#love is like rainwater outside the window

[gfguren]

pro hero!bakugou x fem!reader | fluff, suggestive, husband!katsuki, katsuki implied as being taller than reader, implied age (~late 20's, early 30s~), light-hearted bickering, an excuse to write more domestic!kats, 1.8k | cw: cursing, suggestive

-your husband comes home late, soaking wet and a little bit handsy-

Katsuki is late; you hope traffic isn't too bad. Outside your window the sky is overcast, steely shades of grey over a slate canvas. The roads are dyed an inky charcoal, pooling at the surface where rain drip-drip-pours in endless streams.

You've taken up residence in the foyer, between the linen closet at the end of the hall, and the umbrella Katsuki left by the front door this morning. The very same one you reminded him to take with him at breakfast, and twice again before he left in the evening. If you loved him a little bit less, he might listen to you one day.

But you do—love him—right down to his bad habits and stubborn disposition.

So you wait for him the same way you have for years; perched at the breakfast nook in the corner with a warm cup of tea and a paperback that's been gathering dust for half-a-year now at least. The bar table is worn at the edges, legs wobble if you lean too far forward—frankly, you should have gotten rid of it years ago—but it was the first belonging that wasn't yours, or Katsuki's, but ours; a piece you thrifted when you were both still twenty-something and broke.

The years have changed a lot—our table, our bed, our house, our life. Your Katsuki.

—His wife.

The band around your finger is white gold; it clinks when you put the mug to your lips. Honey, ginger. Sweet. Rain hits the window and falls; two trails meet at the middle, and stick to each other like glue. Katsuki would laugh if he found you right now, smiling into your tea like a lovestruck fool.

You let the ceramic rest, turn to page thirty-or-something of a book that you totally-intend-to-finish. An hour passes before you hear the telltale rumble of an engine.

You spot his headlights first, misty pools of sunlight spilling onto the pavement when he pulls into the driveway. It's well past midnight now; Katsuki is a shadow against the porchlight, long strides and a hand over his crown. You have half a mind to bring the umbrella to him, but he's quicker, ascends the four steps to the veranda in two big leaps; you barely register the rustle of keys before he's stepping into the house, pooling rainwater at the welcome mat.

He's soaked at the shoulders, a grumble in his throat when he kneels to unlace his shoes—black leather, designer and sharp, same as the suit jacket around his shoulders. Tailored to fit him just right.

Katsuki's always been handsome, even as a hero in training renting hand-me-down suits from the little mom-and-pop shop down the street. But it really strikes you just how beautiful he is when you look at him now, dressed to the nines. All the years of hard work paying off in more ways than one.

You go a little fuzzy when he lifts his head to catch you staring; red eyes kindling the air and making it hard to breathe. He's the spitting image of a number two hero, just returned from a long night at some fancy-pants gala; sometimes you forget that's exactly what he is. Even more dumbfounded that, somehow, he's yours.

"I know," he grumbles, moving his shoes to the cabinet and meticulously hanging his jacket over the chair to dry. He briefly eyes the umbrella. "I f'rgot, kay?"

So have you, suddenly.

There's a pause and—"I didn't say anything."

He meets you at the table, one hand at the surface and the other at the knot of his tie. "Y've got that look."

You tip you chin to glare at him playfully. "And what 'look' is that, Bakugou Katsuki?"

"Like y'r about t'chew me up." He pulls the fabric strip from around his neck in one fell swoop, pops the first button of his dress shirt with his thumb. Your eyes fall for only a moment—barely a second—but Katsuki grins with the self-awareness of a man who's known you half his life. "Or about t'jump my bones, hah?"

He looks entirely impish in his revelation, ego flaring to rest in his cheeks; you have half a mind to nip at them like candy floss, instead you reach for the cuffs of his button-up, tidy the sleeves one fold over the other until the rainwater and well-kept muscles catch at the seams. You feign a sigh when his stare becomes too insistent to ignore, hand falling to rest at the peaks of his knuckles. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah." A spark of firelight flashes in his eyes, deep carmine and coy; teasing him was so much easier a decade ago. "I'd let'cha."

You roll your eyes. "You're so unsexy, y'know that?"

"Hah," he barks with all the disbelief in the world. "What? Want me t'do that dirty talkin' shit instead? Jump y'r bones right here at the table? D'n think she'll hold up, baby."

He lets a fraction of his weight fall against the corner and the old wood immediately cries out, splintering oak and creaking hinges and the real, immediate threat that the poor thing might actually collapse at your feet.

You spring up defensively. "Katsuki!"

A once neatly-folded towel tumbles from your lap to land at your toes. His gaze falls; grin widens.

"Said y're gonna make me 'deal with it' next time I forgot the stinkin' umbrella, didn't'cha?" His fingers pinch the fat of your cheeks teasingly. "Love me that much, hah?" Your eyes narrow, fingers dive with intent for the space beneath his ribcage. He's quicker, wraps five fingers around your wrist and pulls you in with a hand at the back of your neck. He breathes, warm against the top of your head—"Missed y'tonight."

You hum against his chest, damp fabric sticking to your cheeks, flush and warm with surprise. You can count the number of times he's been this blunt with his affection on one hand; at least twice being in the presence of an empty champagne glass, or five. "Did you drink?" He gruffs at that—the only indication that he heard you at all. "Katsuki?"

"Come with me next time."

You tilt your chin, brow creasing. His head dips at the sight of the first wrinkle, the way it always does when he's trying to change the subject, or sweeten you up, or get his way in any way, really—a habit you must have taught him because you let him get away with it every single time. It's probably why he looks so offended when you pull back suddenly with a click of your tongue.

"That's not an answer."

"Not a drop," he finally says—huffs—with an almost boyish scowl.

You find yourself stifling a laugh, hand over mouth, and he glares, even as you step away to rustle through the linen closet. His eyes are red hot, brow downturned, downright grumpy, only cooling to a simmer when you're toe to toe once more, fresh towel in hand and lightly waving him down to your level. His spine bows, head dips until you're massaging the soft cotton through his hair; you would have had to fight him on this once—years ago—before time weathered his sharp edges, doused the wildfire raging in his heart until he became the man he is now—irritable, arrogant, stubborn, still, but willing—to make amends for who he was before, to extend a hand where he's able, to let you offer him one in return.

"Chose this one on purpose, didn't'cha?" Katsuki's voice is lukewarm, a tepid grumble at the back of his throat, an almost purr when you dip your fingertips against his nape.

"No idea what you're talking about."—but you do. The towel in question, he means, is from the left side of the closet, your side, all soft cotton and fluff; the same ones he refuses to use, for those very same reasons. "Said they 'd'n dry a damn thing' but-" you drape the supposed 'overrated, overpriced pile'a'fluff' around his shoulders to ruffle his bangs, more wily than usual, and barely damp. "Would y'look at that?"

He snorts, hand falling to the small of your back. "Don't get smart."

"Or what?" you keen up at him, at the balls of your feet, tip toes and still barely nose to nose; they bump once on accident, and twice on purpose. "Huh?"

Warm, exasperated breath fans across your cheeks. "Tryna start somethin' t'night, are ya?"

You bat your lashes, head tilting and fingers splaying across the 'v' of his neckline. "Me? Start something?" Your grin betrays your facade. "And what if I am?"

He pulls you in at the waist, holds you steady with one, strong arm, warm lips at your jaw and low, deep voice in your ear. "Better be ready t'finish it, then."

His right hand comes to rest at the back of your thigh, teases the skin right where your skirt ends; gooseflesh blooms all the way up your spine and you shiver. "Who's jumping bones now, huh?" you bark—yap, like a scaredy-pup with it's tail between it's legs—bite lost somewhere between the callouses on Katuski's fingertips and the press of his hips against your own.

You straighten your shoulders to get a good look at the ego washing over his face like miles of trumpet vine. All consuming, a force to be reckoned with. And devastatingly pretty.

"That'd be me, pretty lady," he says, all kinds of smug and annoying.

You hold him with your stare for an entire second—two, just so you can get a real good look at his stupid, handsome face—and then you're pulling him in by the collar, wrinkling the shirt he'll spend too much on dry-cleaning tomorrow. Not that he seems to mind when your tongue meets his, honey mingling with the mint on his breath and making his head swim, all but forgotten when a hand comes to rest at your waist, heated fingertips beneath your sweater, licking softly at your skin.

He walks you back 'til your thighs hit the table—(it rocks, precariously); one of your hands fall against the surface, the other to his heart that thump-thump-jumps when thunder rumbles through the house, and stills. You smile, soft against his lips, thumb tracing the precipice of his collarbone until your fingers can curl around his spine. The next kiss against his mouth is featherlight, barely there; you sigh, contentedly—"I love you."

Katsuki goes a little hazy, eyes the color of early Autumn; the blazing summer sun reduced to a tealight candle, flickering in the palms of your hands. "Yeah," he chokes. And you know just what he means.

You kiss him then, once more, a little more playful this time; mischievous and coy with a cheeky, "—even though you're totally unsexy."

"So help me, y/n, I will howitzer this table."

[driaswrld]

it's raining outside, and higuruma is laying on your bedroom floor.

the soft pit-patter of raindrops coupled with his dancing fingertips against the exposed skin of your waist is a song you haven't quite learnt the tune to yet — he lays on his side, hair tousled and damp, dark strands curling over his forehead, sleeves rolled up and tie forgotten somewhere in the doorway.

admittedly, you're in no better shape. your cheeks are cold, skin of your calves wet with rainwater from running across the busy streets with him, armful of whatever ingredients you two picked out for dinner, his suit jacket held above your head and the occasional chorus of laughter when either of you stomp a puddle and splash the other.

it's raining, and higuruma thinks he falls in love with you every single day, like it's born anew.

he falls in love with the girl he wakes up next to, mouth open and cheek smooshed into the pillows. he falls in love with the girl who doesn't know a thing about law, but argues better than him in the heat of the moment. he falls in love with the girl who kicked her boots through puddles of rain, ruining his pants — the girl who made him laugh about something so mundane.

it's raining, and higuruma is laying on your bedroom floor, oddly paired with his formal white shirt and a pair of pajamas, his dress pants draped over the washer — the dryer broke a few days ago, he forgot — he holds you close as he watches the water droplets race against the glass window.

he loves you.

“do you like the rain?” you ask him, head tucked into his neck, his eyes fluttering shut for a second, the question is lost on him for a moment.

“i like you.”

you don't respond yet, and higuruma opens one of his eyes, only to find you staring at him. “more than you like the rain?” he almost laughs at that, almost, and he pulls you impossibly closer.

“a lot more than i like the rain, i’m sure.”

it's raining outside, and higuruma never really liked when it rained, not at all.

he proposed to you in spring. married you in summer.

but now he hopes it rains tomorrow, he hopes you still want him then, and he hopes you'll splash him with another puddle.

[starfinss]

ʙʀᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛ — ʀᴏʀᴏɴᴏᴀ ᴢᴏʀᴏ

𝘍𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘮: One Piece

𝘗𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨: Roronoa Zoro + Reader

𝘙𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨: NSFW 

𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘊𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵: 7,375

𝘚𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘺: He’d gotten jealous when some random idiot hit on you, and you realized you didn’t mind that jealousy. The frenzied make out session in that tiny closet was just the result of that realization.

You hadn’t spoken a word about the situation since that day. That was two weeks ago.

And then it happened again.

Storms were the worst.

You used to love them, before you became a pirate. You found contentment in listening to them; the musical sound of rain against the window, thunder growling overhead, lulling you to sleep. Peaceful. That’s what you thought of them. There was a certain kind of incomparable coziness that came with laying tucked into bed while a storm raged outside. You were inside, warm and dry, in your own little bubble of warmth.

But that was then, and this was now. 

You knew you were in trouble when the sky had been blood red that morning, indicating the coming storm. It was just like the old mariner’s rhyme said, though thanks to Nami, you now knew the science behind it. Something about how the red color came from high water content in the atmosphere. You couldn’t remember the exact words she’d said.

Science or no, storms spelled trouble for sailors of any kind, even the kind that engaged in certain illegal activities such as piracy. Life was easy when the water was calm and the weather cooperated. Storms were a complication, and this one was no exception.

The low visibility, torrential rain, and rough water forced the Merry to dock at a tiny island town you didn’t even catch the name of, with you and the other Straw Hats left to find a motel or some other form of lodgings, since the rocking of the ship was making it hard to even stand up straight, let alone fall asleep. 

And that led you to now. Drenched and miserable, and standing in the shabby lobby of the town’s motel. 

“A room for six, please.”

The clerk looked at your captain for a moment before speaking.

“For six, sir?”

Luffy whirled around, counting the group out on his fingers before facing the clerk again. 

“Yep,” he said, and even unable to see his face, you knew he was grinning. “Six. One bed should do.”

Nami looked at Luffy in askance, clearing her throat. 

“Sorry about him, he’s an idiot,” she said, “how about six individual rooms?”

“A waste of Berry,” Luffy countered, waving off the navigator, “just give us the biggest bed you have.”

Nami sighed, running her hand through her hair, which was plastered to her forehead with rainwater. Your own was no different.

“Luffy, there’s absolutely no way we can all fit in one bed,” Nami said, then turned to the clerk, “we’ll take six rooms, if you have them available.”

The clerk nodded, clearly pleased with Nami’s much more reasonable request, turning his back to the group to check a clipboard. 

“We have five available, miss,” he said, “four with singles, one with a double.”

A hush fell over the crew as you took in the information. You chewed your lip. This was fine. You could just share with Nami. You were both women, so it made sense that way. Plus, you knew she didn’t snore, so you’d get a comfortable night’s sleep. You were just about to say something about this when Luffy beat you to it. 

“Who wants to share with me?”

Nami didn’t even look at him. “Not happening.”

Luffy wilted. “Why not?”

“What do you mean ‘why not?’”

Luffy looked offended. “I’m great at sharing beds!”

You figured this was as good a time as any to bring your idea up. “Nami—”

“I’m not having this conversation,” Nami said, more to Luffy than you, “you guys figure it out. I need a shower.”

“Wait, Nami,” you tried again, but she was already turning away, disappearing down the hall after collecting a key from the clerk, leaving you dumbstruck. 

Usopp gave you a look of sympathy. You appreciated that, even if it didn’t fix anything.

“Let her go,” he said, “she’s the one who navigated us through the storm to this island. She deserves her own bed.”

He was right, but that didn’t remove you from the awkward spot you were in. Your wet clothing was starting to get cold, and you were beginning to shiver, so it was suddenly less important who you may end up sharing with. 

“I’m still okay with sharing,” Luffy said, oblivious to any awkwardness, “anyone?”

You chewed your lip. You didn’t want to share with Luffy, and no offense to Usopp, but you weren’t all that keen about sharing with him either. He was your friend and you cared for him, but being that close in proximity with him would just be awkward. Sanji was similar in that regard. 

And that left Zoro. 

Zoro was different. 

You weren’t entirely sure how to define your relationship with the swordsman. It didn’t start off as smooth sailing, for lack of better terms. From the moment you met, you were constantly bickering. He was just as hard headed as you were, resulting in anything from petty spats to full blown arguments. The unstoppable force meets the immovable object, though it was hard to tell just who was what in that regard. 

Then the ‘incident’ happened, and things got even more complicated.

You shook yourself from your thoughts. You were too tired to deal with stupid feelings and the way Zoro’s eyes were boring into the back of your head. He had to be thinking exactly the same thing as you, and the thought of that simultaneously pissed you off and made your stomach twist in confusing knots. 

“I’ll take one for the team,” you said, breaking yourself from your thoughts, “one of you shares with me. It’s up to you which one it is. I’m going to take a shower.”

Without another word, you grabbed the key to the room with the double from the clerk, stalking off down the hall.

You jammed the key into the keyhole, stepping inside the room after you reached the door. It was a small room, a little shabby, but clean enough. The bed was on the left wall, centered beneath a painting of either a whale or some kind of indistinct mythical creature, you were unable to tell. The wooden floor was covered with a well worn striped carpet. The far wall was mostly taken up by a lumpy-looking red sofa, as well as two windows, both rather small and covered by threadbare curtains the color of watered down mud. Everything in the room had a sort of well-used air to it. As you entered, you got rid of your boots, leaving them by the door to dry out. 

All you’d brought along was yourself and a small rucksack with a nightdress you’d grabbed from your things, as well as a fresh change of clothing for the morning. You were starting to smell like fish and brine, so you made your way to the incredibly cramped bathroom connected to the room, quickly peeling off your clothes. 

Your skin was cold as you turned on the water in the standing shower, and you shuddered as you stepped under it. Thank God for the hot water. You half-expected it to be cold, which wasn’t uncommon in backwater motels like this one.

There was a half-full bottle of shampoo, seemingly left over from the last guest, and you hesitated to use it, but you also didn’t want to go to bed smelling like the worst parts of the ocean, so you squeezed some into your palm, lathering it into your hair. 

You knew what you were doing. You knew exactly who would follow you into this room. You groaned inwardly, your forehead thudding against the tile wall of the shower. You blamed that stupid jammed door for all of this. You blamed the idiot at the bar who hit on you, and the alcohol, and everything that led up to you being trapped in a closet with Zoro while bounty hunters trashed the building looking for your crew. 

Because that stupid series of events were what made you realize you had feelings for Zoro. And now things were weird. 

Silence filled by bickering was left empty and awkward, and the way Zoro kept looking at you when he thought you couldn't see didn’t help at all. Neither did the way his hands would linger on your waist if he passed you, just a brush of his fingers, sending electric shocks up your spine. And neither did the way he’d rest a palm on your thigh when you sat beside him at the dinner table. Nami was the first to notice the shift, though it was Sanji who deduced that something had happened between the two of you when you were shut in that closet, not that you’d ever tell him what it was, despite all his prying.

And something had. 

You remembered the buzz of alcohol fading as you bickered aimlessly, pressed closer than comfortable as Zoro struggled with the door. You remembered the way you snapped, something about how confusing he was being, and then he was gathering you into his arms, crushing his lips against yours, and how he’d crowded you against the wall behind you soon after. You remembered how his hands felt, drifting down your body to grab at your hips, how his tongue tasted like the whiskey he’d been drinking before, and how just his touch alone made you feel like you were losing your mind.

He’d gotten jealous when some random idiot hit on you, and you realized you didn’t mind that jealousy. The frenzied make out session in that tiny closet was just the result of that realization.

You hadn’t spoken a word about the situation since that day. That was two weeks ago.

And then it happened again. 

That was one week ago. You’d been in the kitchen, fixing yourself a sandwich late at night when Zoro appeared with the same idea. It started with you trying to bring up the closet incident, and ended with you caged against the countertop by Zoro’s arms, his mouth hot against yours, your fingers in his hair. 

And that wasn’t spoken of, either. 

You wanted to talk to him about it. And it wasn’t for lack of trying. You’d tried to approach Zoro about it, only to either chicken out, or end up with even more questions. It was incredibly strange, not only because it was out of character for Zoro to beat around the bush, but also because he seemed just as awkward as you were about it all. 

Maybe this would force his hand, you supposed. Or maybe he’d ignore you, though that was unlikely for obvious reasons, and you’d end up spending the night in the same bed as Luffy or something.

Through the thrum of the running water, you heard the door to the main room open, then close again. You couldn’t hear anything else, however, and whoever had just entered didn’t bother to announce their presence, but you were already pretty sure you knew who it was. You took a breath before turning off the shower, wringing out your hair before stepping out.

You toweled yourself dry before finger combing your hair, making sure to get rid of any knots before putting on your underwear and pulling your nightgown on over your head. 

You opened the bathroom door, pausing briefly when you saw Zoro sitting on the bed, busy unlacing his boots. He turned to look at you when you entered, clearly intending to only spare a glance, but his gaze lingered, doing a full sweep of your body. You suddenly felt self-conscious, tugging the bottom of your nightgown down further.

You shook it off. This was fine. You had him alone now. He had no way of escaping the discussion that needed to happen. 

With a breath, you circled the bed, sitting down with your back to him.

“We need to talk,” you said, “no more avoiding it.”

Zoro said nothing. You heard a soft thud as he tossed his boots away, followed by the rustle of fabric. 

“Zoro,” you said, “I’m serious.”

“Can we do this another time?” He said, finally, and you sighed, annoyed.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t feel like it right now.”

You turned around to face him finally. He was standing now, and wearing less clothing than when he’d first entered the room. His shirt was gone, as was the haramaki he usually wore. The latter was laid out on the nightstand alongside his swords, the former clutched in one of his hands. You didn’t blame him for taking it off, it was surely soaked with rainwater, but him being shirtless really wasn’t helpful at the moment. Infuriatingly, you felt heat rising to your cheeks. 

“I don’t care,” you said, “you haven't ‘felt like it’ in two fucking weeks. We made out, Zoro. Twice. Plus… everything else. That happened. We can’t pretend it didn’t.”

“We did,” Zoro said, crossing to the bathroom. He left the door open as he wrung his shirt out into the sink, turning to look at you over his shoulder.

“There,” he said, “we talked about it. Are we done?”

You rose to your feet, arms crossed. “No. I need to know why. I need to know what that meant.”

Zoro turned to face you, leaning back against the sink basin. “What do you think it means?”

You tossed your hands up in frustration. “I don’t know. You kissed me. Both times.”

He shrugged, infuriatingly nonchalant, his face as impassive as always, though something about him was unmistakably smug. “I did.”

Zoro folded the shirt over the edge of the sink, moving to lean in the doorway. You cleared your throat, taking a step forward as well.

“Is that a problem?” He continued, eyes lifting at the corners in taunting mirth, “it didn’t seem like it at the time.”

“If it’s this easy to acknowledge it, why didn’t you talk about it at all? You got jealous, Zoro.”

Another shrug. Then a scoff, a near laugh, as he pushed off the doorframe to cross over to you. 

“I did,” he said, “I didn’t like the way he was looking at you. Don’t tell me you’d rather have been in that closet with that stupid drunk rather than me. Or that you’d rather be with someone else in that kitchen. Or, y’know. Everything else.”

You wrinkled your nose. “Of course not. Why would you even think that?”

A flash of mischief appeared in his dark eyes. “So you liked kissing me?”

You avoided his gaze, displeased with the way he’d taken control of the situation. “That isn’t the point. The point is—”

But you didn’t get to finish. Because before you could even finish being annoyed with him, Zoro was grabbing you by the shoulders, pressing his mouth to yours. It was a chaste, quick kiss, but it still left you speechless and reeling.

“And what about that one?”

You blinked, your thoughts a jumble of nonsense.  “Still not the point,” you managed, “I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you, Zoro, this isn’t—”

Another kiss, deeper this time. You gasped in surprise, fighting back the urge to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Stupid, infuriating man, doing stupid, confusing things to you. You pressed your hand against his chest, pushing him gently, just to get a word in before he pulled you back in.

“Zoro,” you said, “what do you want?”

“You,” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Fuck it. Fuck this, fuck him. This stupid moss-headed moron was messing with you, he had to be, and you could tell from the way he was smiling at you, crooked and devious, like the cat that got the cream. He liked seeing your confusion and uncertainty. He’d just been waiting for this, for you to snap. You stared at him furiously and wild-eyed before it was your turn to pull him in, your mouth colliding with his. 

Zoro’s hands rose to cup your cheeks, then shifted down to land on your waist, and you were moving, back colliding with the wall beside the bed. He tasted like whiskey again, which was puzzling since he hadn’t had any to drink that you knew of, though, knowing him, he probably had a flask stowed somewhere. 

It was almost a relief to kiss him, like a salve being applied to a burn, and you had to stop yourself from crying out as his hands drifted down to your hips, squeezing, his knee pressing at the close of your thighs. Zoro had been like a cat before, playing with his prey. Now he was going in for the kill. 

But two could play at that game. 

You slid your hands down from where they’d been folded behind his neck, flattening against his strong chest. Your fingers trailed down the defined muscle, pressing into the dips and curves of his abdominals, finally catching on the waistband of his trousers. Your thumb dipped into the ridge of muscle at his waist, nail scraping gently against the warm skin, and you felt him shudder, breath catching. 

His hand caught your wrist, with no particular strength, but enough to warn you of what you were getting yourself into. You responded by taking his lower lip between your teeth, tugging gently before linking your mouths together again. You knew what your were doing, and you knew what would happen if you riled him up more.

That did it. Zoro sighed against your mouth, a slow release of breath that seemed to display his rapidly fraying restraint, especially as you twisted your wrist free of his grip, fingers trailing up his sides, making him shiver. His grip on your hips tightened, the fabric of your nightgown bunching between his fingers, causing the garment to ride up, but you hardly cared, not when his knee was slotting itself between your thighs, pressing flush against your clothed cunt. 

The slow, easy grind made you gasp into Zoro’s mouth, hips twitching, but he was holding you down, firm against the wall, still an utterly infuriating tease, even now. You retaliated by palming him through his trousers, slow and deliberate, and he broke the kiss to look at you, breath heavy, gaze heated.

“You sure you wanna do that?” He warned, “you’re playing with fire.”

“Maybe I like getting burned,” you shot back, defiant.

Amusement danced in his dark eyes, his lip catching between his teeth as he fought a smile, and it was then that you noticed his face was flecked with countless freckles, a constellation across his cheeks. Absently, you wanted to kiss each and every one of them.

But the thought was ejected from your mind as he was kissing you again, tongue pressing into your mouth, and your fingers found his hair as he pulled your leg up to rest against his hip. Then his hand was between your thighs, broad palm against your clothed center, fingers pressing against the rapidly dampening fabric, dragging so slowly that it made you crazy, but his opposite hand was still holding you in place, unwavering, even as you squirmed in his hold.

Zoro’s fingers slid to your clit, pressing through the fabric of your panties, making you gasp into his mouth, the sound devolving into a low moan as he pressed again, rubbing in slow, lazy circles. He kissed you deeper, slower still, making you arch into him as his hand tightened its grip on your hip, pushing the fabric of your nightgown up higher, then sliding beneath to touch your bare skin. 

Fuck, the feel of his palm, rough and worn and calloused, against your flesh, it felt like perfection, and your body twisted as his fingers pressed against the bend of your waist, his touch like a simmering heat. 

“Touch me,” you blurted, muffled by his mouth, and he pulled back to look at you, amused.

“Aren’t I already doing that, doll?”

Your defiance was draining away more and more as the seconds ticked by, especially at the sound of his voice. It was a low, rough sound, husky and heated, and it made suffocating arousal shoot down your spine. It was almost embarrassing just how quickly he’d gotten you like this, only with his hands and stupid, smart mouth. 

“You know what I mean, jerk,” you shot back, but he simply chuckled, fingers sliding away from your clit to press at your entrance, pushing the fabric of your panties against your heated skin. 

You squirmed, but he held you still, his grip like iron on your body. You felt his breath against your skin, making you shudder, one hand gripping at his wrist, the one between your legs. His mouth brushed against the curve of your shoulder, dragging up the column of your throat, teeth grazing the spot just beneath your jaw, and you almost felt lightheaded. 

His fingers pressed against your panties again, aided well by the wetness that was soaking through the fabric, causing your body to jolt in his hold, back arching against the wall when his index finger circled your clit again. 

“Zoro,” you gasped, fighting for control, “please.”

“Please?” He rumbled, “‘please’ what?”

Your head fell back against the wall, eyes squeezing closed as he pressed down against your clit. Fuck, how were you already so wet? His mouth skated down your throat to your collarbone, teeth grazing your skin before you felt his tongue dart out, dipping lower, towards the top of your already low-cut nightgown.

“Just take them off,” you blurted, head swimming, “do it properly.”

Instead of doing what you said, he simply pushed the fabric aside, but before you could counter, his fingers were dragging along your cunt, teasing, and you let out a low whine. His mouth attached itself to your throat, teeth sinking into the tender flesh and making you cry out. His tongue smoothed over the spot he’d bitten before repeating the action. 

Slowly, his fingers sank inside of you, and your hands were grasping at his hair, making him groan against your skin, a sound that only riled you up further. He moved away from your throat to rest his forehead against yours, and when your eyes fluttered closed, he crooked his fingers inside of you, forcing a cry from your throat.

“Eyes on me,” he whispered, “don’t look away.”

A flush of arousal flooded your system at the request, and you realized how much of a struggle fulfilling it was as he began to move. His fingers were able to reach much deeper than your own were, not to mention that they were thicker. The slow, almost tortuous pace he’d adopted made the friction of his rough palm against your clit even sweeter. 

Gasping, breathless, your hands curled around his forearms as you clambered for any kind of purchase, anything to keep you anchored. Your eyes were still locked with his, leaving you unable to hide the flush on your cheeks, the desperation in your gaze. 

His eyes were growing wild. Famished and dark as midnight, his gaze slid down your body to what he was doing between your legs, and you watched in rapture as his lips parted, drawing a shuddering, stricken breath at the sight. You squeezed his arm, forcing him to look up at you.

“Don’t break your own rule,” you said, voice heated, and amusement flashed on his face.

“Minx,” he countered, palm grinding against your clit, and you let out a startled moan.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he rasped, “that’s what I wanna hear.”

You groaned, both in pleasure and in frustration. “Then go faster.”

He chuckled, full lips pulling into a roguish half smile. 

“Oh no,” he said, fingers curling inside of you, making your back arch, “I intend on taking my time with you. You have no idea what you do to me, do you? What you make me feel? I wanna savor this.”

His thumb moved to your clit, rubbing in slow circles, and you bit your lip to muffle your gasp of pleasure. This was embarrassing. You were so defiant before, but some pretty words and his stupid, pretty hands were enough to make all of that crumble.

But that didn’t mean you couldn’t bite back. 

One of your hands slid down his chest again, fumbling with his belt before tugging it off. He was already hard, something evident through the fabric of his slacks, and when you pressed your palm against him, you got the pleasure of hearing him gasp.

You tugged at his button for a moment before it came unsnapped, then pulled down his zipper before reaching down past the fabric, palming him through his underwear. He shuddered under your touch, a muscle in his jaw tensing as you explored, breath coming out in a sharp burst when your thumb ran over his clothed tip. His eyes briefly flicked away from yours as you focused on that spot, rubbing in circles, making him grunt, and when you pressed down, ever so gently, he groaned.

“You’re making it hard to focus,” he said, and the way he was looking at you was almost predatory.

You looked at him through your lashes, causing his breath to hitch. “Good.”

Finally, you pushed his underwear down, tugging him free and catching him in your hand.

Fuck.

He was thick. Your fingers only barely met as you wrapped your hand around him, and his length was worth mentioning as well. Six and a half inches, you’d guess, maybe even seven. It was oddly pretty, too, with a pink flush. He was a good deal bigger than anything you’d been expecting, not that you thought about Zoro’s dick with any kind of frequency. 

You took him into your hand, rubbing at his leaking tip, smearing precum with your thumb, an action that made him groan. You stroked him slowly, just as slow as he was touching you, and you watched as he fought to keep his eyes on you, lashes fluttering. His jaw clenched, hips shifting towards your hand as you thumbed his tip, sliding your fingers down to rub the underside of him. 

Zoro’s breath left him in a burst, hips twitching forward, the hand on your waist tightening its grip to nearly bruising. His fingers curled inside of you, making your back arch, free hand flying to grab at the back of his head, tangling into his hair. Your eyes were still locked, and you wanted to kiss him so badly, but you wouldn’t be the one to break, not when he was still going so slowly it was driving you crazy.

So you sped up. You knew you’d catch hell for this, but you decided that whether or not you’d be able to walk tomorrow was a problem for then, when your thoughts weren’t blurry with arousal. 

You touched him in quick, even strokes, squeezing at the tip each time, and you got to listen to him growl, his hand slipping from your waist to press against the wall beside your head, fingers fanning out. You could tell from the quickness of his breaths that he was trying to keep control, and then he was speeding up, making you falter.

The curl of his long fingers as he pumped them in and out of you, creating a sound that should’ve embarrassed you, but really only aroused you more. Your brows pitched up, pressing together, because fuck, it almost burned after how slow he’d been going before, making you squirm, and his hand was grabbing at your wrist, pinning the hand that had been touching him to the wall. 

“Eyes on me, darling,” he hissed, voice heated, “you wanted faster? I’ll give you faster.”

You couldn’t help but moan as he pushed his fingers deeper, hitting all the right spots, mouth just grazing yours as you squirmed against the wall, bucking your hips against his hand. He was playing you like a damn instrument, thumb firm against your clit, and he rewarded you with deep thrusts of his fingers every time you cried out. You could feel your orgasm rapidly approaching, and your fingers knotted in Zoro’s hair, eyes half lidded, pleading. He groaned, low and rough, just at the sight of your stricken expression.

His hand left your wrist to run up your body, stopping on your clothed chest, and he pushed the fabric down below your breasts, causing the straps to slip down your shoulders. His palm pressed against a breast, and your breath shuddered. Your hips jumped when he gently squeezed, rubbing a thumb over one of your nipples. He caught the nipple between his fingers, pulling, rolling it between them, and the sensation shot straight down between your legs. 

You were close. It was almost maddening, how good it all felt, and you could hardly focus on anything but Zoro’s hand between your legs, and how you were grinding down into his touch, chasing your high. He let you do as you pleased, gaze downright famished as he watched your face twist in ecstasy. You let out a loud, desperate whine, a near sob as he pushed his fingers deeper, thumb on your clit, driving you into that desperate build that comes just before you tip over the edge.

“Zoro,” you managed, voice strained, “Zoro, please.”

He said nothing, only replying with a growl as he crushed his lips against yours, frenzied and hungry, and your nails dug into his scalp as he brought you to your end, sending you toppling over that edge and into oblivion. 

You saw spots as you came, and he broke the kiss to watch your face, gaze dark as your head knocked back against the wall, hips bucking wildly against his hand, because it was all you could do not to scream, one of your hands slamming over your mouth, teeth sinking into your palm. You were squeezing around his fingers, spasms wracking your body, his name on your tongue like a broken prayer. Zoro pulled your hand away from your mouth, diving in to kiss you, deep and passionate, his tongue tangling with yours, and you moaned into his mouth as he worked you through your climax and into the realm of overstimulation. 

You were halfway towards a second orgasm when he finally pulled away, and you slumped against the wall, boneless, breath uneven and heavy. Zoro’s mouth pressed against the side of your throat, trailing up to your ear.

“Think you can handle more?”

You smiled, still breathless, looking at him through your lashes. “Let me catch my breath.”

“Tired already?” He taunted.

You responded by pushing off the wall to drop your nightgown off your body, followed by your panties. Zoro’s eyes raked down your figure, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, and then he was pulling you to him, mouth hot against yours. You could feel his bare cock pressed against your stomach, and his hands slid down your hips to your thighs, boosting you up, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist.

His mouth trailed down your throat, sucking hard enough to surely leave marks, and you wrapped your arms around his neck. You pressed your hips forward, grinding against him, and he moaned into your skin, his grip on your body growing tighter. He was growing impatient, you could tell. But so were you.

“Wanna fuck you so bad,” he husked, and you whined, pressing your hips against him once again.

“Then do it,” you said.

That was all it took. You were suddenly moving, tossed onto the bed, and you watched as Zoro slid his trousers down his legs before he was taking his place above you. His mouth was hot against you, and you wrapped your legs around his hips, growing more impatient by the second, something that didn’t go unnoticed.

“So needy,” he chuckled, lips brushing against your jaw, and you arched your back, shifting your body against him, making him hiss between his teeth.

“So cocky for someone who was telling me how bad he wanted to fuck me,” you countered, “are you all talk, then, demon?”

His eyes flashed, thrilled and amused, and you knew you were in for it, but not one part of you cared. In fact, you welcomed it. Obviously just as impatient as you were, he was prying your thighs farther apart, his body slotting between them.

You felt his tip at your entrance, pressing forward, and you propped yourself up on your elbows to watch as he pushed inside, and fuck, even just that was a stretch. Your head fell back, breath uneven. You felt Zoro’s mouth against your neck, and he was pushing forwards just a bit more, making you whine.

“Fuck,” you gasped, “fuck, you’re too big.”

“Relax,” he urged, voice rough, “it’s too fuckin’ tight, you gotta relax.”

You took a breath through your nose, fingers knotting into the duvet beneath your body. You took another breath as he sunk deeper, the stretch bordering on painful, but you could take it, even if it felt new and strange. 

Zoro’s face was flushed pleasantly pink, a sight that would be endearing in any other context, and you watched his teeth grit as he pushed forward again.

“You can take it,” he whispered, encouraging, “shit, relax, relax.”

You lifted your hips, allowing him to take hold of them, using them as leverage to push the rest of the way in, finally bottoming out.

“Fuck,” Zoro gasped, voice breathless and stricken, “fuck, that’s it, I knew you could take it— shit—”

His sentence was cut off by a loud groan, and you yanked him down into a kiss, appreciating how still he was being, despite his rapidly unraveling restraint, but you could hardly wait, even as your body protested at the unfamiliar feeling of being stuffed so full. You shifted your hips forward, your breath leaving your lungs in a sudden burst, and you heard Zoro groan in response.

“Move,” you gasped, “please.”

He gave a shallow little thrust, then another one, slightly deeper, and you felt his hands grip your waist as he pulled his hips back, only to thrust forward, filling you once more. 

You gave a choked, helpless moan as he thrust again, and fuck, you didn’t think you’d ever felt so full in your life. The stretch was rapidly making your thoughts turn to nonsense, head emptied out, and not one part of you cared at all.

Zoro adopted a pace that had you rocking back against the bed, head falling into the pillows, and he was dipping his head down to meet your mouth in a heavy kiss. His hands found your legs, pushing them up to wind around his waist, shifting his hips back to an angle that made your head spin. 

“Right there,” you slurred, “Zoro, Zoro, right there— so good.”

He gave a low, indulgent groan, his hands smoothing over your body, grabbing at your waist, tugging you flush against him before he was thrusting again, stuffing you full, forcing a sudden moan to fall from your lips. 

The room was filled with the sounds of skin on skin, mixed with your breathy, bitten-off moans and his soft grunts, and fuck, you didn’t know it would feel this good. It definitely wouldn’t be the last time this happened, not when it was more than evident that what you felt for Zoro was far from one-sided, and certainly not when it made you feel like this. 

Your nails dug into Zoro’s back as he fucked into you, and he gave a stronger thrust, breath shuddering. You watched a muscle in his jaw tense, twitching, eyes squeezing shut as you tightened around him. His head dipped to connect his mouth with the curve of your shoulder, dragging down to your chest, and his lips pressed against your nipple. His tongue passed over the sensitive flesh, making you arch into him, squirming, and his grip grew tighter.

“You don’t know how much I thought about this,” he breathed, hips rocking forward, “how many times I imagined fucking you in that closet. You’re so fucking gorgeous, with that smart-ass mouth. And you love this, don’t you? You’ve wanted this, too.”

You let out a shrill wine as he ground his hips against you, the base of his cock rubbing against your clit. Your hips lifted to meet his thrusts, making him groan, and he was holding you down, one hand on your lower stomach as he shifted back onto his knees, tugging your thighs around his hips. 

“I wanted this,” you slurred, back arching as he ground his hips against yours just right, “thought about it, too.”

Zoro’s hands tightened on your thighs, and you sobbed in bliss as he ground himself against you, the friction combined with the way he made sure to hit your clit with the base of his cock with every roll of his hips making it hard to even see straight. 

You tossed your head back, whimpering, and you weren’t going to last, not when he was doing everything he could to make you writhe. Each thrust left your head empty, breath heavy and rough.

“Harder,” you gasped, “c’mon, Zoro, give it to me.”

You felt his hands find the backs of your knees, lifting them to your sides to use as leverage as he pushed deeper with a heavy groan. His mouth met your throat, and then he was biting down, but the pain was nothing compared to the overwhelming pleasure, the two mixing into an intoxicating feeling. Deep, hard thrusts sent you into incoherency, and when one of his hands left your leg to press a thumb to your clit, you let out a whine of his name.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Zoro groaned, “you’re gettin’ close, yeah?”

You could do no more than nod as he took your body with abandon, your climax so close it was driving you insane. You wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers in his hair, and he groaned in your ear as you bucked up against him. You were totally drunk on pleasure, overwhelmed. He was the center of your world at that moment as he thrust deep into you, the rough pad of his thumb working you into madness.

You bit down on Zoro’s shoulder, sobbing in bliss as your orgasm hit you, washing over you like a tidal wave. His name was the only word on your tongue as he worked you through it, repeating it like unholy scripture until you could do no more than whimper in ecstasy, nails digging into his back. 

“Fuck— fuck!” You heard him cry, hips stuttering, “one more, do that again, I need to feel that again.”

And he was hiking one of your legs over his shoulder as his pace turned borderline punishing, leaving you helpless, unable to do anything other than lay there and take it, but you hardly had the wherewithal to even protest, not as he worked your over-sensitive body to its very limits. 

His nails dug into your thigh, a growl tearing from his throat as his thrusts grew erratic. Your head was empty, completely fucked out, thoughts filled only with jumbled thoughts of the man above you as he fucked you, deep and hard. You felt tears beading at your lash line as Zoro worked you towards yet another climax, and you yanked him down into a sloppy kiss in crazed desperation for as much contact as possible.

“Gonna cum,” you choked, “Zoro, fuck—”

“Do it,” he snarled, “fuck, do it, cum on my cock— yeah!”

You felt yourself gush on his dick, muffling your scream in the crook of his neck, vision spotty, and you knew you’d get addicted to this, addicted to him, but you knew neither of you cared at all about that fact, not when he was chanting your name, chasing his release as you squeezed around him in a vice grip. His pace was relentless, entirely indulgent, and you could feel him twitching inside of you.

“Wanna fill you,” he gasped, desperate, completely undone, “let me, will you let me?”

Unable to form words, you only nodded, yanking him down into another kiss as he thrust all the way in, stuffing you completely full, moaning into your mouth as he pulsed inside of you, his hands bruising in their grip on your body. Heat bloomed inside of you, making you whimper against his mouth, and you slowly rocked your hips to help him through the euphoria of it all, something that made blunt nails dig into your flesh.

Together, you lay panting, breathless and undone, tangled together. Zoro broke the kiss to bury his face in the crook of your neck, breathing erratically, and it was a few tense moments before he was slowly pulling out, rolling off of you to lay beside you.

“That can’t be a one time thing,” you said, after you found your voice, and Zoro huffed what may have been a laugh.

“Fuck no.”

A few beats of silence passed before the bed creaked, and another few passed before you felt a towel between your thighs, wiping you clean. Then, the blankets were being pulled back, and you were being tucked under them. Zoro climbed in shortly after, tugging you to lay against his body.

Silence passed some more, and you almost thought Zoro had fallen asleep before he spoke.

“You make me feel things I’m not used to,” he said.

You stole closer, curling into him, resting your head on his chest.

“How long have I done that?”

He pressed his nose into your hair. “Since I met you.”

You snorted. “Bullshit. You didn’t like me when we met.”

“I did,” he said, “I’m being serious. You’re gorgeous and strong, and you know it. You don’t back down. You made me feel things I’ve never felt before for anyone. I didn’t know how to handle that, so I acted like an idiot.”

You smirked. “Hell of a time to tell me that, after you fucked my brains out. You had a crush, so you acted like a little kid on the playground, is that it?”

A snort. “Yeah, pretty much. Never said I was proud of it.”

You laughed, enjoying the warmth of his body against yours.

“I feel the same,” you said, “when you kissed me in that closet, I realized it. You could’ve just asked me to get a drink, though.”

Zoro smiled. “Sure, I could’ve. But this was way more fun.”

You quirked an eyebrow. “Teasing me relentlessly?”

“Yep. Do you have a problem with that?”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, several. But I’ll pay you back for that in due time.”

“Give it your best shot. I look forward to it.”

Idle chatter continued for a little while before you began to doze off. You felt Zoro tug you closer as you fell asleep, and for once since you started sailing with the Straw Hats, you were actually thankful for storms.

And, as you felt Zoro’s lips press against the crown of your head, you were excited for the future.

“You had fun last night.”

You turned to look at Nami from your spot at the front railings of the Merry, eyes slowly growing wide.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure,” she said, “play that game. But maybe try a little harder to cover up the hickies next time you and Zoro… spend the night together.”

Shit.

“Nami, I’m sorry,” you relented, “it sort of just happened.”

She snickered. “Usopp told me he basically forbade anyone from taking the room with you after you left the lobby.”

You put your face in your hands, thoroughly embarrassed. “Usopp knows?”

“He isn’t stupid, anyone could’ve figured out what might happen. The hickies are just confirmation.”

“Confirmation for what?”

You bristled at the sound of Zoro’s voice, stiffening when he crossed the deck to reach you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. 

“You know what I’m talking about,” Nami said, and Zoro smirked, smugness radiating off of him in waves.

“Do I?”

She rolled her eyes. “Why else would she be walking funny?”

Zoro shrugged, nonchalant, still smug as ever. “I guess we’ll never know.”

And as he tugged you closer, nose pressing into your hair as Nami turned to walk away, you couldn't help but smile.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 1: Bruises and Bloodlines]

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else's protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm's End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), Aemond stressing everybody out, Aegon hating his life even more than usual, RIP lil Luke Strong, don't touch bats in real life or you will get rabies.

Word count: 6.3k

💙 All my writing can be found HERE! ❤️

Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @mrs-starkgaryen @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus

🦇 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🦇

Cannibal, a noun: one that devours its own.

~~~~~~~~~~

He’s back, you can feel it: a sensation like falling, the impact of Vhagar’s claws against the earth. You get glimpses like this, unpredictable flashes of intuition, a window into the contents of his mind or the scenery he is draped in like how branches hang from a willow tree. You set Blueberry down on the windowsill, where he skitters to the edge and swoops out into the night, chasing white specks of moths and lacewings. Then you leave your bedchamber to meet Aemond in the hallway.

One of the maids is there, trying to be patient as she paces with Maelor in her arms. He’s just like you were at that age: a demon who never sleeps. His white-blonde hair is disheveled, his eyes rheumy and pink from crying in protest. But then they brighten.

“Red Red!” Maelor swipes at you with tiny, grasping hands.

“What are you doing awake?” you coo at him, beaming. “It’s nighttime. You aren’t a bat. Are you a bat, huh? Are you hiding a pair of wings somewhere?”

He giggles as you pretend to inspect him. The maid smiles.

“If you don’t have any wings, I’m afraid you’ll have to go right to sleep. That’s the rule for humans.”

Maelor trills in his toddler lisp: “Then I want to be a bat.”

“Okay! I’ll find some bugs for you to eat.”

“No!” he squeals, dismayed. “No bugs!”

“In that case, I guess you’re a human after all. If you go to bed now, you can help me collect seashells tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Maelor agrees grudgingly, and the maid ferries him away. From the Godswood, great horned owls hoot. One of the knights of Aegon’s Kingsguard, Sir Willis Fell from the Stormlands, passes by on his patrol and gives you a quick nod, polite but a bit avoidant, awkward truths he pretends he can ignore. He doesn’t ask if you need assistance or why you’re awake at this hour. He already knows. He vanishes again, his white cloak swishing behind him like the tail of a wolf or a jackal.

You lurk at the top of the Grand Staircase shrouded in shadows and shifting firelight, feeling night wind skate over your cheek like children playing on a frozen lake, and that breeze is not here but outside where Aemond must be trudging across the courtyard towards the royal apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast. You drum your fingertips impatiently on the stone banister. When at last he appears—first only a silhouette in the darkness, then rippling into color under the torches, black leather and silver hair—Aemond is drenched with rain and ascending swiftly, two stairs at a time.

You grin as you take a step down to him, slinking, conspiratorial. He told you all his plans before he left; he tells you everything. “How was Storm’s End?”

But Aemond doesn’t answer. He blows past you and stalks towards Criston’s chambers, rainwater dripping from his hair and littering the floor with tiny, transluscent pools.

You turn to watch him leave, mystified. “Aemond?”

He says without stopping: “Go wake Aegon and Mother. Tell them to meet me in the small council chamber. I’ll get Criston and Grandsire.”

“Why?” Again, Aemond ignores you. This is unusual. You bolt after him, closing the space between you until your fingers catch his wrist. “Aemond, what—?”

He grabs you and pins you to the wall, the stones cold against your belly through the crimson velvet of your robe, Aemond’s hips braced against yours, domineering, demanding, promising what he will do for you after. You close your eyes and sigh shakily—a savoring, a surrender—and then he is tender, turning your face so he can kiss the apple of your cheek. He murmurs, warm and low: “Do as I ask.”

You nod. “Okay,” you agree in a whisper. Aemond releases you and vanishes to rouse Criston. You break for Aegon’s chambers.

There is a woman in his bed, snoring softly and with long auburn hair spilling over her bare shoulders. He has endeavored to spend less time drinking and philandering since becoming king, and yet…it is so rare for a creature to change its spots or stripes or scales. Aegon has always been this way. Without his vices, you would not recognize him.

You kneel beside the bed and rest a palm lightly on Aegon’s damp forehead. You have to be careful when you wake him; he flinches, he startles, he has too many memories of being ripped from sleep by bruises and crescent-moon indentations of fingernails. “Aegon? I’m really sorry, I know it’s late.”

He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know it’s you. “Fuck off,” he groans into his pillow.

“Aemond’s back from Storm’s End, but something’s wrong. He wants you to meet him in the council chamber.”

Aegon looks up and blinks drowsily. Moonlight spills into the room through gaps in the curtains. He smells strange, like lavender; that must be from his companion. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“He didn’t tell you?”

You shake your head.

Now Aegon is alarmed. The dark, cloudy blue of his irises is rapidly clearing. “Alright. Give me five minutes.”

“Wash the girl’s perfume off you so Mother isn’t quite so disappointed.”

Aegon chuckles, rubbing his eyes; something about the way he does this reminds you of Maelor. They are both just boys; they are both so incendiary and yet so vulnerable. “Get out, whore.”

You tousle his hair roughly, smack a kiss onto his sweat-salted temple as he tries to shove you away, snicker as he hurls pillows at you. You are slipping through the doorway when you hear the woman in bed mumble: “Huh? What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Aegon says. “Thank you very much for your company, your skills were more than adequate, now kindly find your way home…”

You hurry down the hall to Mother’s chambers. There are seven-pointed stars on the walls and the furniture, green tapestries everywhere. She will always be a Hightower, averse to Valyrian oddities and suspicious of that sinister, ancient magic. She does not understand it; she tries to overlook it in her children. It’s the only way she knows how to love them. You sit beside the indistinct shape beneath the blankets, sinking into the goose feather mattress, and nudge what you guess is her shoulder. “Mother?”

She stirs, and then her face fills with concern when she sees you in the dim light from her candles. “What’s happened, darling? Are you ill?” You are prone to headaches and chills and nausea, you always have been, maladies of the flesh that are either a blood inheritance or a curse from bad stars. Once when you were very young, Aemond pushed you into a cold stream during a royal progress to the Vale, and you had been laughing when Criston leapt in and dragged you from the water; but two days later, you began burning up with a fever so hot they thought you might die. Aemond had slept on the floor beside your bed, and when you shivered so violently your bones ached he climbed in beside you and held you until you could sleep again; and later when his eye was cut out on Driftmark and he was half-mad with pain, you did the same for him.

“No, Mother, I’m fine. It’s Aemond.”

She sits up and studies you. “Aemond?”

“He’s back from Storm’s End, and he wants to talk to you.”

“To me?”

“And Criston and Aegon, and Grandsire too.”

She doesn’t understand. “Now? Why? What’s wrong?”

“I have no idea.”

“What did he say?”

Everyone expects you to already know, but you don’t. “I think he wants to tell all of us at the same time. In the small council chamber.”

“Now?” she says again, puzzled, still half-asleep. “What is so important that it can’t wait until morning?”

“Mother, there are only so many ways for me to express that I don’t know. If I had any indications at all, I’d share them.”

“Alright.” She’s smiling; you have amused her. She throws off the covers and touches her bare feet to the floor. “Pass me my robe. It’s on that chair over there.” And of course, the swath of velvet you hand her to wear over her nightgown is a deep emerald green: the color of fertile fields, not blood or beasts.

By the time you and Mother arrive together, everyone else is already taking their places in the council chamber. Aegon is at the head of the table, spinning his stone—a black sphere of volcanic glass—and peering around boredly. Grandsire and Criston are greeting Mother and yawning into the backs of their hands. No one has woken Helaena, and yet she is here, settling nimbly into the chair beside Aegon. He gives her a brief, fond glance, noting that she is fidgeting with a small oak dragonfly he once made for her. Aegon carves wood, Helaena embroiders, you shatter seashells with tiny hammers and use the shards to make mosaics, miniscule yet unladylike violence. Aemond has books and swords in place of crafts. And Daeron…you assume he must have cultivated some artistic talents while away in Oldtown—he was always so imaginative as a boy—but you would not know them. You see him so rarely now. You sit across the table from Aemond. He is the only attendee not dressed in nightclothes. His black leather tunic is still layered with a sheen of rain.

Grandsire lowers himself gingerly into his seat, grinding arthritic bones that pain him. The nights have grown chilly, even here in the south. Winter is coming, the maesters warn. His gaze passes over you and Helaena—the two of you aren’t really supposed to be here, but you’ll be permitted to stay if you cause no trouble—then he smirks humorlessly at Aemond. “So you failed.”

“No,” Aemond says, and you think as you look around the table: No Orwyle, no Lannister, no Wylde, not even Larys Strong. What does Aemond not want them to know? “Lord Baratheon has agreed to marry his youngest daughter to Daeron in one year’s time. He was very enthusiastic about the match.”

“Great!” Aegon declares. “Although, personally, I am of the inexpert opinion that this could have been discussed over bacon and honeycakes at breakfast…”

Grandsire snorts, derisive; he disapproves, though perhaps he is not surprised. He says to Aemond: “You were sent to negotiate your own marriage, not Daeron’s.”

Aemond shrugs, as if it happened by coincidence. “That was Borros Baratheon’s preference.”

“It was your preference, you mean.”

Aemond is careful not to reveal any emotion. “Daeron is young, but he already has a reputation. He is known to be handsome and chivalrous and…” A wave of the hand as he searches for the right word. “Unmutilated. It is not so difficult to imagine why a father would believe him to be a more worthy son-in-law.”

“It doesn’t matter to me, one Targaryen is as good as the next,” Aegon says, and of course nobody pays much attention.

“Perhaps Borros Baratheon’s judgment has been contaminated by certain disturbing and disgraceful rumors,” Grandsire counters and glares at you. You don’t reply; there’s nothing you can say that would help. Everyone knows, but it rarely spoken of aloud, as if it is a ghost nobody wants to inadvertently conjure. All your life there has been this perpetual rebalancing of scales: someone mentions a diplomatic match for you, you stall and Aemond makes excuses, Grandsire and Mother try to convince him, Aemond is immoveable and they aren’t willing to invoke his wrath. Vhagar is the subtext of every dispute. They need her, they are terrified of her.

Criston attempts to deescalate. “Aemond’s task was to ensure the Baratheons’ loyalty to the crown, and he has accomplished that. Perhaps it would be wise to move on.”

“Fine, what else?” Grandsire snaps. “You assembled us here for some reason, I presume. It must be urgent to merit a meeting now. It better be urgent, or I’ll be paying people to shake you awake during the hour of the wolf for the next month.”

“It is urgent,” Aemond says softly, then pauses, gazing down at the ball in front of him, white quartz dappled with blue. Everyone watches him. You share a glance with Aegon; he is curious, but you have nothing to offer him. You turn back to Aemond with bewilderment in your face, furrows in your brow.

“Aemond?” Mother prompts.

He looks at you, only for a second, but you’re thunderstruck by what you see in his remaining eye. You have never known Aemond to be afraid, but he is right now. What happened? you think, horror making the blood in your veins cold and slow and heavy. What did he do?

Aemond begins: “Luke Strong was at Storm’s End too.”

“What?” Grandsire says, more baffled than worried. “That runt? Why?”

“He’s a weasel,” Aegon mutters, spinning his ball again.

“Rhaenyra’s son?” Mother asks. “She sent him there all alone? How peculiar. The way she was always hovering over him while they were here, I’m amazed she let him out of her sight for that long. How old is he now? With that plain, ever-anxious, pug-nosed face, he looks like a little boy—”

Aemond says: “He was sent to remind Borros of his old pledge to uphold Rhaenyra’s claim. But Luke had no incentives to offer.”

“And so Lord Baratheon rejected him,” Grandsire surmises.

Aemond nods, though perhaps halfheartedly.

“Well, good,” Grandsire says, surveying the table for agreement. “That’s good, right? With every house that refuses to aid her, Rhaenyra will be more likely to accept our terms, and we can resolve this question of succession without any bloodshed.”

“Meleys and the Dragonpit,” Aegon reminds him.

“Without further bloodshed,” Grandsire amends.

Mother and Criston concur, but you’re watching Aemond. He hasn’t responded yet. Mother’s gaze flits between the two of you. She is somewhat sympathetic to the affinity you share, but she doesn’t understand it. More than anything, you get the sense she believes it is something you must be saved from. The Hightowers could stomach Aegon and Helaena’s match—Viserys was still healthy enough to insist upon it, and the couple so seemingly platonic it was easy to forget they were married at all—but they have no appetite for a desire that defies political expediency, that burns scorching and wild.

“Aemond, did you quarrel with Luke?” Mother says, her tone patient in an I-won’t-be-mad-if-you-just-tell-me-the-truth sort of way. “I know…your eye…” She touches her own face, wincing at the memory of how he suffered. “Did you seek restitution of some sort from him? Did you make accusations?”

“We…exchanged some words,” Aemond admits. “And then…when Luke left on Arrax…” There is a lull, and everyone stares at him. “Vhagar and I followed.”

“What?!” Grandsire exclaims. “You threatened Rhaenyra’s son?!”

“I…” Aemond closes his eye, then after a moment opens it again and continues. “It was my intention to frighten him, that was all.”

“Idiot,” Grandsire hisses. “You know better. You’re too well-educated to act like you don’t. Now, that one…” He jabs an accusatory finger at Aegon, who is caught off-guard, what the fuck do I have to do with this?

Criston says, more gently: “That was very dangerous, Aemond.” Mother covers her mouth with one hand and shakes her head. Her long coppery hair hangs in uncombed waves, still tangled from sleep.

“So what happened?” Aegon asks. “Where’d you chase him to? All the way back to Dragonstone? You must have scared him to death.”

Aemond chooses his words with great care and agonizing slowness. “Everything was under control. Then Arrax…he unleashed his flames on Vhagar, and she…she attacked.”

Everyone is silent. After a moment, Grandsire says: “What do you mean she attacked?”

“She…” Aemond gestures vaguely with open hands, hands that have held you, caged you, dragged you, pleased you until you were forged to him like a blade to a hilt. Again, he looks at you, and what is he asking for? Help, empathy, compassion, forgiveness? “She bit Arrax.”

“She wounded him?” Aegon says.

“She devoured him.”

Criston blinks. “So…Arrax is dead, and where is Luke now?”

Aemond laces his fingers together on the table like he’s praying. “He’s…he’s gone.”

“Gone?” Mother echoes.

“Did you look for him?” Grandsire demands. “I mean, did you even bother to search for Luke, or did you just leave him in the Stormlands somewhere? Did he fall into the sea, could he be wandering around in a forest? If Luke is injured, we should send out people to find him. We could hold him as a hostage.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Aemond’s voice is frayed. And now for the first time tonight, you finally know what he’s going to say. Your eyes snag on Aegon’s, and he reads the terror there, and then it hits him too. “There is nothing to search for.”

Mother is gaping at him, the unwanted knowledge seeping in like rain through earth. “Nothing?”

“There is no body. Pieces, perhaps.”

Unspeakable, suffocating dread fills the room, and then Grandsire leaps to his feet and slams his fists down on the table. “Useless!” he roars at Aemond. “Worse than useless, a saboteur, a curse, a plague, you have ruined everything your Mother and I worked for, Rhaenyra was considering our terms and now you’ve condemned us all!”

“You killed Lucerys Velaryon?” Mother says, stunned. Her large dark eyes glisten with unpardonable betrayal. She’ll never look at him the same way again. “You murdered Rhaenyra’s son? A prince, the heir to Driftmark?”

“It wasn’t murder,” Aemond pleads. “It was…it was combat, it was a battle—”

“A battle with that child?!” Grandsire thunders. Helaena begins to cry, and Aegon places a hand on her wrist as his wide eyes dart around the table. “Everyone’s seen him, it’s no secret, and not a single person in the realm would be delusional enough to believe a clash between Vhagar and Arrax was anything but a slaughter!”

“Aemond,” Criston says quietly, appalled, astonished.

Aemond can’t meet his eyes. He peers down at the table, and despite everything—what will happen to us, what will happen to me?—there is an ache in your chest like cracked ribs trying to heal, a profound lightless distress, a ricochet of the pain he’s feeling. “It wasn’t my intention to harm Luke.”

Grandsire shouts: “Did you give Vhagar the order or not?!”

It feels like a long time before Aemond answers. “No.”

“Oh gods,” Criston says as he sinks down in his chair, turning to Alicent. She has hidden her face with both hands and seems to be weeping.

“So you can’t control Vhagar,” Grandsire seethes. “You ride the largest and most dangerous dragon in the world and you can’t stop her from eating people.”

“I never would have purposefully—”

“But you created the situation! You pursued Luke, you tormented him, and surely somewhere in your sick brain you considered that you were endangering his life! And now… now…now Rhaenyra will be merciless, she will never submit, she will endeavor to destroy us all!”

“It will bring more allies to her side,” Criston says. “They will believe she was wronged, and she will wield that weapon to great advantage. She is cunning.”

“What about your family, Aemond?!” Mother sobs, her face a hectic, bloody pink. “You and your brothers will have to go to war, you might be maimed or butchered, and your sisters and I…we could be taken as prisoners, we could be executed for treason!”

“That will never happen,” he swears; but his pale blue eye is misty, and he bites his lips together so they won’t tremble.

Mother is desperate, tears streaming down her cheeks “What can we do, Father? How can we salvage this?”

Grandsire points to you. “She must be wed immediately. We’ve already waited too long.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Aegon says, but no one is listening.

“Mother,” you beg. “Please don’t let them—”

“She will be married to whoever can help us in this,” Grandsire says. “The Lannisters or the Redwynes or the Swanns, perhaps the Butterwells or the Mootons if that will coax them to our side—”

“Then the realm will burn,” Aemond replies darkly, leaning over the table. “But I’ll come knocking on your door first, Grandsire.”

Grandsire looks at him, startled. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Shall we find out?”

“Otto, please,” Criston says, holding up a palm. Then he considers how to dissuade him. “All things considered—the military strength that Aemond has brought to our side, the devotion that he has shown this family, present circumstances notwithstanding—he has never asked for much.”

“He asks for the one thing we cannot give him,” Grandsire replies, then turns to you. “What do you think about what Aemond has done? This recklessness, this monstrous error?”

He rarely asks for your opinion about anything. This is not a question but a summons: you are supposed to disavow Aemond. You are the one who can hurt him best. Instead you say, though it’s not what you truly feel: “Luke was an enemy. He perished in combat.”

Grandsire, Mother, and Criston all begin yelling at once. Helaena shrinks into herself, her dragonfly made of oak wood clutched to her chest. Aegon whispers something to her—you can leave, you believe he says—but she shakes her head no. You are stoic as the adults berate and implore you, and perhaps it’s strange that you still think of them that way since you’re an adult now too, and yet…their gravity seems so much heavier than yours, their tethers to the earth overgrown with weeds and moss.

“I’ll gut you myself!” Grandsire screams at Aemond, empty threats woven from helpless terror. “I’ll lock you in the Black Cells, I’ll have you banished to Dorne—!”

“I’ll throw a feast!” Aegon says suddenly, and the others go quiet.

“You’ll what?” Grandsire snarls.

“Little Luke Strong is dead and that’s a victory for our side. There’s no other way to look at it.”

“You intend to celebrate this calamity?”

“What else should we do?” Aegon asks. “Apologize? Go crawling on our bellies to Rhaenyra for forgiveness? No, she’d burn us alive. If it’s done, we must embrace it and use it to bolster our cause as much as possible. It was a battle and a victory. Aemond is a war hero. Onto the next objective.”

“What a disaster,” Criston mutters, rubbing his forehead. “Yes, that might be the only option we have.”

Mother clasps the small seven-pointed star that hangs from the gold chain at her throat. “I must go to the sept. I must pray for our survival.”

Grandsire glowers at Aegon. “You are a humiliation.”

“I am the king. I want a feast.”

Grandsire sighs deeply, pushing his chair away from the table. “I suppose I have letters to write.” And then, to Aemond: “When your sisters are captured and enslaved and married off to whichever Black loyalists will pay Rhaenyra and Daemon the most for them, I trust you’ll remember who’s responsible.”

Aemond gets up and storms out of the small council chamber. Mother mops the tears off her face with the sleeves of her green robe. Criston takes one of her hands and is murmuring promises, assurances, perhaps lies. You, Aegon, and Helaena say nothing. None of you can defend what Aemond has done, but you won’t denounce him either.

Then Grandsire grins at you, a cruel bestial flash of his teeth, an old grizzled animal tough from too many winters, icy wind shrieking through the chambers of its heart. “Oh, are you pretending that you’re not about to run after him?”

You don’t reply. But you rise from the table and flee as Mother watches you, her vast eyes swimming with misery.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s a game with five pieces: the green snake, the yellow butterfly, the blue wolf, the red bat, and the purple shadowcat. They chase each other around the board, and if one of the other pieces lands on the same spot as yours then you have to go all the way back to the start.

Daeron is the youngest, but he almost always seems to win; some people are like that, luck flows like a river in their veins. Helaena enjoys playing even if she finished last. Aegon feigns disinterest but never declines an invitation, sliding his snake across the spaces with his index finger between slurps of wine. And sometimes Aemond is ruthless, taking every single opportunity to land on your spot and send your bat hurtling back to the beginning, sawing your legs out from under you, shattering your hopes like glass again and again until you are so frustrated you can feel embers glowing dry and searing in your throat.

But other times, Aemond pretends to misread the dots on the dice so he lands either too close or too far away and you are spared, and if you win he lies and says you deserve it.

~~~~~~~~~~

He is waiting at your bedroom door; when you are close enough to breathe him in, you taste rain and soot. Perhaps—if it isn’t your imagination—you can even detect the coppery tinge of blood, splatters of little Luke Strong soaked into the black leather of his tunic or his coat. You remember that boy you barely knew, more a phantom than flesh, a wraith who stole Aemond’s eye and then was spirited away to Dragonstone to escape retribution, a tiny god who Viserys worshipped from afar the same way he never stopped loving Rhaenyra. All you knew of your father was absence, and this was a sadness but a relief as well, because you could not escape the sense that if he was there you would only disappoint him.

“What is wrong with you?!” you whisper savagely. Aemond smiles and reaches for your face, but you swat his hand away. “Don’t fucking touch me. You’re insane, you’re going to get us all killed—”

He drags you into your bedchamber, kicking the door shut behind him. He’s lean but wiry, all muscle, and when you fight him—although you both know you want him to win—it is in vain. He tugs your hair out of its braid and hauls you across the room, pushes you down on the bed, rips off his coat and tunic and then follows you onto the mattress. You clamber away until you hit the headboard, your spine flat against the wood. As he closes in on you, your palm cracks across the blind side of Aemond’s face, and he grins. You have often thought that it should have been reversed, you wed to Aegon and Aemond to Helaena. You would not be so scandalized by Aegon’s vices; Aemond would be chivalrous with a meek, compliant wife. But alas, Helaena was born first, and the arrangement was set in stone long before any of your natures became apparent.

Aemond unfastens your robe and reaches under your nightgown of white cotton. “Open your legs.”

“No.” It is always this way with him; it always has been. You fight and he vanquishes, and both of you enjoy it.

He forces your thighs apart and you moan, the resistance bleeding out of you, you muscles going soft and yielding, Aemond radiant with this clandestine conquest on a night when nothing else is under his control. He can only love you when you’re tamed and tractable. Sometimes you think he likes that you don’t have a dragon, that your egg never hatched, that all of the unclaimed beasts denied you. You will always be vulnerable, powerless, at his mercy.

You cling to Aemond, your arms around his neck. He knows exactly what you need because you’ve already done this, more times than either of you could count: everything besides what could get you pregnant, and not just because Aemond would rather slit his own throat than have bastards like Rhaenyra’s. It’s something you’re both saving until at last you are married, and no one except The Stranger can separate you.

You gasp and Aemond growls through your hair: “Shh. Hurry up.”

“I missed you.”

“I know.” He doesn’t have to say it back; if he hadn’t missed you, he wouldn’t be here right now, two fingers buried to the knuckles and the heel of his hand grinding against you, almost, almost, almost…

The bedchamber door bangs opens, and Aegon saunters in with a goblet of wine, emeralds gleaming on the rim.

“Stop,” you tell Aemond, but he knows you don’t mean it, not really; beneath your nightgown his hand works faster, more roughly. You sigh and kiss him, deep and messy, surrendering, very close.

Aegon takes a swig of wine, licks the stray drops from his lips, and frowns down at you both, slightly intrigued but mostly nauseated. He cannot fathom a hunger for his own.

Aemond looks to him and says casually: “Do you want something?”

“I do, actually,” Aegon replies. “Were you planning to thank me?”

“Thank you for what?”

“For what I did for you in the council chamber, obviously. For the feast.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“Thank you, Aegon,” you say, and you are sincere.

Aegon raises his goblet in a mock toast. “That’s very kind, Red, but I wasn’t asking you.”

You whimper against Aemond’s throat, embarrassed but in ecstasy, not able to hold off much longer. “Aemond, just thank him.”

“Well I’m a bit preoccupied at the moment.”

“That’s okay,” Aegon says. “I can wait.” He sits at the end of the bed, then bounces up and down a few times. “Oh, this is a great mattress! Very soft, like sleeping on a cloud! Why isn’t mine this nice?”

“Probably because you’ve ejaculated all over it five thousand times,” Aemond says.

“Oh, right,” Aegon jests. “Not quite that frequently, I think.”

“Aemond,” you plead breathlessly. “Just say thank you. Get rid of him.”

Aemond sighs and, with his hand still beneath your nightgown, turns to Aegon. “Thank you.”

Aegon smirks, mischievous. “And how will you repay me?”

“By overcompensating for your shortcomings in order to ensure the enduring success of our family, as I have done since birth.”

“Of course,” Aegon says, though a bit distantly.

Aemond glances down at you and then asks his brother: “Were you hoping to join us?” It’s not a serious question; if Aegon ever tried to touch you with genuine desire, Aemond would break both his arms. Fortunately, Aegon is the closest thing you’ll ever have to a real brother, and thus his limbs are safe.

Aegon chuckles and stands. “No, this is a bit unsavory, even for my taste.” He gulps the last of his wine and says as he leaves: “Enjoy, freaks.”

“Bye, Aegon,” you call, laughing. He waves and then closes the door behind him.

Seconds later—twenty, thirty, time evaporates like mist burned away at dawn—Aemond is making you come, and then you are yanking off his trousers and taking him in your mouth, and when you do this he always has to be touching you, smoothing back your hair, telling you how well you’re doing, and even though he warns you so you can pull away if you choose to, tonight you swallow every last drop of him and think of the sea that Lucerys Velaryon’s scraps tumbled into, the mineral bite of salt and metal and blood.

But when he finishes, Aemond doesn’t collapse like a dead man as he usually does. He throws you onto your back, licks and nuzzles his way down your breasts and belly, parts your legs and murmurs against the inside of your thigh before he begins again: “I want you, I want you, I want you, I can’t wait much longer.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s one of your earliest memories. You are in the garden, and it’s a blazing hot day, and a million varieties of blooms cut through the greenery: goldenrods, orchids, lilies, irises, daisies, bellflowers, red roses, blue forget-me-nots. Butterflies whirl in the air and land on Helaena’s outstretched fingertips. Grandsire is slapping Aegon and calling him an imbecile for trying to pet a bumblebee, and Aegon is wailing: But it’s fuzzy! Why can’t I hold it?!

You must not be very steady on your feet yet, because Aemond is pulling you up by both of your hands and asking: If I ran, do you think you could catch me?

Yes, you had said, and then you’d staggered after him as he darted into the foliage. Under the shade of blossoms and shrubs that towered so much taller than you, you tripped and fell and scraped your palms, one of them bleeding from striking a pebble. You cried out, but no one was there to pick you up: no Mother, no Criston, no Helaena or Aegon. You wept pitifully, thinking—as children do—that you would be lost forever, that you would never see your family again.

But Aemond came back for you, and he studied your bloodied palm, carefully plucking out every grain of brown soil; and then he kissed it, held it against his cheek, painted himself with the scarlet ink of your arteries and veins.

See? he had said, smiling so you knew everything would be okay. Now we’re both red.

~~~~~~~~~~

“How are the babies?” Aemond asks when he arrives, dressed for the feast in a green tunic embroidered with shimmering gold threads in the shapes of dragons, flying, shrieking, breathing fire. Helaena made it for him, of course. Each of you have wardrobes full of garments she’s sewn, a collection of Aegon’s woodcarvings scattered around your rooms, seashell mosaics hanging from walls: insects for Helaena, Sunfyre for Aegon, heroes from myths for Aemond.

You grin over your shoulder. “Come see them.”

It’s dusk now, so they are leaving the roost you keep in one corner of your bedchamber, covered with dark velvet to blot out light and sound as they slumber. Aemond kneels beside you and holds out his hand so River can scurry from your palm into his, clawing with his hooklike appendages. All of your bats are named after blue things—Blueberry, Sailfish, Clear Sky, Bluejay, Misty, Dragonfly, Lagoon, Lightning, Kingfisher—just as Aemond’s hawks and war horses are given names like Fox and Rusty and Cherry and Pomegranate. He is the only one who defends your pets when Mother threatens to banish them back to the Godswood or the seaside cliffs. You have no dragon; you must find solace with some other creature that inspires dread and revulsion. But you think they’re beautiful, and strange, and fearless, and wrongly unloved.

“Let’s move things along,” Aegon says as he appears in the doorway, wearing all green except for the Conqueror’s crown. “No one can dig into the roast boar until the guest of honor enters the Great Hall. So I need Aemond to show up immediately.”

“Almost ready,” Aemond replies without looking away from River, who is now scrambling up his forearm. Lighting takes flight and attempts to land on Aegon’s shoulder; Aegon yelps and flings him away.

“No, you can’t!” you say, rushing across the room to scoop up Lightning and cradle him in your arms. Fortunately, he is unharmed. “I told you, Aegon. They have tiny bones, you have to be gentle or you’ll hurt them.”

Aegon shudders. “They’re fucking disgusting. Rats with wings.”

Aemond sets River on the windowsill, goes to his brother, shoves him hard; Aegon’s back hits the wall. His crown is knocked from his head and clatters against the floor.

“I’m not apologizing,” Aegon insists. “I’m a victim of grave injustice. I was attacked. That thing could have bitten me.”

You say to Aemond in High Valyrian: “Should we do this for a while to annoy him?”

Aemond smiles. “Yes. We should talk a lot. A great amount, we should talk. Very much talking.”

“Hey, hey, stop that,” Aegon says.

“Aemond, what else will they serve besides boar?”

“I heard something about pies.”

“What kinds of pies?”

“Who knows. Maybe apple, or cherry, or plum…”

“Oh, I adore apple pies. Perfect for autumn. I could eat them all day.”

“I could eat you all day.”

“Don’t tease me, or we’ll never make it to the feast.”

Aegon is distressed. “I mean it! Stop!”

“They aren’t saying anything important,” Helaena assures him as she swishes into your bedchamber wearing a butter yellow gown. In her hair are gold pins shaped like ladybugs.

“Okay, but what are they talking about?”

Helaena says matter-of-factly: “Sex and pastries.”

Aegon groans and rolls his eyes. “Why did I ask. Okay, time to go.”

You walk together to the Great Hall, where Helaena and Jaehaera and Grandsire will dance in the center of the floor, and you and Aemond will whisper in shadowy corners, and Mother will peer around worriedly with her large watery eyes as Criston yearns to console her, and Aegon will smile patiently and never scold Jaehaerys when he gets underfoot or spills his pomegranate juice.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s another game, or maybe it’s a ritual; you are a little girl again, and every once in a while, without any warning, Aemond will shove you into a closet or a heavy wooden trunk and lock you inside. You will scream and pound on the door, but no one will hear, and you will spend what feels like hours alone in the darkness, wondering if this will be the time when you are not discovered until you have died of thirst and hunger, until there is nothing left but bones.

Then you hear approaching footsteps and Aemond lets you out, and when you strike and scratch at him he embraces you fiercely, like he’s a soldier who’s been away for a year or more; and he holds you until you stop fighting it and your heartbeat goes quiet in your chest.

[dameronscopilot]

burrowed in under my skin

miguel o'hara x f!reader

summary: years spent apart and a shiny new ring on your finger still don't stand a chance against the way you feel when you look at miguel o'hara.

word count: 2.8k

18+ content: NSFW, smut, infidelity, angst with a hopeful ending, feels, biting, a bit of blood, dirty talk, possessive!miguel, fingering, oral sex (m!receiving), unprotected p in v, sex against a wall!, creampie

A small part of you always knew he would come back. 

Miguel’s hair is wet from the storm raging outside when he silently climbs in through the window in your bedroom, remnants of the rain following him inside. Pausing in the doorway, your breath catches in your throat as your arm freezes midair, fingers aborting their journey toward the light switch on the wall. Your hand drops uselessly back to your side as you tighten your grip on the laundry basket balancing against your hip, eyes roving over the sight of Miguel fucking O’Hara dripping all over your goddamn hardwood floors. 

Bathed in the soft glow of string lights framing the curtains, you feel an ache of concern as your eyes track across a fresh cut along his jaw. It’s a fleeting emotion, one that you quickly stomp down and kick to the side—he’s no longer your concern. 

Briefly, you let your gaze pointedly fall to the rainwater accumulating beneath his sodden form, and the corner of Miguel’s mouth quirks upward so slightly you’re not quite sure if you imagined it. 

He hastily tugs off the scarf that’s around his neck, dropping it to the ground and wiping up the water with his foot. 

“You always did like to clean up your messes,” you comment, your mild tone a direct contrast to the frantic rhythm trembling in your chest. 

He shrugs off his jacket, and you briefly consider shoving him right back out the still-open window as your eyes betray you, greedily roving over the way the damp, white cotton clings to his broad chest. 

“You still leave this window unlocked,” he observes quietly, idly toying with the small plastic lock before sliding it shut. 

“Force of habit,” you mutter, putting the basket down beside your closet and folding your arms across your chest as you turn back to Miguel.

Some things about your room have changed in the years that Miguel has been gone, like the pale blue bedspread that you’d never really liked and the collection of framed photos spread out across the top of your dresser. But there are also things that remain wholly the same, untouched—like your dad’s tattered old hat hanging on the wall and the well-loved, faded copy of Miguel’s favorite book nestled amongst your own collection on a shelf in the corner. 

But there’s something else that’s changed, too. And you catch the exact moment Miguel notices it—his entire body tensing as you curl your left hand against your forearm, the diamond on your finger falling into his line of sight. You let your arms fall back to your sides, hands tightening into fists while something hard reflects across his features. 

“You left.”

He looks away, running a hand through his hair. 

“I know.”

Miguel always left. 

He wasn’t even from your universe, after all. 

You’d gotten used to it, for a while—the stolen moments with him. The starved touches, the desperate kisses, sex that left you aching for him again long after he snuck back out into the night…to another place. Another time. Another plane of existence entirely. 

Just once, you’d pleaded for Miguel to take you with him. To let you pack your bags and leave your life—your universe—behind. 

You would have done it. Would have done anything for him, really. Even though you’d known what his answer would be before the words left his mouth, the weight of the obligations the suit plastered across his chest demanded far outweighing the scraps of borrowed time he stole with you. 

The sorrowful regret in his eyes had been answer enough. 

And when Miguel left that night, you both knew he wasn’t coming back. 

He couldn’t, for both of your sakes. 

So to find him standing in the middle of your bedroom now, each of you taking a step toward one another like you can’t quite help but give in to the magnetic pull of whatever invisible string is now pulled taut once more between you? It leaves you feeling off kilter, shaken. Thrumming with anticipation. You sway just enough that Miguel reaches out an arm to steady you, his grip firm against your shoulder for a heartbeat. 

He’s too late. 

He’s too fucking late. 

Half of your living room is packed neatly into the cardboard boxes piled neatly behind your couch, the kitchen next on your list to dismantle for your impending move across town to your fiancé’s much larger home. The weight of the ring on your finger that you’ve only just grown used to begins to feel foreign again as Miguel takes your hand and gazes down at it. 

“You hate gold,” he muses, taking in the ornate design of a band that, admittedly, isn’t something you would have picked for yourself. 

“It’s growing on me,” you protest as you snatch your hand back, though you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince him or yourself. 

“Hmm.”

It’s a noncommittal sound, one that most would brush off as a bland response. But you know Miguel, can nearly see the thoughts churning in his head by way of the slight tick of his jaw alone. 

“Do you love him?” he asks, the question nearly drowned out by the sound of thunder rumbling outside. 

You don’t know why you hesitate, why you suddenly find it so hard to arrange three letters into one simple word. The word catches on your tongue, stubbornly lodged in the back of your throat and leaving your lips gaping for a beat like a fish out of water. Maybe it’s because you know Miguel won’t hesitate to leave the moment you say it, leaving behind nothing but the licks of rain he brought in his wake. 

Lightning flashes outside, illuminating your face, and he tracks the way you bite your lower lip before you admit, “I don’t know.”

Miguel takes another step forward, close enough that you can feel the warm caress of his body heat. Shamelessly, you inhale as his familiar scent curls around you, something inside of you cracking open in response. 

“Tell me to leave,” he murmurs, lifting a hand and running his callused thumb along the curve of your jaw. 

But you don’t. 

You can’t. 

Instead, you tilt your head to the side, drawing an audible intake of breath from the man in front of you as you expose your neck to him. He curses quietly, and you can feel the faintest whisper of claws against your cheek before he leans in. 

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, voice rough as his lips ghost over the shell of your ear. 

You ignore him, pressing close enough that you can feel the steady beating of his heart in his chest. A sound of frustration leaves Miguel, one of his hands coming to grasp at your waist as he wars with the rapidly dissolving dregs of his self control. 

A shiver crawls up your spine at the feeling of his fangs trailing down your neck, coming to a stop at the curve of your shoulder. He pulls his head back slightly, running two fingers over the place where the smooth expanse of your skin is disrupted by the feeling of slightly raised scar tissue. And you can’t help it, the breathy little sound you let out at the memory of him sinking his teeth into you while he fucked you. The way your lips part at the undeniably possessive way he kisses the spot, flicking his tongue over it.

Miguel pulls away again, eyes meeting yours. There’s a note of desperation his tone when he asks, “Where is he?”

For a moment, you have no idea what he’s talking about, no recollection of why you shouldn’t be doing this until he threads his hand with yours and jostles the ring on your finger. 

And as horrible as it is, you can’t bring yourself to care as you look right back at him, gaze unwavering when you respond, “He’s not here.”

A part of you will always belong to Miguel O’Hara, no matter what universe he’s in. 

It’s the part of you that’s felt so fucking empty every single day that he’s been gone. The dull ache that bloomed sharp and hot the moment you laid eyes upon him tonight, flaring back to life like a wildfire across your chest. 

“I missed you,” you admit on a quiet exhale. 

A nearly imperceptible shudder runs through him as he rests his forehead against yours and rasps, “I’m sorry.”

And when he eventually cups your face in both of his hands, the raging storm outside goes wholly silent as he lets one last question dance in his eyes. 

Do you still want this?

Your head’s barely begun to dip with a nod before Miguel’s lips crash against yours, the rest of your world slipping away under the swift current of desperation in his kiss. For all his reservations moments prior, there’s nothing hesitant in the way his mouth claims yours, tongue flirting with the seam of your mouth as he grasps the back of your head. And you can’t help it, the way you go pliant under his touch, your needy whimper in response to the pointed tug of his fangs on your bottom lip. The shameless way you rock into the thick thigh he slots between your legs, your silk sleep shorts helpless against the firm denim of his jeans. 

“Missed you so much,” he groans against your mouth, his palm a searing brand as it presses into the dip of your lower back. 

“Miguel,” you breathe, caught somewhere between a whine and a moan.

A soft growl escapes him at the sound of his name on your lips, both of his hands now firmly grasping your hips, the firm outline of his cock pressing into you. There’s nothing subtle about the way you gasp into his mouth, chasing the delicious friction. 

He reaches between you, cupping your clothed cunt with his hand and rasping, “Missed this, too.”

You know he can feel how wet you are already, arousal soaking clean through your underwear, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Not when he’s slipping a finger up through your shorts and tugging your panties aside to tease at your slit, pupils dilating with lust at the sticky squelch of his digit sliding through your folds. 

“Always so wet for me, baby,” he murmurs, his other hand sliding one of the thin straps of your tank top down your shoulder. He pulls your breast out, dragging his thumb over your peaked nipple as he continues, “Do you get this wet for him, too?”

Mind drifting to the bottle of lube tucked in your bedside drawer, you shake your head, “No.”

A sound of satisfaction rumbles in Miguel’s chest while he moves aside the other strap, letting both of your breasts spill free for him to grasp and massage. 

At the feeling of his finger circling your fluttering entrance, you don’t care how desperate you sound as you whimper, “Please, Miguel.”

He doesn’t hesitate to oblige, lips slotting against yours to swallow down your keening moan when he plunges a thick finger into your dripping cunt. Lace panties straining against the stretch of his hand tugging them aside, you rock into his touch, threading one of your hands into his hair. 

Miguel groans as you pull at the strands, “Gonna make you feel so fucking good tonight,” slipping another finger into the wet heat between your thighs.

You head spins with pleasure as he plunges his digits in and out of your aching cunt, more slippery arousal dripping into his palm with each and every stroke. Whether it’s a testament to how badly you missed him or just how well he knows your body, it doesn’t take long for the coiled knot of pleasure in your gut to burst open, your climax rippling through your body the moment his thumb begins to massage your aching clit. 

“That’s it baby, come for me,” he croons, the tone of his voice like liquid fire in your veins. “Get that pretty pussy nice and wet for my cock.”

Legs still trembling, you drop to your knees before Miguel can lead you toward the bed, fingers scrambling to tug down his jeans. Miguel’s hips cant forward as you begin to mouth at the tip of his cock through his boxers, lapping at the wet spot of precum staining the material while you grip his thick shaft. 

You know it’s a battle of restraint for Miguel to hold still as you slide off his boxers, eyes hungrily taking in his hard, flushed cock, cunt already clenching again in anticipation of feeling his length stretching you open. He breathes heavily when you slowly begin to take his length into your mouth, lips parting wide to accommodate as much of him as you can take. A salty spurt of precum hits your tongue, and you begin to lap at his cock, wrapping your fingers around the base and bobbing on his shaft just the way you know he likes it. 

There’s something about sucking Miguel’s dick that you’ve always loved—the feeling of this powerful man shivering and moaning with pleasure at your touch. The way he brushes a hand along your face as you take him deeper, wiping away the tears that prick at the corners of your eyes as he nears the back of your throat. The taste of his cum as he spills his hot load into your waiting mouth. 

But you know you won’t be getting that far right now, not when your cunt’s still waiting for him to bury his cock in it, a fresh wave of arousal leaking down your thighs. 

As if on cue, Miguel pulls you to your feet, lips claiming yours hungrily as he backs you up to a wall. He makes quick work of your clothes as you tear off his shirt before he lifts you up, and you wrap your legs around his waist. And despite how many times you’ve fantasized about this feeling in his absence, when he notches the head of his cock at your entrance, nothing can compare to the feeling of him splitting your empty, needy cunt open once again. 

You cry out his name, fingers leaving scratches down his back when you grip him tightly, rocking into him, moaning and whimpering with each thrust. Miguel kisses you hard as he fucks you against the wall, quickly finding a relentless pace to satisfy your desperate pleas for him to fuck you harder. 

“I bet he doesn’t fuck you like this, does he?” he breathes out heavily, sweat on his brow. “Doesn’t know how to make that pretty little face cockdrunk and begging for it.”

He snaps his hips upward so hard you almost see stars, your tits bouncing with each deep plunge. 

“No,” you shake your head, whimpering. “Only you, Miguel.”

A possessive growl tears from his lips at that, and he takes your left hand, eyes narrowing as he grips the ring on your finger. 

“Mine,” he breathes out, lips slotting against yours, tongue sliding into your mouth. 

And when a picture frame hanging on the wall goes crashing to the floor, your back arching into Miguel, you whisper, “Yours,” just as he sinks his teeth right into that same spot at the junction between your shoulder and neck. 

You cry out when he bites down, slamming his cock inside of your fucked out cunt to the hilt, and as a warm trickle of blood drips down your breast, your soaked, sloppy walls clench down on his cock with an orgasm that leaves you sobbing in pleasure. Your name is a broken sound on Miguel’s lips as he moans it, hips jerking into you one last time as he climaxes, spilling hot ropes of cum deep inside of you. 

He peppers soft, soothing kisses along your face and licks at the shallow wound on your shoulder as he pulls out of you and gingerly sets you back down on the floor. You’re so dazed in the aftermath, so sated that you miss the tensing of his shoulders—a reaction to a sound you can’t quite hear. Not yet. 

Not until a key scratches in the front door, shoes brushing against the mat in the entryway. 

Miguel tucks you into the robe hanging beside your closet, determination sparkling in his eyes as he brushes his thumb across your bottom lip before leaning in to kiss you again. 

“I’ll be back,” he murmurs against your mouth, hands trailing over the tender spot on your neck. 

And before you can say another word, he’s gone, the sound of the now calm rain filtering in through your window left just slightly ajar. A trail of Miguel’s cum begins to slide down the inside of your thighs just as your bedroom door swings open. 

—

Comments, reblogs, and/or asks are always appreciated! » OSCAR ISAAC MASTERLIST

[l4ndonorizz]

looser cooks dinner / lando norris

pairing: lando norris x reader

song: blindheart - digital memories

summary: a rainy day ruins lando’s plans, so he crashes yours instead. What starts as trivia and teasing quickly turns into a game of "never have I ever"—and things get a little too real when feelings get involved

wc: 2k

The steady rhythm of rain pattering against your window was the only sound in your cozy living room as you sat curled up on the couch, flipping absentmindedly through your phone. The plans you'd made for the day were officially canceled thanks to the downpour outside, and you’d resigned yourself to a quiet afternoon indoors. A little disappointed, sure, but a rainy day at home wasn’t the worst thing.

Just as you were about to settle into a Netflix binge, a familiar sound pulled your attention—someone knocking at your door. You frowned, glancing out the window where the rain was coming down even harder now. Who would be out in this weather?

When you opened the door, your frown melted into surprise. Standing there, completely drenched but grinning like an idiot, was Lando Norris. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his hoodie soaked through, and droplets of rainwater dripped from his nose. Despite his bedraggled state, he looked utterly unbothered.

"Lando?" you said, struggling not to laugh. "What are you doing here? It’s pouring!"

Lando shrugged, wiping the rain from his face with the back of his hand. “My plans got canceled,” he said, stepping into your apartment without waiting for an invitation. “Figured I’d come to hang out with you instead.”

You closed the door behind him, shaking your head in disbelief. "You didn’t think to call first? I could’ve told you to stay dry."

He grinned, kicking off his soaked shoes. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You sighed, grabbing a towel and tossing it at him. "You’re ridiculous."

Lando caught the towel mid-air, already rubbing it over his hair, water droplets falling onto your hardwood floor. "Yeah, but you love me for it," he teased, winking in your direction.

Your heart did that stupid little flip it always seemed to do whenever he was around. Rolling your eyes, you walked toward the kitchen, trying to ignore the way your stomach fluttered. "Do you want some tea or something? You look like a drowned rat."

"Sure. I’ll take whatever you’re having," he called out, following you and dragging the towel through his hair. "What were you up to before I heroically saved you from a boring afternoon?"

You laughed, filling the kettle. "Heroic, huh? I was just about to put on a movie or something. Not exactly thrilling."

“Good thing I showed up, then,” Lando said, leaning against the counter and flashing that mischievous smile that always made your heart race. “I make everything more exciting.”

You shot him a playful look. "Big words for someone who looks like they just swam through a monsoon."

He smirked, his eyes sparkling as he leaned in slightly. "Maybe I just wanted an excuse to come see you."

Your breath caught in your throat at the teasing glint in his eyes, but before you could respond, Lando pulled back, grabbing the tea towel hanging by the sink and starting to dry off his arms.

The kettle whistled, saving you from having to come up with a reply. As you poured the tea, the atmosphere in the room shifted, the rain outside creating a soft backdrop to the moment between you two.

“So,” Lando said, breaking the quiet as he sat at your small kitchen table, “what’s the plan, then? You got a movie picked out, or are we improvising?”

You handed him a steaming mug and shrugged, sitting down across from him. “Depends. Are you in the mood for something chill, or are you going to make us do something ridiculous?”

Lando’s grin widened, his playful side kicking in. “You know me too well. I was thinking…we could go for a walk. Maybe grab some food somewhere.”

“In this rain?” you raised an eyebrow. “You’re not dragging me out in that mess.”

“Okay,” he said, sipping his tea. “what about some indoor games? But…” He leaned in, his eyes twinkling with mischief, “only if we make it interesting. Loser cooks dinner.”

You laughed, already feeling the competitive spark in the air. "What games?"

You handed him a steaming mug of tea and shrugged. “Depends. Are you in the mood for something chill, or are you gonna make us do something ridiculous?”

Lando’s eyes lit up with mischief as he took a sip. “How about we play a game? Trivia quiz, but we make it interesting. Loser has to spill a secret.”

You raised an eyebrow, already feeling the competitive tension in the air. "Trivia? You really think you can beat me?"

He leaned forward, his grin widening. "I don't think—I know."

With a roll of your eyes, you grabbed your phone to pull up a random trivia app. “Alright, Norris, let’s see what you’ve got.”

The game started off light—questions about history, geography, and random pop culture tidbits. Every time Lando got an answer right, he made sure to flash you that cocky grin, and every time he got one wrong, you made sure to gloat just a little.

“So,” you said, smirking after he missed a question about 80s pop music, “looks like you owe me a secret.”

Lando leaned back in his chair, pretending to think deeply before giving you a cheeky grin. “Alright. Secret time. Sometimes, I forget which way the track goes.”

You burst out laughing, nearly spilling your tea. “Seriously?”

He laughed too, holding up his hands. “Okay, okay. Only once! And it was during practice. Not during a race!”

The game continued, with you winning most of the rounds. Lando’s competitiveness flared as the trivia questions became harder, and you could see him getting more serious with each wrong answer.

But then he smirked. “Let’s switch it up. Enough with trivia. How about we play 'Never Have I Ever'? Or are you too scared?”

You narrowed your eyes, accepting the challenge immediately. “Scared? Please. Let’s do it.”

Lando leaned forward, his grin widening. “Alright. I’ll go first. Never have I ever... thrown up after a race.”

You hesitated for a second before raising your hand in mock defeat. “Fine, you got me. I haven’t.”

Lando nodded, pleased with himself. “Your turn.”

“Never have I ever… crashed a go-kart into a wall,” you shot back with a teasing smile.

Lando’s face turned a bit pink, and he raised his hand sheepishly. “I was 11, alright? It was an accident.”

You both laughed, but as the game progressed, the questions got more personal, more daring. The atmosphere between you two shifted slightly, becoming more intimate, more...charged.

Lando’s eyes sparkled as he spoke next. “Never have I ever kissed someone I really liked but pretended it didn’t mean anything.”

You paused, your heart skipping a beat. There was something in the way he said it, like it wasn’t just part of the game anymore.

You raised your hand slowly, feeling a flush creep up your neck. Lando’s eyes flickered with interest, and the tension in the room seemed to heighten. You couldn’t help but ask, “What about you?”

He didn’t raise his hand, just sat there, staring at you. His playful smirk faded, replaced by something quieter, more serious.

“Never have I ever…” Lando started, but this time his voice was softer. His gaze met yours, holding it for just a little too long. “Fallen for a best friend and didn’t know what to do about it.”

Your heart pounded in your chest. The rain outside, the cozy warmth of the kitchen, and the playful banter from before felt like a backdrop to the sudden shift between you two. You couldn’t look away from him, and the quiet confession in his eyes made your pulse race.

Neither of you raised a hand.

The air was thick with unsaid words, and for the first time, the comfortable dynamic you’d always had felt different—heavier, like you were both standing on the edge of something.

"Lando," you started, unsure of what to say next, but he cut you off, his voice soft but steady.

“I didn’t come here just because my plans were canceled,” he admitted, his gaze never wavering from yours. “I wanted to see you.”

The words hung in the air between you, and you realized in that moment that everything had changed. Somewhere between the laughter and the silly games, the lines between friendship and something more had blurred.

You didn’t know what to say. The playful banter from earlier was gone, replaced with an intensity you weren’t prepared for. You opened your mouth to respond, but Lando stood up, closing the distance between you and taking your hand gently.

He smiled softly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "Never have I ever… been this nervous."

You stared at him, your heart racing, and without thinking, you reached up and placed your other hand on his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin.

“Well,” you whispered, “you’re not alone.”

And with that, you leaned in, the distance between you disappearing as you kissed him, the rain outside a quiet backdrop to the moment you'd both been waiting for, without even knowing it.

The kiss was soft at first, hesitant, like you were both testing the waters. But when Lando’s hand slid up to gently cup your cheek, everything shifted. The hesitation melted away, and you deepened the kiss, feeling the warmth of his lips against yours. The rain outside seemed to fade into the background, leaving just the two of you in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

Lando pulled you closer, his other hand resting on your waist as the kiss grew more intense. The soft hum of the rain and the warmth of the room seemed to wrap around you both, creating a bubble where nothing else existed.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, Lando rested his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed as he whispered, “That was… not how I expected today to go.”

You laughed softly, your hands still resting on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. “Yeah, me neither.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The room was filled with the comfortable silence that only came after something long overdue. Lando opened his eyes slowly, his thumb brushing over your cheek as he looked at you with a tenderness that made your heart race all over again.

“What happens now?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lando smiled softly, his eyes flickering down to your lips before meeting your gaze again. “Now… I think we stop pretending this is just friendship.”

Your breath hitched in your throat, the weight of his words settling in. “You mean…?”

He nodded, his smile growing. “Yeah. I mean… I’ve liked you for a while now. Just didn’t know how to say it.”

You blinked, the realization hitting you like a wave. All the little moments, the teasing glances, the playful flirting—it had all meant something more. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Lando chuckled softly, his hand dropping to yours. “I wasn’t exactly subtle.”

You smiled, feeling the tension between you unravel into something lighter, more certain. “I guess I was too busy pretending I didn’t feel the same.”

Lando’s grin widened, and he leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “Well, now that we’ve cleared that up…”

You couldn’t help but laugh, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks. “Now what?”

“Well,” Lando said, glancing around the kitchen, “I did promise we’d cook dinner. And since you technically beat me in trivia…”

You raised an eyebrow, stepping back slightly but keeping your hand in his. “Oh, no. You’re still cooking. I won fair and square.”

Lando pouted dramatically, but there was a playful glint in his eyes. “Fine. But you’re helping.”

You couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across your face as you nodded. “Deal.”

[imaginaryf1shots]

Unreplacable | Fernando Alonso

WC: 3.9K

Fernando x exGF!reader

Summery: "I love you." "You'll move on."

Warning: drinking? idk

A part of my 1K Celebrations

Masterlist

Fernando Masterlist

The rain tapped harshly against the windows, the weather matching the atmosphere in the dimly lit living room. The room that held so many memories in it, a part of  your home. Or the place that was once your home, after today it’ll be longer your home, evident by the suitcases by the front door. You stood by the window your back to Fernando as you struggled to keep your tears in, you had to keep your composure. The decision you took seems heavier than ever now.

This decision was a long time coming, your relationship with Fernando has been suffering for a while now. Your once bubbly and happy relationship has been filled with nothing but fights and lonely nights lately, and it’s something you can’t take any more. You and Fernando talked about it many times before, and no matter what he said or what you said the both of you wouldn’t change. You both didn’t want to compromise and it was killing your relationship faster than you both could comprehend.

Fernando, whose face is a mix of frustration and heartbreak, paced the room with a restless energy. He came from a race weekend to see your bags ready to go, his house void of all the touches you added over the years, everything that is yours is gone, just like you’re about to be. His footsteps were the only sound besides the rain breaking the silence. Before he finally stopped and turned to face you. Your back is still to him.

“So this is final?” Fernando asks you, you sigh and turn to look at him, he’s standing on the other side of the room, his eyes searching for some sign of the love that had once filled this space, that had once filled you both.

“Yes, it’s for the best.” You say and avert your eyes, telling yourself; yes this is the best choice you both have. If you wait any longer and kind of respect or love you hold for each other will disintegrate and grow as hatred and resentment.

“I love you.” He said, his voice trembling slightly. The words hung in the air, fragile and heavy, like the rain outside. You took a deep breath trying to keep your composure, to keep your voice steady despite the turmoil inside, placing your hand on the window behind you trying to anchor yourself, seeking stability to face the emotional storm that’s in front of you.

“You’ll move on. We both will, love isn’t enough anymore.” You replied, the finality of your words echoing through the room.

Fernando’s gaze fell to the floor, his shoulders sagging with the weight of your decision. He knew deep down that this was the end, and that it’s the right choice but it didn't make it any less hard. The love that had once seemed so unbreakable now felt like a distant memory, slipping through his fingers like the rainwater tracing paths down the window.

In that moment the reality of the separation hits you both, leaving behind an empty, aching silence. The warmth of the past was gone, and the future seemed uncertain and bleak.

5 months later

You never thought you’d get into a relationship with another driver, granted he’s retired now, but an F1 driver nonetheless. He was just at the right place and at the right time with the right information. Jensen asked you out at a moment where you just wanted to move on, and you thought to yourself why the heck not. 

And you’re so glad that you did.

You haven’t felt like this in so long, you’re very giddy. The relationship with Jensen felt like a breath of fresh air. After the painful breakup with Fernando, you were drowning in memories, suffocated by the weight of what you lost. Jensen was like a lifeline, someone who offered you a chance to escape the relentless ache that had taken root in your heart.

His smile was a welcome distraction, his attention a balm to your bruised emotions. There was a certain lightness in your interactions, a simplicity that felt like a relief after the intensity of what you had shared with Fernando. With him, there were no complicated histories or lingering doubts, just the easy banter and the comfort of being wanted.

You threw herself into the relationship, hoping that if you just kept moving forward, you wouldn’t have to look back. There was a spark of excitement, the rush of new beginnings, and for a while, it was enough. You convinced yourself that this could work, that this new connection could heal your heartache.

Was there a bit of doubt that crept in in the darkness of your bedroom when you’re alone? Yes. And you couldn’t shake it no matter what. It was like a small voice inside of you kept saying that this wasn’t real, that you were simply running from the pain rather than truly healing from it. You haven’t given yourself time for yourself and for you to not love Fernando anymore. But you ignored it all, burying the unease beneath layers of forced smiles and laughter.

You wanted to believe that this new relationship could fill the void Fernando had left behind. But deep down, even in the beginning, you knew you were fooling yourself. Jensen was kind, attentive, and everything you should want in a partner, but your heart was still tied to someone else. And no matter how much you tried to pretend otherwise, the shadow of Fernando lingered, a constant reminder of what you had lost and what you were trying so hard to forget.

The sun broke through the clouds as if determined to erase the gloom of the previous days. You sat across from him, Jensen who had effortlessly swept into your life. His smile was charming, his laughter infectious, and for a while, he was everything you needed to forget.

The restaurant was bright and bustling. Plates of food were served, drinks were poured, and the noise of the surrounding conversations created a comfortable distance from the heavy silence that had settled in your heart. Jensen reached across the table, his fingers lightly brushing against yours. 

“What are you thinking about?” He asked, his voice warm and inviting. You forced a smile, pulling your hand back to lift your glass of wine. 

“Just enjoying the moment,” You lied, taking a sip to avoid his searching gaze.

He didn’t press further, leaning back in his chair with a contented sigh. “This place is great. I’m glad we came here.”

You nodded, your eyes drifting to the window. Outside, people passed by, oblivious to the turmoil within you. The world was moving on, and you were supposed to as well. But every time you tried to lose yourself in this new relationship, Fernando’s shadow loomed large, casting doubt over every smile, every touch.

A few days later, you and Jensen strolled through a serene park, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the path. The sound of children playing and birds chirping filled the air, but it all felt distant to you.

“Isn’t this nice?” He asked, squeezing your hand as you walked side by side. “It’s been a while since I’ve had time to just relax like this.”

You nodded, offering a small smile. “It is nice.” You agreed, though your mind was elsewhere. The last time you had visited a park, it had been with Fernando. You remembered how he had laughed when a dog had run up to him, trying to steal the sandwich from his hand. You had both ended up sitting on the grass, sharing what was left of your lunch, and talking about everything and nothing.

“Hey, are you listening?” Jensen’s voice broke through your thoughts, pulling you back to the present.

“Sorry, I was just thinking about something.” You replied, feeling a pang of guilt.

“You’re always so deep in thought.” He chuckled softly. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing important.” You lied again, forcing yourself to focus on him. He was here, now, and he deserved your attention. He led you to a bench under a large oak tree, where you both sat down. The air was filled with the scent of freshly cut grass, and the gentle breeze ruffled your hair. He turned to you, his expression softening. 

“I really like spending time with you, you know.” Jensen said, his voice sincere. “I feel happy and light whenever we’re together.”

“I like spending time with you too.” You wanted to respond with something equally heartfelt, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you nodded, offering another smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.  But as you said it, the words felt hollow, like an echo in an empty room. You looked away, your eyes catching on a couple nearby, sitting close together, lost in their own world. You envied them, envied the ease with which they seemed to connect. It was the same ease you had once shared with Fernando.

That evening, the two of you found yourselves at a trendy rooftop bar, the city skyline glittering in the distance. The atmosphere was lively, with groups of friends laughing and couples huddled together, sharing intimate conversations. Jensen seemed to thrive in this environment, effortlessly engaging with the bartender and the other patrons around you.

“You’ve got to try this cocktail.” He said, handing you a glass filled with a vibrant pink liquid. “It’s their signature drink here.”

You took the glass, your fingers brushing against his as you did. He was trying so hard to make this work, to make you happy, and you couldn’t fault him for that. But as you took a sip, the sweetness of the drink felt cloying, a poor substitute for the bitter truth you were beginning to accept.

“You like it?” He asked, his eyes searching yours for approval.

“It’s good.” You replied, though the flavour barely registered. Your thoughts were miles away, replaying the last time you and Fernando had gone out for drinks. You remembered how he had teased you for ordering the same thing every time, his playful smirk making you blush.

“Are you okay?” Jensen’s voice brought you back once more, concern etched in his features.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just... a lot on my mind.” You set the glass down on the bar, taking a deep breath. 

He nodded, but the light in his eyes dimmed slightly, as if he knew there was something you weren’t telling him. “You know you can talk to me, right? About anything.”

You appreciated his offer, and you felt guilty for not giving him the same attention he’s giving you, but the words felt like a foreign language in your mouth. “I know. Thank you.”

As the night wore on, the conversation became more stilted, the laughter forced. You both tried to keep the evening light, but your unresolved emotions were impossible to ignore. By the time you left the bar, the air between you was thick with unspoken tension.

The following week, you attended a charity gala together, one of those events that required formal attire and polite conversation. You wore a dress that you’d bought specifically for the occasion, hoping it would make you feel different, more like the person you were trying to become.

Jensen was at your side, looking sharp in his suit, his hand resting comfortably on your lower back as you mingled with the other guests. He introduced you to colleagues and sponsors, making sure you were never left out of the conversation. He was attentive, charming, everything a date should be.

But as the evening progressed, you found it harder and harder to keep up the pretence. The small talk felt draining, the laughter around you too loud, too hollow. You excused yourself at one point, retreating to the restroom for a moment of solitude.

You stared at your reflection in the mirror, trying to recognize the person staring back at you. The makeup, the dress, the carefully crafted smile, it was all just a mask, hiding the turmoil beneath. You took a deep breath, feeling the tightness in your chest, and wondered how long you could keep pretending.

When you returned to the gala, Jensen was waiting for you near the dance floor. He smiled when he saw you, holding out his hand. “Dance with me?”

You hesitated for a moment before taking his hand. He led you onto the dance floor, where other couples were swaying to the slow, romantic music. He pulled you close, his arm around your waist, and you rested your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes as you tried to lose yourself in the moment.

But as you moved together, the music a soft hum in your ears, all you could think about was how different this felt. With Fernando, dancing had always been spontaneous, filled with laughter and playful teasing. It had been about more than just the steps, it had been about the connection, the unspoken understanding between you.

The song ended, and you pulled back, offering him a small smile. 

“I need some air.” You said softly, stepping away before he could respond.

You made your way outside, the cool night air a welcome relief from the stifling atmosphere inside. The city stretched out before you, the lights twinkling like distant stars. You leaned against the railing, taking in the view, but your mind was elsewhere.

Your phone buzzed in your hand, and you glanced down to see a message from Jensen. 

‘Where’d you go? Miss you already.’

 The words, once endearing, now felt like a weight pulling you down. You sighed, slipping your phone back into your clutch without responding.

It wasn’t fair to him, you realised. He deserves someone who could give him their whole heart, not just the pieces left behind. But you weren’t ready to confront that truth yet, so you plastered on a smile and returned to the party, determined to keep up the facade for a little while longer.

Fernando is pulled by his friends to the club, they insisted he had to go out and forget about you. And there has been rumours that you're already dating, some saying you're with Jenson. He tried to not think about it and he hoped it was all false. Walking into the VIP section, he's pulled to the bar straight away, they all order their drinks. Fernando didn't really want to get drunk, so when his drink came he just sipped on it. Looking at the dance floor, his eyes taking in the dancing bodies, swaying, twerking and grinding. His eyes fall on a familiar head of hair, squinting in the lowlights of the club, the person turns and there's no mistake it's you. His breath catches in his throat, he blinks a few times. The smile on your face is undeniable, your body is moving to the beat of the music. You step to the side just a bit and Fernando's blood turns cold, there he is. The rumours are true after all. Jenson's hands move to your hips pulling you closer. Your arms wrap around his neck loosely as you move.

Fernando drowns the rest of his drink before he turns and order's another one, his friends cheer him on. Fernando refuses to dance, but he keeps his eyes on you. No matter how hard he tried to ignore you and ignore how close you and Jenson are. You go to the table you share with Jenson, who then heads to the other side of the bar, across from where he's standing, ordering drinks for the both of you before he heads back to the table. Fernando could tell that the drink is not something you usually like to drink.

He turns to his friends but when he next glances in your direction he sees you sipping your drink. He smiles to himself, he knows you better than anyone, better than he knows himself even. Time goes by, with Fernando keeping an eye on you, the only time you escape his eye is when he heads to the bathroom. The music is dull in the bathroom relieving his headache, and giving him a moment to think. Fernando stares at himself in the mirror, he's confused, he's hurt. How can you move on so fast? How can you be happy, when he's still hurting?

Splashing water on his face he takes a long breath and leaves the bathroom, wanting to end the night, he'll say his goodbyes and leave the club. While he's heading out of the bathroom, a body hits him. He stumbles back a few steps, his arms go out to steady the other person, he takes a breath and freezes, he knows this smell. He looks down and your eyes meet his. Yours go wide, clearly you haven't noticed him at all though the night, while he had his eyes on you the whole time.

"N-nando?" You mutter confused, he could tell you're a bit drunk.

"Hi." His heart skips a beat at his nickname coming out of your lips so easily. His arms are still around you, and neither one of you tries to move. You've sprayed the perfume Fernando got you on your first anniversary and you've been rebuying since then.

"Hey." You breathe out, your eyes not straying away from him. You hear someone rounding the corner, you both take a step back from each other, Fernando's arms fall by his sides. They're itching to fall back on your waist. Where they made themselves home for so long. "How are you?"

"I'm alright." Fernando says and he takes all of you in, you're as beautiful as ever. "How about you?"

“I'm okay”

“Good, that's good.” He says and you stand in silence for a moment.

“I-uh- I need to go to the bathroom.” You say pointing to the bathroom at the end of the hallway. yeah, of course. Fernando wanted to say so many things but it seemed like he couldn't get his mouth to move, for any sound to come out. "Bye.”

"Bye." Once more Fernando watched you walk away and once more he couldn't stop you.

Fernando leaves the club. When you get back to Jensen you ask him to go, he agrees immediately, he picked up on your change of mode.

Two days later

Jensen is at your house, you called him telling him you needed to talk. He had a feeling what the talk was about, he's not stupid.

"Hi." Jensen says leaning in for a quick hug, before you both make your way to the living room. The mood is sombre, you both sit down on the sofa facing each other. Your emotions have been conflicted and knotted up for so long, and no matter what you did to untangle them or pick them apart you couldn't. You couldn't move on, you couldn't stop loving Fernando, you couldn't keep him out of your thoughts. Day and night you thought of him, he's consuming your life. It's like an addiction, you're addicted to him and being with him is what quilled that addiction, now that he's far away, your need for him intensified.

Your relationship with Jenson has been nothing but a distraction, you know it's unfair to Jensen, you've known for a long time. The selfish part of you made you stay even though you knew you couldn't give him what he wanted, what he deserved.

Looking at the man you've been fooling for months, you felt claustrophobic, like the walls around you were closing in. Your emotions were bubbling, it was harder to breathe. Jensen places his hand on top of yours and you meet his eyes. Jensen gave you the kindest smile, making the guilt chew you up.

"It's okay, I know." He says softly, your eyes well with tears and your lips wobble. "It's okay."

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." You manage to say getting choked up. Jensen scotches closer to you and pulls you in for a hug. Here you are breaking up with him, and he's the one comforting you. "I thought I'd get over him."

"I know." Jensen knows you're not a bad person, and when he asked you out, you were hesitant but he insisted. He thought you'd get over Fernando, guess, you were both wrong. "I thought so too."

"You've been super nice to me, and I've been nothing but an asshole, oh god, I can't believe how much you've endured because of me, I'm so sorry Jensen truly, I didn't mean to." You ramble pulling away from Jensen so you could face him.

"I know you didn't mean to, I know you y/n, I know who you are, and how you're like, believe me, I do." Jensen said, patting your hand. "It just wasn't meant to be.

"I'm s-"

"If you say sorry, one more time, I'm not going to forgive you." Jensen cuts you off and you give him a tear, sad smile. Jensen gets up and heads to the door, he opens it, but before he steps out he stops and turns to look at you. "Do me a favour?"

"Of course."

"Talk to him." You don't have to ask to know who he's talking about. You nod and give him a smile, before he closes the door and he's out of your life.

You don't deserve him, he isn't mean for you. Whoever he ends up with will be a lucky woman. 

It's the weekend, and you find yourself at a pub you and Fernando always went to together, it's small and discreet. Not once have you been recognized. It was a place you both went to when you wanted to drink out of your house. Walking into the familiar place, nostalgia hits you, the familiar scent and the dim warm lighting you know very well.

Walking up to the bar, your eyes go to the booth you usually shared with Fernando, your backs to the door and the pub, it's empty. You tear your eyes from it and to the bar where you want to spend the night. On a stool, sits the back of a man you know so well. You both came here, it may be a coincidence, but like in the club you like to think it's fate, it's a sign. You take the chair next to him, and wave the bartender over.

Fernando frowns, there's so many empty chairs, why did it have to be the one next to him that's taken. He doesn't bother to look up from his half empty cup. When your voice reaches his ears to the familiar order of your favourite drink, he thinks he's hallucinating. He only had one drink and he didn't even finish his glass. Fernando takes a deep breath and he smells the familiar perfume. It's you. With your drink placed in front of you, and your arms on the bar top, Fernando hesitates. He second guesses himself before he places his hand on yours, you turn your hand and lace your fingers together. The relief is evident in his eyes, you both look at each other, a tearful smile on your face, as Fernando releases a deep sigh.

"I'm sorry." You mumble, Fernando shakes his head no. He stands up and turns your chair so he's standing between your legs, His hand cups the back of your head while the other goes to your waist.

"I'm so sorry." He mumbles in your hair, he presses a kiss to your forehead. "I should've tried harder."

"I also should've tried harder, we both need to work on us." You tell him and he agrees with you. "God. Fernando, I can't live without you."

"I can't live without you too, amor."

Maintaglist:

@gnatthefly . @mochimommy2002 . @llando4norris . @mrswolffs-blog . @barcelonaloverf1life . @c-losur3 . @xoscar03 . @schniti-is-in-the-house . @lottalove4evelyn . 

[hobiebrownismygod]

My Favorite Underdog

Hobie Brown x Fem!Reader

TW: established relationship?? Hobie's not Spider-man in this, just some dude, cursing, something about domestic, no powers, underdog Hobie just has my heart I love it so much

___________________

You sat down at your desk one lonely night, scrolling through your phone in the dim light emanating from your table lamp. You were tired, but a few more minutes wouldn't hurt, right? You needed to relax, especially after such a stressful day at school.

The rain was pouring outside, making your room seem even toastier with the contrast between freezing cold and a blanket-covered warmth enough to make your head dizzy and your eyes droop.

The patter of raindrops on your window was loud enough to keep you awake though, loud enough that they sort of sounded like knocks.

Oh wait...they were knocks.

You glanced over at the window only for your quaint little moment of domesticity to be completely overturned by the sight of your boyfriend, soaked in blood and rainwater, feverishly tapping at your window in an attempt to be let in.

You practically leapt towards the window, pushing it open and pulling the poor man in while he coughed, ripping his mask off in one fell swoop. "Jesus, took you long enough to notice me-" he said snarkily, leaning against you while you shut the window again.

"What are you doing here? What happened?" You exclaimed, sitting him down on the bed. "Got into another fight." he shrugged nonchalantly, sitting up straight with a slight wince. "Not my best idea, considering that there were three of them."

"Three?" you exclaimed, grabbing your first aid kit (that you always had to keep on hand now thanks to him) from above your dresser and kneeling in front of him. "Are you bloody insane?"

"They wouldn't leave this poor bloke alone! Fucking threatening him like they were part of some gang- stupid wannabes" he scoffed, folding his arms over his chest, only for you to immediately shove them back to his sides so you could pull his shirt over his head.

"They got you good." you said, wincing as you ran your hands over the purple bruises lining his chest. "I don't think there's any internal bleeding, but these are gonna leave some nasty scars."

"Nice. I'll look even cooler shirtless." he said with a grin, leaning down towards you slightly. "What are you doing up at this hour? It's past midnight."

"You're in no position to make remarks about my choices." you replied, rolling your eyes at him as you began to bandage up the little cuts scraping his shoulders and back. He looked like he'd been dragged across the floor, which he probably was. Normally you'd ask, but he seemed like he was in enough pain already. "You can't keep getting into fights like this, 'Bie. You're gonna get yourself hurt."

"Yeah, yeah I know." he said annoyedly, leaning back. "I'm no superhero. I just- I don't know, seeing that poor kid getting bullied like that...I couldn't just stand by and watch!"

"I know, I know." you cooed, cupping his face gently so you could look over the bruises littering his skin. "Shame that you got your pretty face all messed up too."

He scowled teasingly. "I asked them specifically to leave my face alone." he said, smiling at you. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours before immediately pulling back with a hiss. "Damn. Hurts to even touch it." he muttered, raising a finger to gingerly pat the bruise on his face.

"I think I have ice." you said sympathetically, walking back over to the little mini fridge in your room where you kept ice packs, just in case he got into one of his little fights (which happened almost every day now).

He just grinned, his eyes raking over you appreciatively as you bundled up the little lump of ice in a plastic bag before plopping down on the bed next to him and pressing it to his cheek where the bruise was reddest.

"What did I do to deserve you?" he hummed, gazing at you with the most starstruck smile. "I think you have a concussion." you told him in an unamused tone, picking up his hand to make him hold the ice pack himself before checking the back of his head to see if there were any more wounds.

He nodded forward slightly to let you sift your hands through the thick hair on the back of his head, searching for any signs of blood. Nothing. "I think...you're good." you told him, glancing at his neck for good measure before letting him pull his head back.

"Thanks Doc." he said with a smile before taking his chance to lean in and kiss you. "Guess I owe you, huh?"

"Yeah, you've owed me for a long time." you scoffed, letting him push you down against the mattress while he kissed your cheek and jaw. "I don't expect you to start making up for it now."

"I could make up for it." he murmured, lips tracing against your skin as he pulled you up slightly. "Let me kiss you."

"You're gonna hurt yourself-" you protested, arms wrapping around his neck as he shifted his weight onto you again, large hands loosely holding your waist. He just smiled, shaking his head before kissing you once, twice, three times, never wanting to let go.

You could barely move with all his weight pressed down onto you like this, practically suffocating you in his arms. It always amazed you how someone so lanky could be so heavy. "Hobie-" You mumbled out against his lips as he kept pressing them against yours, hands cupping your face as he hovered over you. "Yeah?" he asked dazedly.

"You have to rest." you told him, putting a hand over his mouth when he opened it to protest. "I already know you're gonna get beat up more tomorrow, so just sleep, okay?" He scoffed, leaning back and plopping down onto his back. "Fine." he huffed.

He pulled you into his arms the moment you reappeared at his side and hugged you, laying back onto the pillow completely. "Stay here with me?" he asked, kissing your forehead.

"It's my bed, you twat" you scoffed, propping yourself up slightly to gaze down at him. "But yes. I'll stay with you tonight, baby." you added, voice softening slightly as you leaned down to kiss him, hair falling over your shoulder.

"I love you, you know that right?" he grinned, letting his head fall back as you slowly pulled your lips away from his, brushing your hair behind your ear. "I love you too, 'Bie."

You couldn't help but reach your hand out towards his face, pinching his cheek gently while his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "My little underdog." You cooed, kissing his cheek.

"I am not an underdog!" He protested with a huff, pushing your hand off his cheek and grabbing you by the waist again, leaning in for a real kiss. "So you don't like it when I call you baby?" You teased, cupping his face.

His gaze faltered slightly. "I do." he admitted, a wry smile on his face. "But there's a difference between calling me baby, and calling me an underdog." he said with a slight scoff. "You can call me baby."

"Yeah, cuz you're just a baby." You smiled, tapping his nose. "Oh, shut up." he muttered with a half-smile, pulling you into his arms. "I'm still bigger than you. And stronger."

You laughed, kissing his shoulder as he wrapped you into his arms. "I love you, 'Bie."

"I love you too."

__________________

Haven't written in a while, hopefully this broke my writer's block but who knows. Hopefully y'all enjoyed it!! <3

Taglist Link

Tags: @therealloopylupin2099 @spiderrinn @l0starl @daydreaming-en-pointe @itsparis-07 @vileviale @Bubble787635 @puff-hugs @d0ubl-tr0ubl3 @lauryn2558 @choccymilkdrinker @sunasslut69 @ask-1610-miles @axels-garden @eli21345 @miniaturesuitfox @spotconlon55 @riris-radioactive-panther @trash-panda-xoxo @0strawberrysorbet0 @preciousxsin @d3lux4ry @mikiyamarie @daphne00daiz @cumsluut @star-maker-rain-dancer

[indigofyrebird]

Gifts

For the @summer-of-bad-batch prompt "It's not what you think".

816 words

Crosshair collects orchids now that he's old. And this is all of the prompts for the @summer-of-bad-batch!

***

Crosshair ran his finger delicately over the striped petals, reciting the name under his breath. "Cymbidium dayanum." He had just been reading about this type of tree orchid in his book.

The orchid show was busy, islanders had come from upper and lower Pabu to see what the traveling experts had brought. Crosshair had slipped out of the house early, undetected by his housemate. 

He walked through the aisles of orchids, eyes feasting on the colors, the delicate beauty, the exotic forms of the flowers that he had only ever seen in his book. Their island had exotic flowers, to be sure, but he had become fascinated with orchids after seeing one a neighbor had been given as a gift from off planet. 

He knew he was going to come home with one, but there were so many to choose from. The greenhouse that hosted the show was hot and humid, a soft green smell filling the air. Crosshair carefully looked at each aisle, each row as the day grew warm.

The little yellow sprays of Oncidium sphacelatum caught his eye, and he picked a tiny variety, the flowers no bigger than a small pebble. Each flower looked like a dancer in an ochre colored dress, and the miniscule plant hung heavy with blooms.

It was small enough that he kept it hidden in the crook of his arm as he brought it to his room. Crosshair carefully placed it in its new home, his bright and sunny window. 

He wasn't sure why he kept it from Hunter. Would he accuse him of going soft? He read his orchid book in private, memorizing species names, care.

Daily, he misted his orchid. He talked to it, turning it so every part received sunlight. He collected rainwater for it. His now old and wrinkled hand cared for it like it used to care for a rifle. 

One day, a new orchid appeared in his window and Crosshair rushed to examine it. "Phalaenopsis aphrodite," he said aloud, wondering. One of the white moth orchids. He held it up, admiring the way the light reflected off the iridescent petals. 

"You like it?" Hunter said from the doorway. 

Crosshair turned, his eyes wide with surprise. "You bought me an orchid?" Apparently, he hadn't kept his obsession as secret as he'd thought. 

"I saw it at market and thought you'd like it." Hunter smiled, knowing his gift had been well received. 

"Thank you, Hunter..." Crosshair turned back to his new plant. He carefully pulled a dead leaf from underneath, set the pot down, turned it one direction, then the other. Hunter left him to be alone with his orchids. 

***

Crosshair stood in front of his mirror, trimming his beard, silver-white, neatly groomed. He had watched Hunter grow his and thought it gave him a wise, softened appearance. He quite liked the look on his brother and decided to try one for himself. He liked how it hid the wrinkles at the corners of his mouth. He squinted at himself. Nothing was going to hide the lines at the outside edges of his eyes, and he snorted at his reflection. 

He knew Omega didn't care, but he wished for a second that he was young again. He imagined seeing himself through her eyes, and he cringed. He didn't want to appear old to her, weak.

She was coming to see them. 

He went with Hunter to meet her at the landing pad. She brought her things to their home, unpacked. Hugs and news were exchanged, and then Omega went back to her ship to retrieve gifts. She loved to bring them things. Once, it had been water guns, and they had played on the beach together until dark. Now that Wrecker was gone, it didn't feel quite as joyous. 

Omega gave Hunter a beautifully hand carved knife, and he held it reverantly, spun it several times. 

Crosshair's gift was wrapped loosely in paper. He carefully tore it away to reveal an orchid. The color was deep purple accented with the darkest olive green, and he almost gasped. 

"Hunter told me you liked them," Omega said, her voice almost shy.

"Paphiopedilum vexillarium..." he said in wonder. He had never seen such a beautiful thing. Had he ever felt this way about a new weapon? He couldn't recall. 

"It's not what you think. See the difference here in the leaves? It's a violascens. I only know because the man I picked it up from told me all about them. It's very rare..." Omega smiled watching him. Crosshair hummed in approval. 

He held the lady slipper orchid up to the window to catch all the color variations in the petals. Hunter grinned at Omega, the two watching Crosshair, who was beyond enthralled. 

"Glad you like it, little brother," she said, moving to his side to examine the orchid with him. Crosshair smiled at her, and his eyes sparkled.

[dont-f-with-moogles]

Valentine’s Day prompt 💝

For Dazai x Reader 🔞: it’s Valentine’s Day & Dazai tells Reader how romantic it would be to die together today & Reader replies “how about we fuck instead?”

A Little Death (Dark Era; aged up/18+; NSFW) Mafia!Dazai x Reader  1706 words Tw: sui ideation, choking

It was a secluded scene, shrouded in silence. No one dared to cross the boundary of the hotel’s grounds; to do so was a privilege only afforded to a select few. Its air of secrecy was such that it rendered the half a dozen armed guards who brooded over the tower like ravens, quite superfluous. Port Mafia territory. For a scarce number, its walls knew their secrets but whispered none. For the rest, it was simply impenetrable. 

The hotel room was neither luxurious nor homely. Thin gauze blinds let in little moonlight. Outside, the starless sky was streaked with storm clouds. Even the fluorescence which defined Yokohama’s horizon and kept the city in artificial daylight did not reach this dark corner of the prefecture. Rain pattered relentlessly, the deluge so intense that entire waves were dashed at the rattling windows. Thin branches scraped against glass. You glanced above your head, half-expecting the flaked plaster to cave in at any moment. 

Quieter than the storm came the clicking of the heating unit. A stale smell lingered about the plain, whitewashed walls. A black suit jacket thrown over a chair. Unfinished business. Sake bottles cluttered the side table. A low electric light. Crumpled bed sheets and the scent of sex. 

You felt too cold to remain in the doorway. Shrugging your coat off, you hung it on a wall-mounted hook beside his. Its belt dripped rainwater onto the matting beside your discarded Louboutins. As you crossed into the room his silhouette came into view. Dazai sat cross legged on the floor, arms in his lap, his back against the end of a double, Western-style bed. He made no sign at your approach. His gestures, or lack of, were as inscrutable as ever. No one had ever sifted the murky depths which submerged his heart. You only knew that he played games. And, if his intention was to set you on edge, then you would just have to make yourself comfortable.

“I know I kept you waiting…”

The bed gave a small creak as you knelt upon it. Removing the tie from your hair, you allowed it to tumble down, sodden and tangled, past your waist. Then, with a sound of relative contentment, you flung yourself on your back and stretched out your legs luxuriously upon the pillows. Dazai was motionless; the back of his head remained against the foot of the bed. Dark, brown tufts stood up, unruly. You let your head hang down beside his so that your rain-flecked skin brushed against his face. His cotton bandage wrapping grazed your cheek. You felt his jaw tighten. Upside down, the cracks in the floor appeared more fragile than the ceiling. Either one could give way at any moment.

A hand reached into your hair. 

“If you remember, you did promise me romance…” Dazai’s tone was as soft as silk. With a turn of his head, the tip of his nose brushed your own. His breath, sweet with sake, clouded you. Threatened to pull you under. Only the initiating thread of conversation and he was already reeling you in.

Slowly his fingers stroked loose strands from your face, until he was cradling the back of your head. There was something so gentle, so loving in the subtle press of his fingertips that you closed your eyes. 

“I know…” Your words bore the weight of remorse, even if you didn’t feel it.

Rain lashed violently at the window. Dazai gathered your damp hair around his fingers, weaving a braid like a coil of rope. Playful. If his patience was worn then the lithe movements of his hands did not suggest it. 

“How beautiful…” he mused to himself, wrapping the twisted knots like a noose around his knuckles. Watchful, you lay still. In the gloom the pale skin of your neck shone silver.

“What is?”

Wet hair tickled your throat.

“...why, the thought of dying with you tonight. What else?”

Dazai’s voice was thick with desire, quite at odds with such a fatalistic notion. The weight of your corded braid was draped across your neck. With a rustling movement, he had risen to his knees.

“...that’s why you came here, after all.” Dazai poured his whisper into your ear. Liquid black. 

Unkempt hair brushed your skin. A pale face; his scars half-hidden beneath wrappings. Dazai’s exposed eye gazed down at you with lust. Its colour was as dark as earth whilst the iris gleamed like molten gold at its centre. His words, his gestures, his games; who could look beyond the endless depths into Dazai’s heart? No; to meet his eye was to stare down into the core of the world itself.

A pull upon the end of your hair; the vine wound itself tighter. You smiled up at him, despite the pink blotches forming on your skin. 

“Actually -” you managed, your breath stuttering, “- what I proposed - was a little death.” 

Your scalp burned where strands were almost yanked from the roots. Ignoring your hold upon his sleeve, Dazai twisted your hair around his fingers. As ever, he wove his little designs only for you to fall, ensnared in his trap. Not that you minded. If you had any intention of survival, then you would never have accepted his invitation here tonight. Easy prey. What was the point in the struggle when Dazai could so easily devour you whole?

Then the twisted cord collapsed. Your chest heaved in the quiet room. The long ribbon of your hair was still gathered in Dazai’s grip. Fiercely, he jerked your head backwards. 

“Is that all you can manage?” Warm breath curled over the shell of your ear. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin of your lobe. Bloodlust rose to the surface.

You let out a shiver of breath, rolling your head back against the covers. Dazai’s shadow fell; rippled down your chest as he leaned over the edge of the bed. His black tie swung loose; draped over your ribcage. With a brush of cool air he drew your collar away. Languorous in his movements, he enjoyed the sight of you like this. His nose grazed your bare shoulder, breath ghosting over your skin. Then - a gentle drop of his lips.

“Find out for yourself, Osamu…” 

Dazai pressed his kiss to the base of your throat like a knife. 

Hands gathered in his hair, you sighed as Dazai trailed slow, hot, open-mouthed kisses down to your jawline. Your legs writhed against the pillows. Purple wounds nicked into your skin; each mark counted and tossed on the mound of his sins. They said that only darkness flowed through his veins. Mafia black. Doomed to love as dangerously as he lived.

Dazai tasted your jaw; lingered over your cheek, his breath coming quicker. Threading his fingers through your own, he drew your arms beneath him. A feather-light touch to the pale skin of your wrists, his fingertips wandered your limbs. A tuft of dark fringe swept your chin as Dazai kissed your lower lip. Thighs clenched together, you gave another airless sigh. Your mouth chased his, body arching beneath his caress. Head turning against his own, you felt his tongue glide over the back of your teeth. 

With a creak of mattress springs, the weight upon the bed shifted. Dazai’s knee sank into the covers beside your head. Bandaged hands smoothed the hem of your dress as his mouth nipped languidly at your bottom lip.  The material was bunched together in his fist, and then he slowly drew it up over your hips. 

You gasped as Dazai broke away from your mouth. Fingertips stroked your upper leg. A thumb dipped into the waistline of your underwear. 

“La petite mort… the brief state of unconsciousness.” Dazai’s breath warmed the inside of your leg. “Only those consumed by death or desire know it…”

With one hook of his finger he had drawn the lace down around your ankles. Teeth grazed your thigh. Your chest rose and fell as he pressed a kiss to your soft, warm skin. Inching closer, closer… until he was right above where you wanted him. Your hands slipped down Dazai’s lower back. Then, the first brush of his tongue. A low moan bled from your throat. His crumpled shirt almost tore under your nails.

Dazai teased, tasted your clit; his subtle toying sent heat flaring. But one taste had provoked a deeper craving within him. Tongue flattened against you, Dazai indulged himself. His grasp upon your legs tightened until his knuckles blanched. The swill of his tongue set your tender flesh aflame. Your mouth dropped open, back curved away from the bed. Beads of sweat broke out over your forehead as you gripped the bedsheets in your fists. All you wanted was to feel his movements inside you.

As Dazai leaned over you, the fabric of his suit brushed your ear. Self-serving, of course he never gave without taking. All that mattered was the price you paid. In this position, he had you exactly where he wanted you. Reaching out, your hand brushed the rigid pleat in his trousers. Hastily, you unclasped his belt; slung down the material; drew him out. With a firm grasp you guided his rock hard cock down to your open mouth. 

Lips closed around him. Tight. With a shudder, his hips thrust forward. Dazai’s bandaged hands lifted your legs, splayed you open to swallow you whole. Fingertips buried themselves in your skin. Oh how he longed to grip them in your hair whilst he rubbed himself against your lips. Your nerves were humming; shivers shot through your limbs like electricity. The first syllable of his name collapsed into a moan which sent vibrations down his cock. He scraped the roof of your mouth over and over, until his rhythm began to stutter.

“Fuck…” you heard him choke. “...fuck… no one else can take me like you do.”

He gripped your legs higher, pulled you to him, drank you down. Insatiable. You were burning alive. Helpless, your body melted on his tongue. With a choked gasp, you clenched your thighs around his neck. 

“...wanna die happy…” Dazai’s voice was weak as he wiped his mouth on the inside of your thigh. “...so let me die between these legs, Beautiful...”

[reve-writes]

—why are you at the wake? [2]; leon kennedy.

ʚ leon kennedy x reader | resident evil | 2,4k words. ʚ chapter one. | he wishes he can hate you, but when push comes to shove, he can't help but come to your aid anyway. ʚ non-canon timeline, loosely based on leon's mission to save ashley but most of the details are made-up; injuries; violence; profanity; reader is morally grey (?); suicidal ideation. ʚ a/n long notes from me at the end if you want to read through it.

“We can rest up here. Wait for evac.”

Leon closes the door behind Ashley after she enters. The room is not too big—enough to have space for himself, but also small enough for him to keep an eye on the President's daughter. There are windows for quick escape, covered by grimy curtains that shield them from view, just in case any infected villagers wander this far out.

“Are we safe, Leon?”

The blond girl is shivering. The two of them are drenched from head-to-toe. The rain outside doesn't look like it's letting up anytime soon, too. They're alive. A little cold, but alive. That's all that matters to Leon for now.

“Yeah. We're fine.”

A beat barely passes after he finishes reassuring her when the door swings open with a hard thud. Ashley lets out a startled shriek. Leon has his handgun ready and aimed at the figure stumbling inside. He curses under his breath, already standing to shield Ashley from the doorway.

You slump forward to the floor, the door closes behind you with a quiet click. Breathing heavily, you look up, thinking that you've stepped one foot into death's door. Maybe you've chosen the wrong house. Maybe you've stumbled into a hostile and they're ready to hack you down with an axe.

You blink the rainwater out of your eyes. It doesn't take longer than a second for you to recognise him.

Your posture loosens, shoulders slumping as you heave against the door. Your pistol clatters from your hand, freeing it to push against the blooming red wound on your side.

“Hey,” you stutter out, breathing still very laboured, but you try to sound casual, as if you're not potentially bleeding out to death on some filthy hardwood floor. “Just—give me a second. I'll get out of your hair.”

“Who are you?”

You don't recognise the girl. You assume she's his mission.

“It's okay,” Leon answers for you. His gun is returned to its holster. “We know each other.”

Know is an understatement. You know each other, yes, but also so much more than that. You know the brand of shampoo he has in his bathroom. He knows how you like to take your beverage. You cut the bread crust from his toast for breakfast. He lets you take the olives from his dish because you love them. You haven't eaten an olive in years because it reminds you of him.

“Co-worker?” the girl asks.

“Was.”

Past tense.

“Hi.” You wave meekly towards the girl and tell her your name. She tells you to call her Ashley. You dart your eyes to Leon. Even though he's silent, you can sense the anticipation in his pose, as if he's expecting you to just go and shoot Ashley the way you did to Tracy.

Sighing, you kick your pistol towards him. It skids surprisingly smoothly over the floor, landing just beside his boots. “Calm down, Leon. I don't intend to kill her.”

He stares at the pistol for a second, recognising the carving along its grip. Your initials. He remembers being the one who scratched them into the wooden material. His glare returns to you.

You're a walking contradiction. You left him back then, bid him farewell so coldly without much of an explanation. There was so much blood. The blood of the one he was supposed to protect—the two of you were supposed to protect. He didn't understand until he was told that your loyalty had defected.

He still doesn't understand why you changed your mind as easy as turning the palms of your hand. Doesn't understand why you abandoned him. It frustrates him. That frustration bears fruits of anger. The anger burns with so much hatred for you.

He realises that he, too, is a walking contradiction. He hates you for what you've done. He hates you for what you didn't do. The hatred grows everyday, but it grows along with the longing to see you again. It tries and fails to grow over all the love he has for you. All the love he doesn't know where to put now.

“Do you have a death wish?” Leon sneers. “I told you to stay away. You can't help yourself, can you? Always so stubborn.”

Ashley looks taken aback by the hostility. For all the time she's known him, he has been nothing but kind. A reassuring presence.

“If I had known you were in here,” you hissed. “I wouldn't have entered. Believe me, I'm not purposely trying to seek out the person who wants me dead.”

You inhale, tightening your jacket around you. “I'll take my leave.”

“That's what's best for the both of us.”

You push yourself off the ground, despite the tremble in your legs. A surge of light-headedness wash over you and you fall, barely catching yourself with your hands. Leon doesn't even think before he surges towards you, already placing a hand on your shoulders. His eyebrows knit together.

“Fuck,” you curse, swallowing hard. Your face is blanched. You clench your eyes shut in an attempt to recenter yourself.

“What's wrong?” His voice is gentle. His eyes scan over you to analyse the situation. “Dammit, ___. What's wrong?”

“Fine,” you breathe out, biting your lip. “Nothing's wrong.”

“Something is clearly fucking wrong,” he mutters, tugging on your jacket, noticing the unmistakable slick red of blood. “Jesus, ___. What happened?”

You lean back against the door, letting him tug the jacket off of you. You huff out a laugh. “You used to ask before taking my clothes off.”

He doesn't laugh. Not even a snicker. “What happened? — Ashley, can you find any medical supplies?”

Ashley immediately starts moving around the room, pulling out drawers haphazardly.

“Come on, it was funny.”

He says your name with a heavy emphasis. “I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong.”

“You don't want to help me, Leon,” you sigh out. “I killed Tracy, remember?”

This is pathetic. You've accepted your death way before it happens. Maybe, years ago, you would be more willing to put up a fight, struggle like hell for just one more day. But you're tired. So fucking exhausted of the missions and the guilt slowly eats you alive.

Leon pushes up your shirt slightly, trying to locate the source of the wound. He's so angry at you for giving up that his hands shake. He's biting down on his teeth so hard his jaw is starting to hurt. You can't die. He won't let you, even when you're so willing to walk yourself to your grave. He won't let that happen. He can't.

What will he do with all this hatred then? All this love?

His hand is smeared with your blood when he places them under your chin, turning your face towards him.

“Tell me what happened right now.” His eyes frantically search your face. “Or — or I'll never forgive you. Not if you die right here, right now. I won't ever forgive you.”

His voice shakes. He's making a demand but it comes out as a desperate plea instead. Ashley kneels beside you, setting down a tin box cramped with medicines and first-aid supplies.

You let out a scoff. “You of all people know I deserve to die right here, right now.”

“Stop wasting time, ___.” He's begging now. Panic sinks into his bones as all the colour drains drom your face. “Let me — You have to let me save you. I can't—”

His vision blurs. He takes a deep breath and blink the pooling tears away. “Please.”

Stop. You want to yell at him. If anyone should be pleading for anything, it was you. With your heart in your throat, you whisper, “Okay.”

“Okay,” he clears his throat. “Okay, what's the damage?”

“Knife,” you wheeze out. “A cut, I think, on my side. There — Stop looking at me like that. It's not as bad as it looks. I've just been bleeding out for a while, trying to get away.”

He's capable. It's not a handful of times he's ever had to patch himself or you up from various injuries. His hand works swiftly, disinfecting and suturing the laceration, ignoring your little quips and sounds of protest. He keeps his focus, even when everything feels so unsteady around him.

It's not until your wound is dressed in bandages and the bleeding ceases that he lets out a relieved sigh. The tension in his shoulders melts away.

“You really do have a death wish.”

One corner of your lips quirks up. “You have no idea.”

“Don't die, ____. Let me hate you in peace. You owe me at least this much.”

“You can still do that when I'm six feet under.”

“I can't do that, so” —his jaw tenses— “don't die.”

You only hum in response.

“I mean it.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile. “I'll try not to.”

He moves around the room, gathering blankets and cushions to bring towards where you're seated. He's unsure if he can move you without reopening your wound and he doesn't want to risk it. Not when you've lost so much blood. The silence stretches long, accompanied by the constant pitter-patter of the rain splattering on the roof over your head.

“Where's Ashley?”

“Other room,” Leon replies. “She looked like she was going to throw up.”

“Understandable.”

It's silent againt. He props a pillow behind you and spreads a blanket over you. You scrunch your nose.

“Smells like shit.”

“Half the smell is your fault.”

You roll your eyes, trying to focus in the earthy soaked-dirt scent the rain brings instead of the metallic tang left behind or the stench of the old blanket covering you.

“Thank you, Leon.”

“Why did you do it?”

He blurts the question out as you're expressing your gratitude. The room is quiet enough that you still catch his question. His gaze falters, moving to scan over the wall to your right instead of directly looking at you.

“Does it matter?” You ask, tasting bitterness on your tongue. “The reason doesn't change the fact that I still did it.”

“That's the thing.” Leon walks over to where your gun lies on the floor to pick it up. “It doesn't seem like you want to do it. Hell, if there's one damn thing I know, it's that you cared for her. So, help me understand this. Why did you do it?”

His thumb traces over the wooden grip, turning the pistol over in his hand as he walks up to you. He stops at the ridges of your initials, turning to look at you questioningly.

You gulp. “It's — It's the same one.”

The same one he gave you all those years ago. The same one that got you out of Raccoon City. The same one you kept using mission after mission since then.

“This is what I mean.” Leon sets the pistol down by you, taking his place to sit next to you, facing you. “If it didn't matter to you, you wouldn't have kept this.”

Your throat feels dry.

“I keep running it over in my head, trying to pick out what's real and what's fake,” he admits, grabbing your hand in his. His calloused fingers rub over your hand, “and I can't. Everything feels real.”

Because it is real. Can you tell him, though? You don't want to put that on him—the burden of someone's life.

“From Raccoon City. Then, everything that we were after that up until—” He lets it hang in the air. Your ultimate betrayal. “You can't tell me everything was a fucking act and expect me to believe it.”

You want to reach out, desperate to smooth the creases on his forehead, brush your thumb over the plump of his lips. He's so close—the closest he's ever been in the past five years.

He's not stupid. You know he's not. He knows none of this adds up. You were with him for over a year since your faithful meeting in Raccoon City. You were recruited by the government together. You survived together. You even—

It was never official, but you had something. He had told you he loved you and you had said it back.

Then, you left. You said you were working for someone else. Always had the whole time. It didn't make sense.

“They made me choose.”

Your answer comes after a long silence. Too long that Leon has already given up and gotten lost in his own head. He's not sure if he's hearing you correctly, not sure if you've even spoken in the first place. He blinks, searching your eyes.

You clear your throat. “Either they kill you or i kill her.”

“What are they going to do? Huh?” He scoffs. “I would've been able to—”

“That's not a risk I wanted to take,” you retort. “You're capable, yes, but you can't expect me to gamble on your life.”

“You shouldn't have made that choice for me,” he snaps, swallowing harshly. “She died because you were a coward.”

“Yes.”

“Her death is on me, too.”

“I pulled the trigger.” You're reliving it now and it does nothing but worsen your headache. “It's on me.”

There's no taking it back now. You'll have to tell him the whole truth and so you did. How your employer 'recruited' you as you were escorting Tracy Miller, how they threatened your life, and when it didn't work, they threatened his instead. You've been stuck working with them since. Being labelled a traitor by the government. It's not ss if you have much of a choice.

You're blinking away tears as you close out your explanation. “They sent me here to investigate whatever's happening here. I didn't know you were here until I landed. If I'd known—”

His attentiveness spurs you on as you're stringing sentence after sentence together frantically, spilling out everything that has gone unsaid the past five years.

“Do you regret it?” He asks after a beat of silence passes.

“Every single day, but I would make the same choice again.”

He sighs. “We were a team, you know. Maybe we could have done something if you had talked to me.”

You bite your lip. “I'm sorry.”

“I know you are.” He tilts your chin up towards him. “Just don't ever do that again. Don't put my life above anyone else's.”

You pull back, turning away from his gaze. “I'll try.”

He grabs your hand. “It's okay. It'll be okay. Let's just — leave this all behind, yeah?”

Your eyes widen, some of the weight on your shoulders suddenly sloughing off. “What are you saying?”

“We should go. Somewhere Asia, maybe? Disappear from this mess,” he says it with too much certainty. It sounds easier than it actually is. “Leave this all to rot. It'll just be us.”

“Can we?”

He nods resolutely.

[ ]

i'm the first to admit there are so many plotholes in this fic and the timeline is confusing, but basically: raccoon city incident > one year into government recruitment is when reader's forcefully recruited & ordered to kill tracy > for 5 years after that. reader works for the same people who recruited them still. > six years since raccoon city, reader crosses path with leon (who's trying to save ashley graham). reader met leon during raccoon city incident and they were inseparable ever since, becoming lovers. also obviously sherry isn't really a part of this bc leon joined the secret agent to protect her. the ending won't work if she exists. ive been sitting on this for a couple of days because i don't know how to properly end fics?? i imagine reader and leon packing things up (after getting ashley home) for a rural town far far away from all the resident evil chaos, living their best domestic life, trying to heal themselves from their past. i realise i shouldve planned this better because having the reader murder someone is SUPER HARD to justify when writing this part. i wrote myself into a corner. i kept thinking that there's no way in hell reader would get forgiveness??? the titles for the two part are taken from taylor swift's my tears ricochet. it's an angsty song about betrayal. that's it from me. thank you for reading!

[rotworld]

31: Dark and Stormy Night

art by @exorbitantsqueakingnoises

he comes when the storm does, every bit as furiously, dangerously passionate. he leaves when it dissipates, but he dreams of the day you'll never have to be apart again.

->original work. explicit; contains mild/brief gore, ambiguous consent, manipulation, possessive/controlling behavior.

.

.

.

You’re not home yet when the rain starts and that makes you nervous. Soft trickle to light percussion to hissing downpour, it carves space for itself in concrete dents and potholes, making rippling mirrors of the dark, lightning-threaded sky. You brought an umbrella but a trailing puddle still follows you down the store aisles like liquid shadow. His footsteps are waterlogged. Damp and heavy, like a shoe sinking into lake mud. You won’t see him if you look back but you’ll catch glimpses in the glass of the deli case when you pass by. Limp, sodden hair, stormy black. Eyes bright like lightning.

The cashier at the front tries to make conversation. You feel guilty about your curt, one-word answers and wandering gaze, trying to look busy and uninterested, but it’s for their own good. He’s right behind you. You feel his damp breath on your neck and the creeping sensation of fingers dragging down your back like cool, trickling water. He gets jealous easily. You paid someone too much attention at the bus stop once, an old work colleague who wanted to catch up, and static crackled startled to crackle on your skin. There was a moment of blinding brightness and flashing heat and smoke, singing, the sizzling stench of burned meat.

She was struck by lightning right in front of you. Not once, not twice, but five times. Dead before she even hit the ground. 

The ride home is excruciating. You watch the wind whip the trees and hear the thunder grow from a distant grumble to a deafening roar. Silvery threads of lightning baste through the clouds in split-second flashes. The seat next to yours is empty. People avoid it because it’s soaked through, rainwater dripping steadily to the floor. It doesn’t puddle where it falls or roll with the movement of the bus. It slides over to you, gathering beneath your feet.

He used to wait for you. You’d come home to find him standing outside, or see his palms pressed against your windows. Time and frustration have eroded his patience. Now he’s everywhere you are once the rain falls and the wind howls, a phantom only you can see. He follows you off the bus, a second set of footsteps splashing behind you. He hovers when you fumble with your keys, palms pressed on either side of you.

“Hurry,” he whispers. “I can’t have you for long.” 

Your lover is frantic when he finally has you all to himself. Here, behind closed doors, he becomes something you can touch. No longer a wisping, dripping thing, he is human or something like it, all the fury and beauty of a storm condensed into flesh and bone. He kisses you hungrily, touches you greedily, writhes against you with passion that has been building for weeks. Deft fingers undo buttons and zippers, stripping you of everything that keeps him from your bare skin.

“I’ve missed you,” he sighs against your mouth. His hands smooth up your body, palming your flesh with awe and desire. “I always miss you. I wish I could stay.” 

You don’t know what he is, where he comes from. You have so little time together and he doesn’t like to waste it on speaking. “I’m what the rain and thunder brings,” he told you once. He loves like the storms he follows, quick and furious and gone again too soon, touching you like he might never get the chance again. 

He wants the curtains drawn, the blinds open. Is he really here, you wonder, or is he out there looking in? He leaves the lights off, everything in darkness until lightning lances the night. The shadows in your room look like storm clouds, churning, streaming past. He wants you under him tonight, kissing down your stomach and spreading your legs apart with his hands. His mouth between your thighs makes you tremble in his grasp.

He doesn’t have the patience for foreplay. Gentle kisses become hungry nips and greedy, ravenous suckling against your sensitive flesh, his grip hard enough to bruise. Your heart flutters in anticipation when he climbs over you instead, slotting your hips together, a hand on his length to guide himself to your entrance. He likes that you enjoy this, that your back arches and your hips buck to accept him and his roughness, his abrasive need. His pace steals your breath.

Thunder rattles across the roof and shakes the windows as he fucks you into the mattress. Nothing he does is enough. He’s always hungrier, always needier. The closeness, chest to chest when he lays over you with your legs wrapped around his waist, doesn’t satisfy him. He ruts into you like he hopes the two of you will meld together and never have to part again, hard and deep and never stopping. Every off-beat, the brief withdraw before he slams into you again, is shorter than the last. He doesn’t want to leave the tight warmth of your body. He’d keep you here forever if he could, eternally enraptured and full of him. 

“Would you come with me?” he asks. A rare question, murmured between labored breaths and moans. “If you could, would you? If we never had to be apart?” 

He scares you. The intensity of his feelings leaves you feeling bruised all the way down to your heart. How else can a storm love than with this all-encompassing, drowning viciousness? He arches over you, presses your bodies together and pumps his hips even faster. The sound of flesh against flesh is loud but not as loud as the rumbling of the sky and the screaming wind. He wants forever. All of him, for all of time. You don’t mean to say yes but his excitement is infectious. His eagerness and unending appetite gets inside you like the rain fills the city’s empty spaces, how it leaves itself behind in puddles and dampness even when the wind stops blowing. 

“I have so much more to give you. Don’t you want that? All of me? Everything I am, just for you?”

You would say anything as long as it keeps him here, pinning you down with his hands and his body and his powerful thrusts. You whine when he withdraws just long enough to shove you onto your stomach, to drape himself along your back and push back inside. Your mind is empty but your body is full as he ruts and grinds into you, whispering temptations in your ear. He was lonely, so lonely, until he saw you. The waiting, the long dry spells in between, haunt him. All he can think about is coming back to you. Touching you. Tasting you. Feeling your body against his. He would stay forever if he could, and don’t you want that? His hands and his mouth and his cock pleasing you? Don’t you want even more? 

“Just one more step,” he moans. “One more. Come to me. One more step and we will never be apart.” His pace slows suddenly and you whimper, pushing back against him. But he’s waning, his movements losing their frantic passion. He thrusts weakly, his breathing soft. You can’t hear the thunder anymore, you realize, or the wind. Just rain in whispered droplets. Something cold lands on your face.

You look up into a gray sky. You stumble, your feet bare and cold and coated in mud. You’re not in bed anymore. You’re outside, catching yourself in the wet grass. You feel feverish and exhausted, your hot skin soothed by the last gasps of wind and gentle rain. Trees sway. Water rushes. You’re not home or anywhere near it. How did you get here? And when? You shiver. Your clothes are heavy with rain, sticking to your skin. You feel lightheaded. Your hands are stuck in cold, wet mud. Your heart skips a beat. 

There’s a river in front of you. Right in front of you. Swollen from the storm and fast-flowing, it could easily sweep you under and dash you against the rocks. If you’d gone even a step further, you would’ve fallen right in. One of your hands is pressed against the sloping back, tangled in grass. Down among the foam-capped ripples and surging waves, you see your frightened reflection staring back at you. 

And him, right behind you. Storm-haired and lightning-eyed, leering at you. From the water? Beneath it? From some other place, peering through? His gaze is cold and furious but you see him breathe deeply, bony shoulders rising and falling. An eager smile stretches across his face.

The next storm will be the worst one.

[hischeapcigar]

strawberries and cigarettes part 2

Pre-outbreak Joel Miller x reader 

Part: 1 2 3 4

Summary: you're falling in love with the person your dad hates the most  

Word count: 4.1k 

Warning: none except your father is a bit deranged so maybe that's all, and a little angst  🚬

a/n: it was supposed to be cute little one shot but i think it's gonna be series lolol. reblogs and comments are appreciated. love you mwah. AND OMG thankyouuuuu all who showed love to the first part but as a gift I got some angst oops. 🍓🍓

“What place?” you were confused,    

“Y’gonna love it, trus’ me” a small smirk growing in the corner of his lips   

-  

The rest of the ride was silent, unlike your mind. And probably unlike Joel's too. He was nervous as if this was gonna fix what he damaged.  

You were hyper aware of the situation; it was the first time ever that you and Joel were alone without anyone passing by. It was dark with the truck’s headlights pouring light on the road ahead.   

You should be scared, you should be unsure, you shouldn’t trust him. But you do. You feel safe, you feel warm, you feel protected.   

There’s only anxiety about the unknown place you’re headed, about the things that Joel’s gonna talk to you about. While you were still contemplating, knowing Joel would turn the wheels if you told him to, but a part of you, the bigger part of you, wanted to listen him out.  

Joel was silent beside you, and you were looking out the window. It was a different area, you had never been there before. It was almost laughable how blindly you trusted Joel that you let him take you anywhere. You knew you’d follow, even your broken heart didn’t matter.   

Why did the universe have to put you in such a position? Your dad dislikes him so much that you can’t even look at Joel in the presence of your dad. It was too painful. Just a small fight over a stupid job, that did not even include you, was pulling you away from Joel.  

Joel took a turn in between two wheat fields, the rain hadn’t slowed down, or the wind was too strong. The field was illuminated by the faint moonlight. He drove between the fields until it opened to a boundless empty field accompanied by a small hut in the middle.   

Joel parked a little distance away from the fence surrounding the hut. There was a yellow bulb lit outside the small shed. You had not a single clue why you were here in the middle of nowhere. You hadn’t even let your parents know but they still hadn’t called so it was safe till’ now, you guessed.  

Joel calmly pulled you out of your thoughts, “We’re here”  

You still looked around, not sure what exactly what you were looking for,   

And as if Joel read your thoughts,   

“I- uh, well this is my friend’s place,” he scratched the back of his head, nervous,” he showed me ‘round and well if it wasn't rainin, ya woulda adored it-”   

He paused abruptly, taking in the confused look etched on your face not knowing where this was going,   

“Can you give me minute,” he asked, not really seeking your affirmation because he was already opening the lock to his door,   

“No! Joel-” he opened the door, wind spraying rainwater inside the car as he got out, quickly shutting it  

 “Joel!” Panic settled in your body as you watched him cross the truck and walk further on the left. He took a big step, obviously stepping over border, but it was dark enough to see what laid there   

You watched him, his hair ruffling with the wind, he bent down and did God knows what. He sat there for a few more minutes as if plucking something before he got up and ran his way back.   

You were prepared to scold him for his reckless behavior, but the words fell short as soon as he got in the car, surprisingly he wasn't dripping wet like you expected. Your eyes were wide, not because of his state but what he held in his hands.   

Strawberries   

“Joel-” you spoke softly, eyeing the strawberries in his hands  

You hastily produced a tissue from your purse, placing the strawberries between both of you.  

He just looked at you with adoration, a streak of water falling from his hair down to his face, smile ghosting over his lips   

Suddenly you looked up at him, displaying small frown, “you can’t just go out like that, it’s dark and raining and what if-”  

“‘s mostly the wind not the rain, and ‘m just tryna make it up to you, darlin” he sighed as your eyes locked  

Darling   

It slipped off his tongue before he could stop himself, surprising both you and himself. Both staring at each other with eyes slightly wide.   

You closed your eyes, supporting your head on the headrest, suddenly remembering why you were there at first place,   

The flashbacks playing over in your mind. Instantly, you realize that you're sitting with the man who broke your heart a week ago. Disappeared without explanation, leaving you to worry about the worst. The way you cried your heart out when you missed him at night, or how you had to keep your voice from shaking every time a coworker asked you about Joel. How you had to resist the urge to go up to Sarah and ask her about her dad.   

You opened your eyes again, they were glossy and held so much pain, that Joel winced internally. You shifted your gaze to the window behind him, watching the droplets of water falling. The rain had eased off  

“I-” he wanted to comfort you, but he forgot every sentence he practiced of his monologue,   

“Why?” you asked, barely a whisper, bringing your eyes up to meet his again. Guilt was flowing in his warm brown eyes.   

“Your father showed up at my house, he uh-” unable to choose the right words, but there were no right words, “he gave me a black eye” he shrugged, letting out a dry chuckle,   

Eyes wide, your mouth opened and closed like a fish, not knowing what to say, but Joel beat you to it,   

“The day after he showed up at the cafe, I went to your place, to resolve things with him once and for all, brought wine an’ all, but he wasn’t home so I told your mom to give him my message,” he formed air quotes “‘let’s start off again and put the past in the past’”  

“He showed up at night, screaming at me, grabbing my collar, threatening me not to be around you. That if I was seen ‘round ya, he would make it miserable, make you leave the job and ground you-”   

You couldn't believe your ears. If you didn’t know any better, you wouldn’t accept Joel’s words. But you did. You knew what your dad was capable of.   

“-I tried to tell him that you were a grown up and completely capable of making your own choices and that’s when he,” Joel mimicked punching his face   

“Black eye”   

Your throat was dry as you tried to adjust to the new information, tears welling up in your eyes  

He showed up at my place to make peace with a maniac like dad for my sake. Knowing damn well how dad is, knowing dad beat up a man on the counter only because he wasn't working fast enough, Joel still tried to give him a chance.  

 He got beaten up because of you.   

For you.  

He avoided the cafe because of you.   

For you  

You were ashamed. Guilt-ridden. You felt responsible.  

You tried to find your voice, to keep the tears at bay, to tell him how much you’re sorry,  

“Joel I-” even you couldn't recognize your voice, so small, like you had a barbed wire tightened around your throat.    

He took a deep breath, “look I'm only tellin’ you all this, so y’know the reasons why I did what I did, I’m sorry I left without lettin’ ya know but, I-” he sighed, “I’m sorry,”   

After all that happened, after he took a hit for you, he’s the one still sorry?   

Your vision was glossy, Joel’s figure was nothing but a blur. You blinked and tears broke through your eyes, falling freely down your cheeks,   

Joel didn’t see your silent tears, too busy avoiding eye contact until you whimpered ever so softly, and his eyes shot up at your frame; shaking your head, looking down, tears staining your cheeks. You lifted your hands to wipe but he was quicker,   

“Hey, hey sweetheart, don't cry, don't cry” he whispered as he gently cradled your face and wiped the tears with his thumb. His other hand supported his weight as he slightly inclined his body towards you.   

You would've frozen at the close intimacy, at the feeling of his warm skin on yours, but the information in your head was haunting.   

You leaned in his hand without thinking, letting yourself find calm in his warmth,  

“Should’ve told me, Joel-” your words were muffled, your throat was tightened, you were disgusted with your own father, “-woulda fought him,”   

“No, no, I wouldn’t let you,” he shushed you, wiping every fresh string of tears, your hand holding his wrist.   

You looked up at him, Joel thought he could stop breathing, your eyes carried a storm of guilt and sadness mixed with anger   

“Woulda told him you weren’t at fault” your voice was still small though the tears had ceased.  

He bought you closer, resting your forehead on his.   

“Listen to me darlin’, it woulda caused more trouble. He hates me already. Imagine seeing his daughter defend the same man? Watcha think he’d do? Hmm?”   

“He’d kill me” he said a bit dramatically, widening his eyes, obtaining a sniff followed by a chuckle out of you, his favorite sound in the whole world.   

You shook your head as you pulled away, you sat back in the seat, back against the window, body facing Joel’s who was mirroring your position.   

You both sat there facing each other, strawberries in between both of you. He cocked his head, urging you to grab a strawberry, you reached and grabbed one. You took a bite, and it erupted in your mouth. It was so sweet and juicy that you took the whole strawberry in your mouth.   

You opened your eyes to see Joel looking back at you with admiration, you were flustered under his gaze.   

“It wasn’t washed, y’know?” he said   

“What do you mean, rain didn’t wash it?” You shot back, reaching for another one after Joel took his.   

A moment of silence as you both ate strawberries  

Joel took out the packet of cigarettes from his pocket, putting one between his lips before lighting it up. He rolled the window down to save you both from exhaustion. He exhaled out, and God did he look so divine covered in smoke.  

“So,” you broke the silence, “what do we do?” you gestured towards the both of you. Before you extended your hand for Joel to hand you the cigarette,  

I don't share my cigs. He wanted to say, but he passed it wordlessly, as he watched you put your lips on the cigarette, something stirring in him watching you like that,  

He sighed, “I don't know, I mean I tried talkin’, didn’t work, and uh, I really don't wanna let ya go, not again, it was hella depressin”   

“Can we meet somewhere else?” you suggested   

“This could be our place; we could meet at nighttime if that’s okay for you-”   

“It is. It is” you assured him. Because your parents didn’t care enough to note the time you return home, judging by the fact they still hadn’t called, like usual.   

“You sure?” he hesitated, but you knew he was only looking out for you  

“Yes Joel, I mean it’s only a couple of months before I move to Los Angeles, once I move out, they won’t dictate me, I can choose who I spend my time with,” you nodded as you dragged another hit, passing it to Joel.  

 before I move to Los Angeles  

 before I move to Los Angeles  

 before I move to Los Angeles  

His brain stopped working after those words left your mouth, but he tried his best to recover. It had only been a few weeks since you both started seeing each other. There wasn't even any label to your relationship, still it tugged at his heart.   

He didn’t let any emotion give him away and just hummed in response, taking puffs from the cigarette  

You both sat there, munching on strawberries and taking turns with cigarettes. His truck was filled with the fruity aroma and smoke, along with the faint, musky, earthy smell of rain.   

“Ready to go back?” he asked  

No. I want to spend the night with you while I can.   

 You nodded, “yes,”   

You sat back, facing the windshield,   

—------  

The next night he showed up at the cafe, a few minutes before your closing call. You quickly wound up and locked the doors. He was leaning against his truck just like the night before. You walked up to him, he pushed himself up and met you halfway.   

He hesitantly held your waist; he was unsure if he could greet you the same way after the distance. But when you didn’t pull away, he wrapped his arms around you, your arms flew around his neck.   

He nuzzled his face in your neck, inhaling deeply your scent. You shivered at the closeness, engulfed in his musky smell of cigarette and whisky. Something like home. Something natural. Something real.   

There was something so intimate about this. Enveloped in his big arms in the dark, when no one is looking at you.  

You both stayed there caged in each other's arms before you pulled away. Joel helped you get in before he got in.   

Getting in the vehicle, he drove to the same spot but this time you both got out of the truck to see the small garden of strawberry vines.   

Joel followed you, a small blanket in his hand which he laid out in the mud beside the garden. He sat down, extending his hand for you to take, which you gladly did.   

Joel looked so beautiful in the faint light of streetlights and the yellow bulb of the small hut nearby. Under the starry sky, surrounded by cool breeze and no one else. You could be yourself again, just like you did in those moments in the cafe with Joel. Though this was better, away from prying eyes.   

You both sat across from each other as Joel lit the cigarette and passed it to you before taking a drag.   

Your heart danced as you saw him pass the cigarette without you asking. Your lips wrapping around where his were.   

“How long before your closing shift ends?” he asked   

You exhaled the smoke, “next week” you replied,  

He hummed  

“How’s Sarah's school? Haven't talked to her in a while…” you inquired  

“‘S okay, exams comin up, gettin stressed,” he puffed out the smoke, before asking, “how’s everything in the cafe?”   

You both talked for hours about his friend owning fields, about the weather, about cows, smoked a few cigarettes together, content in each other’s company.   

Before it was midnight, you both cleaned the mess and got back in his truck. Drive back was silent but Joel’s thoughts were loud,   

 before I move to Los Angeles  

He wanted to ask you what the relationship meant to you but always bit his tongue.   

before I move to Los Angeles  

He shook his head to get rid of the aching thought, grabbing your attention.  

“You okay, Joel?” you had Joel tattooed in your brain. You were always thinking about him, he made the flowers, in your chest, bloom.   

His head remained still, no, the thought of you leaving is eating me alive. What do I mean to you? What does this mean to you? He knew if he looked at you, he’d come undone  

“Yes, of course sweetheart,” his heart warming at you worrying about him  

Your eyes fell to his hand gripping the steering wheel so tight, you were scared he could pull it out. The free hand on his lap was slightly trembling.   

You knew something was bothering him, but you knew better than to push him. But you wished he’d let you in completely,  

Carefully, you approached his free hand on his lap, tracing your index finger on the side before covering his big hand with your petite one.   

You held your breath, waiting for him to pull away,  

Head spinning to the connected hands, his breath hitched. He felt goosebumps running down his spine.  He felt like he couldn’t move, like if he took one wrong move, this all would shatter.   

With calculated breaths, he calmed his body down and carefully turned his palm around, interlacing your fingers with his.   

You let out a small sigh of relief, as you peeked at him. Both his hands were at ease, there was a ghost of a smile dancing at his lips. His lips. They looked so plump, you wondered how it would be like to just kiss him? Just have his lips on your own.   

You wanted to reach out and turn his head and kiss him.  

You just wished the ride would never end, but of course like waking up from a good dream,  

 He parked at a distance from your house to be safe from nosey neighbors. You pulled back your hand, immediately missing the warmth. He watched you as you unbuckle the seatbelt, you looked up at him,   

“Same time, tomorrow?” you asked   

Can I kiss you? His heart was screaming. Unintentionally his gaze fell to your lips, and he physically resisted himself to jump out the car, grab your face and kiss you.   

He closed his eyes tightly, nodding,  

“Same time, tomorrow.”   

He stayed until he was sure you made it to your house safely.  

-  

The next week went like this. He picked you from the cafe to the haven as you’d like to call it, smoked a cigarette or two, plucked a strawberry or two, talked for hours, and dropped you back home.   

Somedays you would pack a small pastry, or cupcake or any snack for Joel that you would share in the night.    

On your way back, his hand would silently make its way over to you, so you could interlace your fingers.  

-  

It was the first day of your morning shift in the cafe. The day was usual, except that you met Sarah after a long time. You packed a butter vanilla pancake for Joel and handed it to Sarah.   

You were home by evening. Your dad had thrown a tantrum about some guy in work, how he was not the ‘right person for the job’, but you felt bad for the unknown man. You locked yourself in your room, daydreaming about long nights with Joel.   

Nighttime fell, you were nervous as to how you would leave your house. Daylight was too risky for the haven, so you had to stick with the nighttime. The clock strikes 11:30 and your phone chimed, it was Joel,  

J- “I’m here”   

You ran to your window to see the silhouette of Joel getting out of the car at the corner of the street. You put on your shoes and rushed downstairs. Your parents had already gone to their bedroom, and you had a clear way out. Adrenaline rushed in your veins, it was thrilling to be this old and sneaking like a high school girl.   

You walked up to him but instead of falling into each other’s embrace, he opened the door for you right away, eyes skimming around for any creeping neighbors.  

And the routine began again. Talk, smoke, eat, leave and of course silent small touches during the drives.  

Each night you both silently fight your inner selves, keeping yourselves from reaching out to the other and stealing a kiss. Each night he stared at your lips when you weren't looking and you stared at his’ when he looked away 

-  

The next day, you were busy with orders when Sarah showed up with a box in her hand which she placed on the counter,   

“For you,” she smiled her cheeky smile  

You raised your brows as you reached for the small box, “what do we have here?” you started unpacking it  

“You know Mrs. Ivy, right? she visited us last night, dad wasn’t home, said he had something important to do,” you bit the small smile that crept up to your lips, he was with me, “she was obviously very disappointed, so she left the cake,”   

You hummed and nodded to her explanation as she continued, “I told dad about it the morning, he saw it was strawberry flavored, so he packed half of it for you,” you swore your face was dipped in a shade of scarlet color, your heart fluttered at the act  

You couldn't help but smiled at the girl, “thank you, Sarah” you said before putting the box away in the mini fridge   

   Sarah hung out with you for a while as she ranted about Mrs. Ivy’s constant visits. A punch in your gut but you didn’t let it show 

-  

“And Mrs. Ivy?” you asked, jerking the ash off the cigarette.  

You both were sitting on the small blanket, a few cigarette butts scattered with leaves of strawberries.  

“What ‘bout her?” he took the cigarette from you, a slight annoyance in his tone  

You smirked, getting exactly what you wanted, “Well,” you sang, “Sarah mentioned she’s throwing herself on you,” you reached out for the cigarette, but he pulled it away from your reach, as he stared at you with an unamused look,   

You pushed yourself up and closer to him, to get the cigarette from him, he kept pulling away with you chasing,  

“What? Why don’t you give her a chance- Joel gimme the cigarette,” you leaned in on him, your vision zeroing on the burning end of the cigarette as you tried to reach out again,  

“What do you mean by ‘chance’?” he asked,   

Do you really don’t think of him as anything more than a friend? Why else would you sneak out with him? Did you really want him to be with someone else?   

Caught up with his thoughts, his hand supporting him gave up; he lay back on his elbow. His other arm pushed out from both of your bodies, still not letting you take the cigarette until he gets the answer  

The cigarette had your full attention. It felt like a competition of him pulling away and you chasing, nothing else. And you were determined to get the cigarette, not caring about what position you ended up in,  

“Apparently she’s been showing up at your house in the broad daylight, bring you cakes” you pushed his torso, so he was laying on back. One of your hands on his chest while the other reaching for his hand that he stuck out.   “And god knows what-”   

And in the split second he grabbed the tiny detail he was missing, the hint of jealousy in your tone.   

You looked at him when he didn’t respond, suddenly becoming aware of the situation you both were in.   

He caught you stealing a glance at his lips, because when you met his eyes again, there was an inkling of glint and mischief. Your cheeks were a deep shade of scarlet that were visible even in darkness  

You thought about pushing yourself up, embarrassed, but Joel’s free hand, the one without the cigarette, reached up and settled at your waist.  

You didn't miss the way his calloused skin accidentally brushed the sliver of your skin of your waist that showed because of your shirt riding up when you pushed yourself on him,   

Shiver ran down your spine, heart thundering in your chest. But you felt the same fast beating heart beneath your fingertips on Joel’s chest.   

Joel brought the cigarette to your lips, which you inhaled keeping heated eye contact with him.   

“Darlin’ you don't get it, do you?” he smirked, eyes falling to your lips, before looking back up,  

You gulped, everything around you slowed down, and when you saw him staring at your lips for a second, you trembled.   

“Get what?” you whispered    

He wet his lips with his tongue,   

“That you drive me crazy,” his hand slowly moved up from your waist with every word he spoke,  

“That the thoughts about you have consumed my mind, wholly and fully, that you make me want to take a hit and not regret it,” his hand rested on the back your neck,   

His breath fanned your lips. You were taking your time wrapping your head around his confession, staring at his lips and the way you or him inched closer with every word,  

“Kiss me, Joel-”   

Part: 1 2 3

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[jackwolfes]

prompt #59 with wesper pls 🤲

“Tell me to go and I will but ask me to stay and I'll never leave you again” Prompts: [1] [2]

The scene through Wylan’s bedroom window is lightning and malice, the rapidfire patter of rain gunshots on glass reminding him what little kindness waits for him outside, but right now inside isn’t much better. He stands with his arms at his sides and bare feet uncomfortable against the cold wood floor. The fire in the hearth is low enough to offer little comfort. 

Across the room, dripping rainwater onto Wylan’s expensive bedroom floor, Jesper stands resigned to whatever pain Wylan plans to inflict upon him. That hurts. The accusation of it digs beneath Wylan’s ribs like a burrowing beetle, carving out space between sinew and bone and biting down where it hurts most. It isn’t my fault, he wants to scream, but he’s too cowardly to say anything, not even I’d never hurt you. Not even, I’m sorry. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Wylan finally manages. “If my father found out…” 

Jesper doesn’t interrupt him. It is simply Wylan’s voice failing him, as it has so many times before, because as with every other facet of Wylan’s being, failure is his natural state. He doesn’t know what he’d even say if he could muster up the strength to speak, so perhaps silence is better. 

What would he even say? If his father found out he would, what? Actually disown him like he’d threatened to do days ago when he found him tangled up half naked with a serving boy? Kick him out of this prison he’s forged, the one that Wylan has so rarely been happy in but has always been mostly safe in? Both are plausible options. Wylan has always been a weak little lamb under the blade of father’s butcher knife, kept alive on a whim and little else. He can’t imagine his father going so far as to actually see him killed, but once he’s thrown out of his good graces, what hope would he have to survive? 

Just Jesper, who doesn’t owe Wylan a damn thing.

Jesper. Wylan can hear the echo of his own voice whispering that name a dozen different ways through the seasons. Kindly, reverently, desperately. Never in between the expensive silk sheets of his bed, but in plenty of other places they shouldn’t have been: the stable, most often, but the kitchens, too. Out in the gardens when the weather permitted it, a few times in the library, that once at the inn as they travelled out of town because neither of them had been able to hold back. Those golden slivers of enjoyable memories might be the only time Wylan has ever truly felt happy on his father’s property. Jesper has given him the world time and time again, and all Wylan did was see him get thrown out on the street and fired for taking the time to love him tenderly. 

The floor doesn’t creak when Jesper takes a step forward, which means Wylan’s sharp inhalation is entirely too audible. Over the heavy storm outside and the occasional crackle of firewood, the sound is a vulnerability. An admission. Wylan fights against every urge telling him to damn reason and run to Jesper, to throw himself in his arms and hold him close, and he hates himself for picking the safe option. He hates himself for a lot of reasons, but Jesper still crosses the room under the flickering firelight and comes to a half a bare few inches away. The rain water dripping off his clothes creates a puddle on the floor, seeping towards Wylan’s bare toes, but neither of them move. 

“Tell me to go,” Jesper whispers, “and I will.” 

Wylan shuts his eyes. He should, he should, he should, he isn’t strong enough to form the words between his lips. He simply cannot resist the magnetic pull of Jesper Fahey and all his charm, all his divinity, all his — perfection. Even with his eyes shut he can sense that Jesper is close, and maybe getting closer. His body stays deathly still, torn between wanting to jerk away back to where it’s safe or leaning into Jesper’s touch, where it’s safest. 

“If you ask me to stay, I will. I’ll never leave you again.”

The husky edge to Jesper’s whispering voice floods Wylan’s senses, in past his lips like cherries and chocolate, down his throat, around his wrists, in his head. His eyelashes open with a flutter; he parts his lips. Steel eyes stare at him like he is precious, worth keeping around, and Wylan was never going to survive without him in his life. 

He surges up to kiss Jesper fiercely, grabbing the back of his head to hold him close. The chill of rainwater caught in the tight coils of his hair press into Wylan’s fingertips like holy water sanctifying his skin. Wylan feels everything. Jesper’s hands on his hips, turning the thin fabric translucent with water and imprinting the shape of his palms into Wylan’s body. In a moment Wylan will stretch upwards to deepen the kiss and his shirt will peel away from his skin — maybe even sooner if Jesper chooses to be so bold as to pull it off for him — but the mark feels unerringly permanent. It is a brand on skin, but instead of pain it brings with it liberation. 

Wylan steps backwards, still clinging to Jesper with desperate hands. The clumsy gesture makes them both stumble but their lips don’t stray apart, which is more than what Wylan needs. Lightning cracks, blindingly bright against the dark night sky, and the thunder chasing its heels provides cover for the quiet little moan that slips between Wylan’s parted lips. He can barely hear it himself over the roaring rush of blood in his ears, the slam of his heartbeat thudding in his head, the dizzying slide of Jesper’s tongue along the backs of Wylan’s teeth as he plunders for gold. This is his one chance at pure secrecy, and it feels magical. 

The back of his legs hit his mattress sooner than he realises, the impact juddering through his body and shooting surprise through his frame. Unbalanced, he tumbles backwards and hits the soft mattress with a thwump of silky fabric, but Jesper catches himself before he can fall. 

It instantly pushes too much distance between them. Unceremoniously, Wylan is jerked free from the dizzying bliss he’d been feeling a second ago. The chill in the air takes its place, reminding him how cold he is without Jesper near him. Splayed out on the mattress with Jesper standing above him like that and framed by the lines of his spread thighs, he shivers. But the furrow in Jesper’s brow is enough to make Wylan nervous. His fingers twitch, lying on the mattress beside his head with his palms facing the sky expectantly. Jesper’s eyes flicker to the side and catch the motion. He says nothing, and Wylan sees want warring with apprehension in the metallic shine of his eyes.

And maybe Wylan is a coward, but Jesper isn’t. Jesper is one of the bravest people he’s ever met. They’re barely touching anymore, but the tiny point of contact between Wylan’s knee and Jesper’s shin is just enough to lend him strength. 

“Stay,” Wylan croaks. 

Sunshine blooms. The eye of the storm hits them like midsummer. Life erupts in Jesper’s eyes as he smiles that real, earnest, perfect smile, and he says, “Don’t want to ruin your bed getting it wet, do I?” As if he hadn’t made a million messes before with Wylan a beautiful, willing casualty. So Wylan laughs, breathless and giddy, and spreads his legs apart a little wider as he enjoys the show that Jesper puts on, haphazardly and clumsily stripping out of his rain-soaked clothes. They hit the ground with an ungraceful slap, and when Jesper clambers naked onto the bed (and onto Wylan) he’s barely even dry. He’s hard, though, and oh so pretty, and before Wylan can reach out to grab hold of him and start to give him the pleasure he deserves he’s taking hold of Wylan’s wrists and pinning him down onto the bed. Wylan jerks, spine arching with a breathless little moan, but Jesper kisses him and does not leave — he said he wouldn’t, and Wylan trusts that he means to keep his promise.

[circe69]

Say My Name

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem! Reader

Part 2 of "I Wanna Hear You Say Something"

summary: you get bit by a dog, SIMON helps you ;)

cw: mentions of injury/blood, maybe a lil' suggestive but nothing serious.

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

You and Ghost had stood up off from the floor, the rainwater in your clothes weighed you down and it was hard to get up.

You heard a few gunshots in the distance. When you jumped, Ghost put his hand on the small of your back.

"It'll be fine, love."

You slightly smiled, still a little spooked. You grabbed your rifle and supplies and started walking outside.

Crouching down behind a rock ledge, you placed your sniper rifle on top of it. Ghost was still standing in the shack, periodically looking out the front door to shoot a few stragglers.

You closed one eye and put the other to the scope. All the sudden, you hear a dog barking, much closer than you'd like.

A huge German Shepard jumped over the ledge onto you. Biting your forearm, you yelp in pain.

"Y/N!" You hear Ghost faintly scream your name.

Blood was flowing out of your skin, the rain only making it sting.

Ghost's loud footsteps came booming behind you, he swept you up in his arms and ran into the truck.

"Y/N" He yelled, "Y/N, can you hear me?"

"Simon, I'm fine. I'm okay."

He laid you down on one of the seats, so your head was laying by the window.

"Lift your arms, Y/N"

"Simon, I'm oka-"

"Now." He growled.

You lifted your arms, and he carefully removed your t-shirt, exposing the wound and practically everything else.

He grabbed the iodine and cotton pads from the center console. As he unscrewed the top off, he leaned up to kiss your forehead.

"Stupid dog." He joked, before giving you a peck on the lips. He started to carefully wash the wound out with rubbing alcohol. As you winced in pain, he lightly squeezed your hips,

"Atta girl." You felt the pain slowly decrease, just by looking at him. Just by him talking to you.

The rain had stopped significantly, and you and Ghost had been sitting in the back of the car for a few minutes to try and take a breather.

"You called me 'Simon'." He leaned over to nuzzle his face in your neck. He wrapped his hands around your bare torso and lightly stroked the bandage on your fresh wound. Kissing your neck a few times, he breathed on your skin, "I liked it."

"Yeah, well it's your name, isn't it?" He lifted his head up to look at you, then you pulled him by his neck and kissed him hard.

"Simon." You said practically said into his mouth.

He groaned at the sound of it and pulled away from the kiss to rest his head on your chest.

"It sounds so good when you say it."

You hummed while you laid your hand on his scalp.

"I'll say it more then."

[endless-summer-soldier]

dr. feelgood - chapter twelve

pairing: Surgeon!Bucky x SurgicalIntern!Reader

summary: Y/N has a one night stand with a handsome stranger the night before starting her new job as a surgical intern. Little does she know, the handsome stranger also happens to be her new boss

warnings: must be 18+, drinking, some surgery descriptions, smut, self-pleasure, praise kink, oral sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, PTSD, choking, angst

word count: 3.7k

a/n: ask and you shall receive! I started doing my final proofing and got tired and decided to post so apologies for any typos, I'll fix them later lol. please enjoy this one and thanks for your patience!

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It took exactly three seconds for Bucky to come to his senses. The gentle click of the door shutting brought him back to reality and he realized he couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t pretend like his heart didn't skip a beat every time she came into the room. That every time she smiled at him, he completely lost his focus. She was all he thought about, day in and day out, even when he was avoiding her. He wanted a future with her. In fact, she was the first woman he'd ever met that he could see a future with. And he had messed it all up. 

What hit him suddenly, as she walked out of the house, was that if he let her go, he was just bringing on more trauma. He would never emotionally recover from losing her. He would be stuck with his PTSD night terrors and would always live life wondering what if things were different. One of the lessons he learned in combat is that life is short and precious, and it shouldn’t be wasted.

“I’m such an idiot,” he mumbled to himself. He flew out the front door, hoping he could still catch her before she took off. It was a monsoon outside, with water pouring down in buckets. He caught the headlights of her car flooding the driveway and he darted toward the vehicle without another thought. He didn’t waste time putting shoes on, running outside in just socks. While wet socks were one of his pet peeves in life, at this moment he didn’t care.

He knocked feverishly on her window before she could put the car in reverse. She was initially startled before she rolled down the window. 

“What are you-” before she could finish her question, his hand was around her jaw and his lips were caressing hers. This was the last thing she expected, but she didn’t stop him, wondering if this was the last time she’d feel his lips on hers. He was dripping cold rainwater all over her and the seat of her car but she didn’t even care. She leaned into him, savoring the taste of his gin-coated lips.

He pulled away, leaning his forehead against hers, stealing the breath from her lips. “I’m not giving up on us,” was all he said. 

That gave her the confidence she needed. This time she took the lead, placing both hands around his jaw and pulling him closer to her, smiling in between every delicate kiss. 

“I’m so in love with you,” he whispered in between kisses and she reacted by holding him tighter and running her fingers through the hair on the back of his neck. “I’m sorry I didn’t fight for us. I just wanted to protect you.”

She pulled away and nuzzled into his neck, “I know, I know Buck. It’s okay.” Their blissful moment was interrupted by the cheerful barking of a golden retriever. Bucky turned around to find Liberty running around in circles in the pouring down rain, sloshing through the mud. 

“Well shit,” he chuckled.

“You leave the front door open?” 

“Apparently,” he turned back to Y/N and gave her one more quick peck on the lips. “I better wrangle her up, Will you stay? I’ll meet you inside and we can talk?” 

She nodded and laughed while he ran off after Liberty, sliding shoeless in the mud as he attempted to usher the dog back inside. Y/N was already half soaked from Bucky’s drippage so she easily made the decision to cut the engine and run inside. She captured Liberty’s attention as she ran to the front door and the dog darted after her. Once Liberty had followed her inside, she knelt down to give the dog some attention and to keep her inside. Bucky ran inside and shut the front door behind him, sliding ever so slightly on the hardwood floor. Y/N smiled up at him as she stood up and he returned her grin. As if on cue, Liberty shook off the moisture from her fur, completely coating Y/N and Bucky in more rain water and mud. They both started cracking up, laughing at both their disheveled states as the dog simply walked off to her dog bed. 

Bucky stepped closer to her and placed his hands on her hips. 

“You know, this look is kind of working for me…” he said, narrowing the space between them.

“Oh yeah? You into the swamp monster look?” she bantered.

“More like queen of the swamp,” he said, inching closer to envelope her lips in his. Her arms effortlessly wrapped around his neck and he pulled her in even closer, so her body was flush against his. They were cold and wet and muddy, yet there was no place they’d rather be. Bucky couldn’t believe he almost let this amazing woman slip beneath his fingers. He was savoring everything about her now: her smell, her taste, her touch. But what surprised him the most was how at ease he finally felt. The past few weeks, he’d been so tense. He was worried about Y/N, he wasn’t sleeping, barely eating, and just getting by an hour at a time. Now it was like he could finally breathe again. He didn’t realize what he was missing until he had her back. And now he never wanted to let go.

She started to pull back for a breath, but he wouldn’t let her, verbally expressing his dismay with a hummed “uh-uh.” She smiled and he kept her close, kissing her again and then moving from her lips to her cheek to her neck.

“Bucky,” she giggled. He loved hearing that sound and it just encouraged him more. “We should wash the dog before she spreads more mud around the house.”

“I don’t care about that,” he replied.

“But it’s Steve’ house and-”

“I will deal with Steve’s house later. Right now, I’m not letting go of you.” He moved in close again, seeking the soft touch of her lips. And she had no working defense mechanisms. She sighed into his mouth, loving the feeling of being back together with the man she’d been longing for over the past few weeks. But the logical side of her won over in the end.

She pulled away and Bucky shifted his attention to her jaw, planting kisses up toward her ear. 

“Okay, I’ll make you a deal…” she offered.

“Mhm,” he replied, opting not to part from her skin.

“If we take a pause to wash up the dog, then we can pick this up later. In the shower.” Bucky froze considering his options. They’d never shared a shower together and it was something he’d always wanted to do but they’d never had the opportunity.

He let out a deep sigh into her neck, “You’re killing me doll.” She gently scratched the back of his neck and kissed his ear, signaling that their make out session was over for the time being. Bucky walked over toward Liberty and effortlessly picked her up in his strong arms. As he walked toward the bathroom he called out, “You better be helping me with this!” Y/N smiled to herself and eagerly ran after him.

It took all four hands to wrestle Liberty into the tub and that was only the first step. It was fortunate that Bucky and I were already soaking wet from the rain because Liberty showered us in bathwater as she splashed around in the tub. It took us a minute to find a rhythm, with one of us rinsing while the other shampooed. After about thirty minutes, I pulled the drain plug and we pried Liberty out of the tub, wrapping her in a towel. Once she was mostly dried off, we gave her a bone which she happily curled up with in her dog bed. 

I leaned against the kitchen counter, taking a quick moment to catch my breath, which didn’t last very long. Bucky approached with a smirk on his face and, without a word, swept me up into his arms. 

“Bucky!” I called in surprise.

“Pretty girl,” he countered, awfully pleased with himself.

“What are you doing?” I protested, as he started ascending the staircase.

“We’re getting you cleaned up.” Bucky strode into what I assumed was Steve’s bedroom, and before I could argue, he opened the door to the master bathroom and I was speechless. It was spacious to the point where it could’ve passed for a health spa. There was a giant soaking tub next to a window, with tealight candles lined up on the windowsill. Accompanying the tub was an upholstered ottoman holding a tray of bath salts, luxury oils, scrubbing brushes, and any other things you might need during a soak. In the corner was a beautifully tiled walk-in shower, complete with a rain shower head and a built in ledge that could double as a bench. Along the wall was a long countertop, with two sinks placed in front of the giant framed mirror. Before I could take in anymore, Bucky sat me on the countertop next to the sink, like I was a child and he was tending to a scrape on my knee. He walked over to the closet and pulled out two, lush looking, sage green bath towels, and hung them on the silver towel rack that was placed by the entrance of the shower. 

“This is…” I said, looking around the room with wonder.

“I know. Steve takes his self care very seriously,” Bucky joked. He turned the handle in the shower and the water started flowing through onto the beautifully laid tiles, mimicking the sound of the rainforest. 

Bucky made his way back over to me and I wondered what his next move would be. I was happy to sit back and enjoy the ride of whatever he had in mind. His face hovered in front of mine, as he placed his hands on the counter, his thumbs so nearly grazing my thighs. I studied his face, waiting for him to lean in and kiss me again, so that we could pick up where we left off. Instead, he planted a chaste kiss on my cheek and exited my personal space. His right hand found its way to my thigh and he slowly slid it all the way down my leg, until he was gripping my ankle. He extended my leg and brought my foot up towards his mouth, using his teeth to nip the top of my sock and carefully pull it off my foot. He planted a sweet kiss on my big toe and then repeated the process with my other foot. 

Then he moved to my hands, removing the rings and bracelets I had on and placing them carefully in a small bowl on the counter. His slow, calculated movements were turning me on more than I thought they would. As much as I needed to have him, I wasn’t going to rush through this. He removed my earrings, giving one of my earlobes a playful nip, before he pulled off my blouse, planting kisses from my collarbone down to my navel. He came back up to my eye level, but his fingers were already working on the button of my jeans. 

“I might need your help with this one,” he said, as he pulled down my zipper. I leaned back onto the counter and lifted my hips, allowing Bucky to pull at the waistband and slide the jeans off my legs. I sat back upright while Bucky kissed his way up my legs, taking a little extra time when he reached my inner thighs. I could see the hunger in his eyes and I knew that this teasing must be killing him, but it would all be worth it. His mouth found my bra strap and took it in his teeth as he lifted up slowly and released it so it snapped back onto my skin. His hands worked their way up my love handles and met at the clasp of my bra. 

“Ah ah ah…” I chided, shaking my head before he could continue. He gave me a confused look and I merely pulled at the hem of his shirt, “You are fairly overdressed.” He let me pull the shirt up and over his head and I tossed it across the room. He leaned back in, continuing where I stopped him but I simply shook my head again. I pulled the drawstring of his sweatpants loose and tucked my fingers into the waistband and he effortlessly wiggled out of the material, leaving him stripped down to my level, clad only in his boxer briefs.

“Happy now?” he asked, with a tilt of his head.

“Almost,” I smiled mischievously. He slowly closed his eyes and sent me a toothless smile, knowing what I was getting at. When he opened his eyes back up they locked onto mine like a wolf stalking its prey. It sent a chill down my spine and all I wanted was to feel his hands on me again. He placed two thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and easily pulled them down, stepping out of them and closer towards me. 

“You have some catching up to do,” he growled.  I smiled as he kissed me, this time with urgency. His hands were behind my back unclasping my bra with ease and it fell to the floor. He started kissing my neck as his hands ventured south and rested on my hips. It didn’t take him long to pull at my thong, and I raised my right hip up to aid him, and he happily accepted the help. 

I felt a bit of a breeze and shivered briefly, as my nipples hardened slightly due to the cool air and Bucky’s fingertips. He noticed my momentary shudder and grinned into the kiss. 

“Why don’t I warm you up a little,” he suggested, sweetly kissing my jaw before shifting his attention to my pert nipples. He took each one carefully into his mouth, giving them just enough attention and then continued on his journey, eventually kneeling on the ground. I hadn’t realized that’s what he meant, but I wasn’t going to complain. He gently pulled on my legs as a signal for me to come closer which I did. He ran his tongue up my sopping wet pussy to my clit and ran circles around the sensitive bud. My head fell back instinctively, missing the feel of his touch. He dove right into my folds, exploring with his tongue and forcing labored breaths out of me. 

“Bucky…” I called, running my fingers through his hair in an attempt to pull him back towards me. He took that as encouragement and increased his efforts, shooting his eyes up to watch my reaction. I let out a soft moan and pulled on his hair harder, which he seemed to enjoy. 

“Bucky, stop,” I softly commanded. He immediately stopped and pulled back, looking up to see if everything was okay. “I can’t wait anymore. I need you inside of me.”

He acted quickly, standing and collecting me off the counter with ease, and carrying me into the immaculate shower. The minute we stepped under the water, his lips were back on mine and I tightened my grip on his neck, pulling him as close to me as possible. My legs were wrapped around his torso and his strong hands were cradling my lower back. 

“God, I missed you so much,” he whispered into my neck. 

“Show me,” I challenged, feeling bolder. Bucky reacted immediately, pressing me into the cold tiles of the shower. I let out an exhale and he took that as encouragement. He expertly shifted my position so that he had a better angle to my entrance, all while keeping me secure. And then he thrusted into me and I almost came on the spot. A moan escaped my lips and Bucky picked up his pace, grunting into my neck. 

“Fuck baby,” I let out, knowing I wouldn’t last much longer. 

“This one might be quick, but I’ll make it up to you.”

“I don’t care, you feel so good inside of me.” He gave me a quick love bite on my shoulder and then gently returned me to the ground.

“Turn around,” he commanded, caressing my hips with his fingertips. I placed my hands on the shower tiles and bent forward as he pulled my hips toward him.

“You know me too well,” I smiled.

“Of course I know how my girl likes it.” He didn’t give me a warning when he entered me and I let out a squeal of pleasure. He gave my ass a smack before clutching my hips tighter and increasing his rhythm.

“You’re so wet for me, pretty girl. I’ve missed your tight little cunt.” He thrust in deeply and paused, wrapping his hand around my front to play with my clit. 

“Ohhhhh…” He was pushing my every button and I was nearing my climax.

“Those noises are driving me wild…” He picked up his pace again and I let out another moan. “Now be a good girl and cum for me.” That was all it took to trigger my orgasm. My back arched and I leaned further into the tile to stabilize myself while Bucky’s hands kept his strong hold on me. It all seemed to happen so quickly, as I panted and tried to bring myself back down to earth. 

“Wow…” I breathed through my satisfied smile. 

“I second that.” He slowly retracted and took my hand. “C’mere.” He pulled me towards him and wrapped his arms around my waist. I locked my arms around his neck and smiled up at him as he planted a few sweet kisses on my lips. 

“That was amazing,” he said, connecting his forehead to mine.

“I know, we’re pretty good at that.”

“And we keep getting better.”

“You think it’s because we’re in love now?” I suggested.

“It has to be that,” he said, kissing my nose. “Also, I didn’t pull out. I’m sorry. I got caught up in the moment.”

“It’s okay, I’m on the pill so we should be fine.”

“I won’t do that without checking with you ever again.” 

I placed a hand on his cheek and said, “I said it’s fine.”

“I know, but I still should’ve asked your permission.”

“Well, I appreciate that. Now can we get clean and spend the rest of the night cuddling?”

“We can do whatever you would like my dear.”

Once we finished up in the shower and dried off, Bucky lent me the T-shirt he packed and he put on a pair of sweatpants. We curled up together on the couch and turned on a rerun of Bar Rescue. 

I rested my head on his shoulder and he put his arm around me and kissed my temple.

“How are you feeling, pretty girl?”

I tilted my head so that I was looking at him, “Happy.”

“That’s what I love to hear.”

“All because of you,” I smiled.

“Ah, can I bring something up at the risk of ruining the moment.”

“I don’t think anything could ruin this night for me. Unless you break up with me.”

“Well I’m never doing that. But I do think we should talk about that night.” 

“Oh. Okay,” I shifted so that I was facing him, giving him my undivided attention. He collected my hands and held them tight in his.

“I know you said you pulled me out of the nightmare, but I don’t want to put you in that position again. It might not work next time. So I’m going to start up therapy again. It did help me a lot before and I only stopped going when I thought I had things under control. But I think it might be more of a lifelong thing.”

I nodded, “I think that’ll be really good for you.”

“It’s really hard for me to ask for help, but I do think it’ll make things better.”

“And I’m happy to go slow as we figure everything out. I want to make sure you feel comfortable with things.”

“Trust me, I don’t want to go slow. I’ve finally got you where I want you. But I can’t let that happen again.”

“We’ll ease back in. No sleepovers for a few weeks.”

“Well I’m not agreeing to that,” he smirked.

“What!?”

“I want to fall asleep next to you every night.”

“Yeah but-” I started to protest.

“I think we can start with staying at your house. It’s not my space and I don’t think I sleep as deeply because it's a different environment than I’m used to. Plus I’ve stayed over your place a handful of times and never had any issues.”

“Are you sure?’

“Positive,” he stated.

“Okay, we can start there and see how it goes.”

“I still want to have a back-up plan for you though. Maybe stash an air horn or something by the bed just in case. I’ll come up with something.”

I chuckled lightly, “I don’t think an air horn is going to work.”

“Why not?”

“Do you want to know what I did the first time?” 

“I am curious actually.” 

“First, I placed my hand on your cheek,” I announced as I demonstrated. “Then I slowly pulled you in closer,” He moved with my hand until his forehead was pressed against mine. “And then I did this,” I gently brushed my lips against his and he sat there stunned.

“Yeah, that’ll do it,” he commented with a small smile on his face.

“I thought if I fought back you would only push harder but that affection might confuse you.”

“And it worked.”

“It didn’t really confuse you, though. It sort of…calmed you. You curled into me and fell back asleep.”

 Bucky looked a little stunned as he considered this, “Smart. That was very quick thinking.”

“That’s why I’m in trauma.”

“I’ll give you that. But I still want some sort of back up plan in place.”

“Well I will let you think on that and come up with a plan because you probably know better than I do on this matter.”

“I can do that. So until we have a back up plan, no more sleepovers.”

“That’s fair.”

“Tonight I’ll let you sleep in Steve’s room with Liberty and I’ll take the guest bedroom.”

She wanted to protest, badly, because she couldn’t imagine leaving his vicinity. But she chose to respect his wishes. For now, she nuzzled into Bucky’s shoulder and entangled her legs with his, enjoying every second of being in his presence.