. And suddenly, none of your usual instincts apply. Because this—this isn’t Supergirl. This isn’t even Kara Danvers. This is someone else entirely. And you have no idea what to do now.

Your body moves before your mind catches up. One second, you’re frozen, the next—you’re reaching for her. Then stopping. Because how do you touch someone who’s always been so out of reach?

Kara blinks up at you, rain-dark lashes heavy against her cheeks, and for the first time since you met her, she looks breakable. And that’s what does it.

Your hesitation shatters, and you reach for her again, curling fingers around her wrist, her skin hot beneath your touch. You pull her inside without a word, shutting the door behind her as if you could lock the storm out, as if it hasn’t already followed her in.

She lets you.

You don’t think. You just move.

Because Kara is soaked to the bone, still standing in the entryway like she doesn’t quite know how she got here, and that does something to you—knocks the breath from your lungs in a way you don’t have time to unpack.

“Come on,” you murmur, wrapping a steadying hand around her wrist. She follows without protest, feet silent against the floor as you lead her toward the bathroom.

You leave her there only long enough to grab the first warm, dry clothes you can find—soft sweatpants, an oversized hoodie, thick socks—and press them into her hands. “Take a hot shower,” you tell her, voice even gentler than you meant it to be. “I’ll—just warm up some tea or something.”

Kara doesn’t argue, as she doesn’t speak at all. Just nods, slow and heavy, before disappearing behind the door. You don’t exhale until you hear the water running.

Fifteen minutes later, she’s back. Her hair is still damp, clinging to her skin, her eyes sad in a way that unsettles you. She doesn’t speak. Just stands there, in your clothes, like she’s still not entirely here. The silence stretches too long, the weight of it settling between you, and maybe that’s why you grab the hairbrush without thinking, settling onto the couch before gesturing for her to sit in front of you.

“Come here.”

A pause, a flicker of hesitation. Is she going to let you? And then—she does. She sinks down between your legs without a word, and you start brushing through the damp tangles of her hair, slow and steady. It feels… domestic. Oddly comforting. You know you can't brush the storm out of her, but you're just praying something works. Just something to ground her. And for a moment, you think maybe it’s working.

But then—when you smooth her hair away from her face, fingertips grazing her forehead—your breath catches. She’s burning up.

“Kara—” Your heart lurches, fingers pressing more firmly against her temple, then her cheek. “Jesus, you’re on fire.”

She makes a small, almost amused sound, tilting her head into your touch like she doesn’t quite register the concern laced through your voice. And then, hoarse, quiet—

“I think I’m sick.”

“Oh, baby.”

The pet name slips out so easily, so naturally, it should scare you. But you’re much too preoccupied with the sick little thing between your legs, pressing herself into your touch like she’s never needed anything more. Like she's never had it before...it's strange to think she would be so starved for comfort.

“Solar flared?” you ask, voice gentler now.

She just nods. You don’t even hesitate, guiding her up onto the couch with careful hands. “Okay, we need to get you something to bring that fever down. I’ll go get some cold medicine.” You say, before disappearing into the bathroom for a moment.

When you come back, you hand her the medicine and a glass of water, and help her sit up enough to swallow the pills. “Have you seen Alex already?” you ask, brushing damp strands of hair away from her face while she denies it. “Baby, I don’t know how much I can help you. Don't you think your sister would do a far better job?”

Kara doesn’t even think. She just says the only thing she’s been wanting to say all along. Breathing labored, and eyes are glazed from the heat. “No, no. I want to be here. I need you, just you, right now, okay?”

Her voice is soft and broken, hoarse from exhaustion, and damn it—it wrecks you.

“Okay, yeah.” Your fingers find her neck again, the heat of her skin seeping into your palm. “You’re human now, so maybe we can treat you as such?”

She nods, leaning into you like she doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

“Let’s get you in bed,” you murmur. “Get you comfortable, okay?”

And then—so quiet, so tentative—

“Will you come with me?”

Your chest aches. “Yeah,” you say, steady, certain. “I’m with you. You won’t be alone.”

Kara is pliant as you guide her toward the bedroom, her fingers curling weakly into the sleeve of your sweater like she needs the anchor. You help her sit on the edge of the bed, and she’s still looking up at you with that same quiet, doe-eyed expression, like she’s not used to feeling this way—like she doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

She blinks, slow. “You smell nice.”

You huff out a soft laugh, a nervous flutter in your chest. “Maybe I gave you too much cold medicine.”

“Maybe,” she admits, voice barely above a whisper, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “Or maybe you just do.”

The air hangs thick with unspoken feelings, a tension that makes your heart pound. You sit in front of her, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from her skin, see the way exhaustion weighs heavy on her face, how the fever has turned her cheeks a delicate pink. She's so fragile, you think, the contrast between her usual strength and this vulnerable state striking you anew, and a wave of protectiveness washes over you. Your hands find the hem of her borrowed hoodie, thumbs brushing over the soft fabric. It's too hot, too heavy.

“You should change into something lighter,” you say, your voice a low murmur, trying to keep it steady. “I don't want you to overheat.”

Kara doesn’t move, just looks at you with something quiet and unreadable in her eyes, a flicker of trust and something else that makes your stomach flip. Then, like it’s the simplest thing in the world—

“Will you help me?”

Your breath catches. You can feel the weight of the question, the quiet longing in her eyes, and a surge of something like desire, mixed with a deep tenderness. She trusts you this much? Because Kara doesn’t need help. She could undress herself just fine, even like this, even running on empty. But that’s not what this is about. This is about trust. About her giving you something fragile and unspoken, something you’re not sure you have the right to hold, but desperately want to.

Your hands are careful, almost reverent, as you pull the hoodie over her head, mindful of how her body sways slightly with the movement. Kara is burning, and she shivers when the cold air touches her bare skin, a delicate tremor running through her. Before you can think twice about it, your hands settle on her arms, grounding her, a silent promise of support, and your heart aches with the intensity of your feelings.

She leans into you, her forehead pressing against your shoulder, breath hot against your neck. The scent of her skin and the scorching heat of her body flood your senses, leaving you lightheaded. God, she’s burning up. And despite yourself, a shiver runs through you—not just from the feverish warmth of her, but from how easily she sets your own body on fire.

“I don’t like this,” she mumbles, her voice muffled against your skin. “I don’t like feeling small and weak.”

You close your eyes, exhaling slowly, steady, trying to control the rush of emotions within you. You let your fingers ghost up her back, soothing her skin, wanting to hold her closer, to protect her from everything.

“You’re none of that.” you tell her, your voice a soft reassurance, thick with unshed emotion.

Kara huffs, but it’s weak, tired. “Feels like it.”

“You’re still you,” you say, softer now, your fingers tracing the delicate curve of her spine, each touch sending a jolt through you. “You’re just… human for a little while. I'm human all the time, it's not that bad.”

Too soon? You can't help the joke, trying to lighten the moment, trying to forget you're holding a very much topless Kara Danvers against your own body; She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t pull away either.

Instead, she presses closer, like maybe, for once, she wants to be held. She’s warm, flushed, her skin smooth even though it's sticky beneath your fingertips, pressing into you like she’s trying to disappear into the space where your bodies meet, and you can see she’s trying to match her breathing to yours. You shouldn’t be touching her like this, shouldn’t be running your fingers along the bare skin of her arms, her back, watching your touch leave a trail of goosebumps on her overheated skin, like you have any right to it—

But she’s letting you.

And that’s the part that ruins you.

“Kara,” you murmur, but you don’t even know what to say.

She hums, forehead still pressed against your shoulder. Your name leaves her lips, soft and quiet, but it wrecks you anyway. Then, so small—so unlike her—

“Stay.”

Your fingers tighten against her skin. “I wasn’t going anywhere, my heart.” you whisper.

“No. Stay forever.” she breathes, and then she’s shifting, pulling back just enough that she can look at you, and—God. Her baby blue eyes are heavy-lidded, fever-dazed, but there’s something else in them too, something slow and wrecking and devastating. She’s watching you like she’s memorizing you. Like she’s realizing something she should’ve known all along.

“You’re so pretty,” she whispers.

Your stomach plummets and your breath hitches. Your entire body is burning almost as hot as hers right now.

“Kara,” you start, but she shakes her head, reaching up, fingers clumsy and unsteady as they brush over your jaw. Her touch is soft. Devoted.

Her fingers are still on your face, gentle and warm, like she’s trying to memorize the shape of you. And maybe it’s the fever. Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Or maybe it’s just Kara, stripped raw in a way you’ve never seen before. And all you wish is to stop time right now. To have her like this, honest and yours for evermore.

But she sighs, tilts her head just slightly, her eyes flicking down to your lips, and—oh god, she’s looking at you like she wants. Like she’s never let herself want before. And then, voice quiet, hoarse, wrecked—

“If I die without tasting your lips, it would be a real tragedy.”

Your heart stops. Your breath is gone. The loss of powers doesn't let her notice, though. She’s just looking at you, soft and unbearably sincere, like she hasn’t just completely wrecked you. Like it’s just true. And it makes things so much harder for you. Because now you want it too, you need it or you'll be the one to die.

She hums, eyes fluttering, exhaustion pulling at her limbs. “You’d let me, right?”

You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t let her ask this, shouldn’t let her say these things, not like this. Not when she’s running a fever so high she is probably out of herself; not when she's barely standing upright; not when she isn't well and you're the only one in control—

But your hands are already on her, all over her bare skin, thumbs brushing over her ribs, like they have a mind on their own.

“You need to sleep.” you murmur, because it’s the only thing you can think to say that won't end with you taking advantage of her in this vulnerable state.

She makes a small, displeased noise, pressing closer. So, so close she is almost on your lap. “That’s not a no.”

You exhale sharply, fighting the urge to laugh; to cry; to scream; and then to press your forehead against hers and just breathe her in.

“It’s not a no,” you admit. “It’s a ‘we can talk about it later’.”

Kara hums again, seemingly satisfied, and then—finally—lets herself go boneless against you, her weight heavy and trusting against your body. Your arms tighten around her and you fight the urge to press a kiss at her bare shoulder that is so close to your face, it's basically asking for it. The scent of her flushed skin fills your senses, and your heart is still pounding. 

But you fight it. You fight every urge inside you. You try to silence the war in your mind—the desire to kiss her, to hold her even closer—-so you can just be here, appreciate the moment for what it is, and most importantly, so you don’t let her go.

With a tenderness that feels almost like reverence, you pull back—just enough to grab the soft top from the chair, the fabric cool against your fingers. You slip it over Kara’s still-warm form, careful, deliberate, like the act itself is a promise. Then the blanket, thick and heavy, wrapping around her like something protective, something that says she’s safe. She is. You settle beside her, not too close, not too far, but just enough to feel the warmth of her, no longer feverish, just steady—just Kara.

As you let yourself fall into sleep, a gentle shift stirs beside you. A soft, almost whispered sigh escapes her lips, and with a strength that disguises her previous weakness, she turns, her arms finding you with unprovoked certainty. You are drawn into her embrace, flushed closed against her body. And now—now you can sleep.

You curse yourself for forgetting to close the blinds when the first few rays of sunlight hit your face. When you open your eyes, Kara is already up and staring at you. Her eyes, now crystal clear, hold the gentle warmth of a summer sky, and her smile, that familiar smile you’ve missed so much last night, blooms with a quiet joy.

"Guess what," she murmurs, her voice a soft melody, "I don’t have a fever anymore."

A wave of relief, like a cleansing tide, washes over you. "That's wonderful, baby," you breathe, your own smile mirroring the joy in her eyes. Yet, a shadow of doubt lingers, a whisper of uncertainty.

Did the fever dream fade with the fever?

Before the question can even come to your lips, her thumb, light as a feather, traces your cheek. "So," she starts, a mischievous glint in her eyes, "about that kiss… Are we finally going to talk about it?"

You can't help the laugh bubbling up from deep inside you, “Sure,” You reach for her face, cupping her chin and making sure you actually feel her. “What do you wanna talk about?”

Kara slowly lowers her face towards you, and it's too early for your heart to be beating this fast, and for your soul to be almost leaving your body, “I actually don't wanna talk at all,” she kisses your neck, “but if we must… Thanks for taking such good care of me, baby. How about I take care of you now?”

“You're sure you're alright?”

“Oh, I—” Kara's smile reaches her eyes and it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. “I've never been better. I'm here with you.”

“Will you stay?”

Kara answers you with a kiss—breathless, aching, like she’s been waiting forever to do this. Like she’s afraid she’ll never get another chance. But it’s not rushed, not desperate. It’s slow, deliberate exploration. Her lips are soft, warm, and certain. The kiss deepens, a silent conversation of unspoken feelings—of gratitude, of longing, of everything neither of you have had the courage to say before.

Her hands tighten, pulling you closer, as if she wants to merge your souls.

And you—you melt into it. Let her take all she needs because it’s exactly what you need, too. You will always have a soft spot for human, fragile Kara, but this one, the one claiming you with steady hands and unwavering intent—she’s the one you can’t live without.

When she pulls back, her forehead rests against yours, her voice barely a whisper.

“I’ll stay forever, my heart.”