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cherrixpie · 9 days ago

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HOW NOT TO DATE A SLYTHERIN

part five of five (and 1/2 🤫)

↬ being harry potter's sister wouldn't make dating theodore nott any easier - which was why you tried to hide it. after your failed attempt, wounds need mending and your brother a slap on the wrist.

↬ sfw; hurt/comfort; wc: 5.6k; cw: suggestive, self-deprecating thoughts; secret relationship trope, potter!reader, griffindor! reader

The courtyard was silent except for the whisper of the wind rustling through the tree branches. The faint moonlight casted long, skeletal shadows across the stone. If Filch turned up now, you didn't think you’d have it in you to even hide. You sat hunched over on a cold stone bench, arms wrapped tightly around yourself against the cool night air. The tears finally slowed, leaving your face damp and your chest aching.

The weight of your brother's words still clung to you like nasty glue, tenacious and heavy, each accusation replaying in your mind over and over again, like a taunt. You weren't naive. You were capable of thinking and deciding for yourself. Or were you? You think he cares about you? you heard Harry's voice echo in your mind. But of course he did. Pulling your legs to your chest and resting your chin onto your knees, you rocked slightly in an effort to calm yourself. Theo liked you. It wasn't impossible. There was something lovable about you, there had to be.

You’d have never doubted Theo, but you began to doubt yourself. Had you been deceiving him into thinking you were desirable by being Harry's sister? There is more to you than just that, a tiny advocate for yourself tried to argue, but the devil on your shoulder shut him up. Was there any other explanation for Theo to be interested in you, than that he saw something in you that you weren't? Frustrated by yourself, you wiped at your cheeks, but fresh tears started to spill and you buried your face in your hands, bundled up against the cold.

Of course Theo liked you. But Harry's words elicited thoughts of doubt in you, a doubt you’d always had and was hard to quell, a doubt that Theo had almost dispersed but now hit you with full force. You weren’t sure if you were angrier at Harry for saying them or at yourself for letting them get to you. Not that he had meant it like that. Harry would never suggest you weren't good enough for Theo, he’d have it the other way around. That Theo had deceived you, tricked you, used you. As if he were the only one with a mind, as if you were a child.

The chill seeped through your robes, but you didn't move, staring at the ground where your tears had dotted the frost-covered cobblestones. The quiet should have been comforting, but instead, it only made you feel smaller, like the world itself had chosen to remind you just how much you didn't belong- not here, not with Theo, not anywhere. You looked anywhere but at the courtyard entrance, maybe because an unconscious part of your mind knew that somebody would come eventually. And that somebody was Theo.

Theo didn't hate much. That may surprise some, but he found disdain to be much more civil and controlled, and therefore elegant. Outright hate was something uncontrollable, overwhelming the most conscious of human spirits with a rage far beyond what they could grasp or deal with. It was the same with violence. Theo preferred measured, unemotional violence before the messy raging of the likes of Mattheo. But Theo couldn't deny it as he watched your lone figure, curled up on the stone bench. He hated to see you cry, and he wanted to inflict as much pain as possible onto your brother.

But he couldn't hurt your brother (seriously), you’d be upset. And he couldn't walk over to you to still your tears, because his feet seemed to be glued to the ground. Even from afar, he could hear your sniffling, it was carried to him like a secret by the cool night breeze. Shaking like a leaf, you seemed to hide your face in your hands. Something intense stirred in his chest, seized his insides in a hard grip. He should've been more vigilant, he should've ensured you could reveal the secret in your own terms. He should've looked out for his girl, and he’d failed.

“Theo?”

Your soft voice penetrated the cloudy mist of self loathing that had consumed his thoughts. A small light, an irrestible pull. Theo raised his head from the cobblestones to you. Still sitting on the bench, you had untangled your limbs and taken your face out of your hands. Your glossy eyes reflected the moonlight, it illuminated the trail your tears had left on your cheeks and again, a wave of emotion was stilled by impotence.

Your brows furrowed doubtfully and Theo considered how he must look on the outside, to you. Stone faced, jaw clenched, straight as an arrow, tense. It wasn't an easy feat to soften his features when the raging desire to kill your brother, his worry and his self-reproach battled for stewardship. Shamefully, he had to admit to the urge to flee he felt, from you, from what you brought forth in him, made him feel. He wasn't cut out for this.

You could sense Theo’s hesitance and immediately felt self-conscious. But before you could decide how to approach him, he pushed himself off the pillar he’d been leaning on and walked towards your bench. You watched his steps carefully. There was something mesmerizing about watching Theo walk. Maybe it was the elegance of his steps, the way he always seemed to know where to go and approached his target without hesitation. Theo would not be caught slouching or walking aimlessly. Right now, you seemed to be the aim, which calmed you a bit.

Your eyes got captured by the reflection of the moonlight on the cobblestone, or maybe you were just avoiding his knowing eyes, as he sat down next to you and left a few inches of space for you, though that meant he was pressed into the corner of the bench, sitting on its edge awkwardly. Burying your fingers in your thighs, you inhaled an intake of breath to apologize, but- “Forgive me, tesoro,” Theo's voice sounded quietly through the silence of the courtyard.

You turned to him, surprised. “Forgive you? What would you have to ask forgiveness for? I’m the one who was reckless and it's because of me Harry said all those awful things about you and then I left you standing there-” you rambled on and wrung your hands desperately. Tears stung in the corners of your eyes but you pushed them down, you didn't want to worry him, you’d already done enough.

Theo couldn't believe it. He couldn't believe that you were the one apologizing, that you blamed yourself about what your brother had accused him off. How much you cared about him, that this had been troubling you. A thousand replies, arguments, explanations bombarded his tongue, but he commanded it to silence to sort them. Because he had to make sure you didn't blame yourself- and that you believed him in his love for you.

He moved his arms slowly and deliberately, to give you the chance to back away, shrug them off or ignore them. Instead, you recognized them and threw yourself into his hold, hiding your face in his chest. With a new add of displeasure, Theo noted that your hands and face were ice cold. No wonder you were shivering. “Don't you dare be sorry,” Theo told you, but all harshness had left him as he held your shivering figure. “Don't you dare apologize to me. I couldn't care less what your brother,” he couldn't help the malice in his tone when he mentioned him, “thinks of me. But you do.”

When you raised your head from his chest to protest, you didn't care what Harry thought about Theo, Theo cupped it tenderly. Though he didn't wear a smile, it was as if his hard features had melted and he looked at you with the utmost gentleness. “He’s your brother. And anyways, that wasn't really what I meant.” His thumb brushed over your cold cheek and wiped at the remains of frozen tears. “You care what he thinks about you. But he was wrong.”

“That's what I tell myself,” you laughed dryly, leaning into his touch. Theo loosened his coat and wrapped it around you as he pulled you closer, listening to you intently. “I want to believe that I am lovable or interesting or desirable, but after what he said…” Your voice grew quiet, this was something only Theo could be trusted with, vulnerable words exchanged under the cover of his coat. “I can't come up with a single reason why you would want me.”

“Because there is no single reason,” Theo answered softly as he inspected his coat to make sure you were covered completely. “Or rather, there is such a multitude of reasons you'd have to give me a while to write them down, if you were being fair. Or maybe there isn't one at all. I’m not with you for a specific reason or a specific aspect of you. I want you because of you and everything that entails.”

You could follow his line of thought, but the mean little voice acquitted the abstraction of his words to a lie. “You speak in tongues,” you chuckled sadly and felt him sigh. “Tesoro, is it that inconceivable to you that I could love you?”

“Yes,” you said promptly, for one because it was true, but also because Theo’s dropping of the l-bomb had momentarily stunned you.

“I’ll just have to reiterate then,” Theo said and made you look at him. “Again and again and again until you believe me.” When you continued to look unconvinced, he clenched his teeth in frustration. How on earth was he supposed to convince someone as stubborn as you? In what ways could he comfort you, make you believe him when he told you how much he appreciated you?

“Do you know what tesoro means?” Theo asked and you were hit with the sudden realization that you didn't. In the beginning, before your relationship started, you had been convinced that it was a teasing insult he could dangle over your head, that you couldn't understand. But you’d never asked.

When you shook your head in response, Theo gave you the smallest of smiles, the best he could muster. “It means ‘treasure'. You are so precious to me, tesoro,” he said in a lowered voice as he kissed up the side of your face. “I wouldn't trade you for the world. I want you to let me love you, I want to crush anyone who hurts you.”

Laying in his arms breathlessly, you tried to think of a response, but his wit with words had disarmed you. All you could do was hold onto him, sneak your icy hands under his shirts and draw small patterns there in an attempt to convey your response. Finally, some of the mist faded and you were able to grasp a rational thought. “What do I do now?”

“Hm, I don't know,” Theo answered, the slightest bit of amusement in his voice. You squinted your eyes up at him. “You aren't being a help,” you lied and he crooked his head knowingly before he got serious once more. “It's up to you what to do, tesoro. Whatever you choose to do, it's valid.”

“What if I blow up the astronomy tower?” you joked in an attempt to downplay how touched you were by his trust, by his respect and esteem for you that you had found questioned before a sea of onlookers half an hour prior. “Still valid,” Theo decided and pursed his lips, making you giggle irrationally. He seemed to take it as a sign of tiredness and took his cloak from you despite your protests. “Let's get you up into bed, tesoro.”

“I don't want to,” you muttered darkly. “They’ll all know what happened by now, and I don't want to run into Harry.”

“We could go back to my dorm,” Theo said openly as he took your hands and placed them in his pockets to protect them against the frosty wind. “But my dorm mates can be a bit trampy, and they are no nice sight to wake up to. Plus, they’ll be frustrated by the lost match, I don't know whether the option is more pleasant.”

But something had just dawned on you, an idea so brilliant you were surprised by yourself. “I know where we can go.” Without questioning your use of ‘we’, Theo locked your fingers with his. “Lead the way, then.”

You half expected Filch to turn up every time you crossed a corner, or to stumble upon Mrs Norris, which would be equally as unfortunate. But your way up to the fifth floor remained miraculously free of cats and caretakers. When you flung around a corner, Theo hot on your heels, you suddenly felt a tug on your hand as he slowed down. Before you could turn around to ask what was wrong, you felt his breath close to your ear. “I know where you’re taking me, tesoro.”

You didn't doubt that for a second, what with all his mountains of knowledge, it was hard to come across something Theo didn't know. “Why didn't you think of it, then?” you asked and kept walking. If you remembered right from your fifth year, it had to be somewhere around here, maybe in the next corridor…

“I tend to use that room for … other purposes,” his tone of voice, the little smirk adorning his lips and the subtle mirth in his eyes left no doubt for the nature of those purposes. Stupidly, you felt your cheeks heat up and tried to avert your face, doing your very best to hide your blush. Though Theo’s barely concealed chuckle had you realize the pointlessness of that endeavor.

When you pushed open the doors of the room of requirement, you were, unsurprisingly, treated to a welcoming sight. The room was warm and several fireplaces along its walls gave it a homely feeling. In fact, it reminded you of the Griffindor tower a little. Just that the cushions and couches had been replaced by a large, king sized four poster in the middle of the room, its curtains swaying softly in the nonexistent breeze. “Nice,” Theo complimented and you smiled to yourself. “You think so?”

Now, alone with Theo, hands brushing, voices whispering without any reason, you felt much calmer. You parted from him to step further into the room and reached the bed, sitting down on it. A surprised sigh left your lips when you practically sunk in the soft sheets and you fell back onto your back. As you blinked up at the high ceiling, Theo's face came into view. He, too, looked a lot more relaxed, had his hands in his pockets and looked down on you with a teasing smile. “So… there seems to be only one bed in your ideal room for us.”

You frowned. “If you want your own bed, I'm sure the room will provide it.” Theo hummed and looked around as if he were looking for it. “Strange, it doesn't. Seems like I don't want my own bed after all.”

You scooted aside to make space for him and he settled down on the mattress with far more elegance than you. Theo hoisted his long legs onto the bed, slipped off his shoes and pulled you closer with one arm. With a tired sigh, you settled against his warm chest and his fingers drew circles on the skin beneath your shirt. You, too, took off your shoes without bothering to remove any other piece of clothing. When you took his hand, you heard an intake of breath from Theo, as if he had wanted to say something that didn't make it past his lips.

Angling your head upwards, you found him already looking at you. “Thank you,” he said, and it sounded more grave, more intimate than his apology and declaration of love had. Theo didn't thank people very often, you realized. “For what?” you whispered, not daring to raise your voice against the silence that seemed to lay its protective cloak over the two of you. “You defended me,” Theo said mutedly, still drawing tender patterns onto your skin. “In front of all those people. Against your brother.”

“Ah, well,” you shrugged and smiled. “That was nothing. Theo?” “Hm?” It was your turn to cup his face gently. “You deserve to be stood up for.” You frowned at the sarcastic twitch around his mouth, but the smile he gave you was genuine. “I don't deserve you, tesoro. Come oso mettere le mani su qualcosa di così puro?”

“You deserve the world, Theo,” you said fiercely and sat up, fisting his shirt in your hands. Your heart was thrumming as you prepared the words, tried them on your tongue silently, and finally, they slipped past your lips. With a heavy accent, no doubt, and a shaky voice. “Ti amo, Theo.”

His eyes widened subtly. A movement rippled through his whole body, you could barely comprehend it when he pulled you onto his lap and shot up, lips clashing into yours in one fluid motion. His lips beckoned yours into a sensual dance as he whispered into your mouth: “Anch'io ti amo, tesoro.” When you whimpered against his lips, Theo surged forward and flipped you onto your back.

All your thoughts were consumed by him, him, him. The caress of his lips, the touch of his hands that ran up and down your body, the sound of his voice as he whispered foreign phrases of Italian into your ear. If he didn't feel so real and warm under your fingertips, you'd have thought him a vivid daydream. Each and every touch seemed to push you, you with you, lead you to a predetermined end he'd already set for you. His fingertips and lips ignited a fire inside of you that burned through every last bit of self control and you moaned helplessly against him, eliciting a chuckle from Theo .

When you ran out of breath, you broke free from him and looked into his impossibly blue eyes. They were brimming with tenderness, raking over your figure, taking in your disheveled hair, heaving chest and hazy eyes. “You look tired.”

Theo manouvered you back onto your back and pulled the blankets over the two of you. Snuggling against him, your fingertips brushed over your kiss-bitten lips in silent memory. Only Theo's voice could pull you out of your daydreams. “You should get some sleep.” Nodding, you closed your eyes and allowed your body to relax against his. Only one thing was still bugging you. “Theo?”

“Hm?”

“Promise me you won't hurt Harry,” you said as sternly as you could manage in your half sleeping state. A silence followed, during which you almost dozed off, but Theo’s voice sounded through the deafening tiredness that weighed your lids down. “If you insist.”

By breakfast the next morning, somehow, half the school knew what had happened the last night. And when noon rolled around, it was the whole student body. Hermoine had stayed up late last night, in the hopes of talking to you when you came back to your dorm, but you hadn't, and hadn't been in your bed when she had woken up either. Hermoine only managed to catch a glimpse of you when you hurriedly left the Griffindor table at breakfast upon their arrival, and you seemed to have spend the forenoon avoiding them with the assistance of Fred’s and George’s magic sweets.

Harry had been in a particularly foul mood all morning, staring gloomily and snapping at her and Ron any chance he got. Though Hermoine caught his unmistakably worried look when you called in sick and flew from the Griffindor table. Her irritation had grown worse as well, as she was subjected to Harry’s short temper, and reached its peak at dinner time when the three of them were on their way to the Great Hall and Harry raised his voice at her for something so minor it was ridiculous.

“Harry, we need to talk,” she said sternly and halted her steps. The two boys turned to her reluctantly, Harry looked exasperated, Ron cast worried glances at him. “What, Hermoine?” Harry asked sharply and she crossed her arms. “There is no reason to use that tone with me. We need to talk about last night. You clearly feel bad for what happened-”

“I couldn't care less,” Harry pressed through clenched teeth, but none of them took the chance to revel in the irony. “And I wasn't the one who betrayed the family-”

“Are you sure?” Hermoine interrupted him. “She is your only family, and you made her cry.”

Harry snorted. “Me? It's all that bloke Nott’s fault! And she's to blind to see that he's just using her!” He stormed off, but Hermoine caught up with him, unwilling to let the topic go. Ron, on the other hand, looked as uncomfortable as if he was following two acromantulae instead of his best friends.

“Look,” Hermoine tried the diplomatical approach, slightly out of breath. “I don't like Nott either, but other than her, I've never exchanged a single word with him. And neither have you.”

“Yeah, he's super quiet,” Ron chimed in, “He's weird that one, he's got something to hide for sure. What if he's a death eater, too?”

“She doesn't know what she's getting herself into with him,” Harry retorted hotly, skipping Ron's comment.

“What makes you think that?” Hermoine asked angrily. A surprised gasp left Harry's throat when she grabbed his robes and brought him to a halt. “Why don't you trust her? I get that you’re worried, but she's not a child, and honestly, she's far more reflecting than you are being right now. I would trust her to read someone over you, Harry, because she's smart and she could hold her own. And you know she's struggling with self esteem and still, you said these horrible things to her. You look more like an asshole than Nott right now!”

Hermoine's chest rose and fell rapidly and Harry seemed dumbfounded for a second. A second Ron used to attempt to diffuse the heated situation. “Look, neither of us likes Nott, but we all like her. How about we just find her, you apologize, Harry, and we reconcile. And Nott is a topic for tomorrow.”

Hermoine read in Harry's face that he knew Ron was right, but she also knew that your stubbornness was only rivaled by your brother’s. “I just want to protect her, Hermoine.”

“You have a funny way of showing that, Potter.”

All three of them spun around so fast their bags knocked against each other. Leaning against a tapestry a few feet from them was Theodore Nott, in the flesh, hands in his pockets, a picture of dangerous calm. His piercing eyes were fixed on Harry, and though his features were as unreadable as ever, the line of his jaw was unnaturally sharp, revealing his tension.

“What are you doing here?” Ron asked aggressively, stepping in front of Harry. When Nott let his gaze wander over him, he flushed slightly but didn't back down. Hermoine felt herself tense up. Though you never knew with him, the look in Nott's eyes was unmistakable, and she reached for her wand under her robes, just to feel less helpless.

“I’m not here to fight you, so you can put that away, Granger,” he said, without looking at her. Ron opened his mouth, no doubt to stand up for her, but Hermoine stepped on his foot to silence him before he could utter a word. Unbothered by Ron’s glare and Harry’s drawn wand, Nott returned his cool stare to Harry. “Your sister made me promise not to hurt you, so I won't. But you will apologize to her.” His tone left no room for doubt what would happen if his demands weren't met.

When neither of the three replied, Theo pushed himself off the wall. Somehow, he was even taller than Ron, who planted himself in front of the other two protectively. “Did you hear, Potter?” he asked softly, his tone indicated that he greatly enjoyed the effect he had. “You will apologize. You will take everything back. You will let her make the calls. And if she tells you to shut it and go away, you will. Though I figure you, too, know that she is far too kind for that. And if you don’t, you will be on the receiving end of my wrath.”

“You'd break your promise, huh?” Harry snarled and Hermoine could have punched him. “You act so high and mighty, as if you cared about her, but in the end, you would go over her head just like that.”

Notts eyes glinted dangerously and his voice grew even softer, if that was even possible. “Other than you maladroit Griffindor lot, I have ways of getting my retaliation other than hurting you, Potter.”

“Are you including my sister in that ‘maladroit Griffindor lot’?” Harry hissed and Theo raised his brow. “No. She's the exception.” There was a few seconds of silence, during which Theo and Harry glared at each other and Ron and Hermoine exchanged nervous glances.

Finally, Nott took another step forward. He seemed to attempt a less hostile tone, but didn't quite succeed. “She means a lot to me. Her happiness means a lot to me. And you will not stand in the way of it. I want this … arrangement to work for her, so I ask you,” the last part seemed to strain him, “to tolerate me, as I will tolerate you.”

“If you’re trying to get me to accept you-” Harry began, incensed, but Theo cut him off. “I'm not asking for your acceptance, Potter, I ask you to respect your sister and her decision and not throw a hissy fit because she gets her own life instead of running around fixing yours.” The short term diplomacy had vanished and he let out an exasperated sigh, rummaging in his robes for a pack of cigarettes.

As much as Hermoine held an aversion to him and his friends, she couldn't deny that he had a point. Harry couldn't either, she saw it in his face, the way he gripped his wand but let it slip back under his robes. Without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed off. Ron waited a few tactful seconds before following him, but Hermoine remained, casting nervous glances at the Slytherin. When Nott looked up from lighting his cigarette, he raised his brow at her still standing there.

“Do you really like her?” she asked, testing his reaction. His fingers holding the cigarette twitched as he lifted them to his mouth once more. If Filch caught him smoking in the halls, he’d earn himself a punishment even he couldn't buy himself out of. Maybe this afflicted him more than he let on, if he risked his polished record so carelessly.

“Yes,” he said simply, but his tone was grave and intense. His eyes bored into her skull, it seemed, and Hermoine wondered wether he could do legilimency. She nodded in thought. Hermoine couldn't help but believe him, though she still didn't like him. But one thing she knew.

“She likes you too,” Hermoine replied and there was a subtle twitch in his brows. “She's been happier lately. Absent and secretive, but she seems to be doing better than ever. Well, you two have my blessing, is what I just wanted to say. If that means anything.” A little embarrassed, she turned to go but stopped when he called out to her.

“It does.” When he saw the surprised look on her face, Nott waved with his cigarette. “It means something to her. So, thank you.” Nodding, Hermoine turned her back on him and walked up the corridor, replaying the conversation in her mind. Madness, she thought, shaking her head. Theodore Nott thanking someone, thanking her. Unbelievable.

You had made sure to hide in the room of requirement until fifteen minutes before curfew, when you hurried up to Griffindor tower. Per your estimation, the common room would be fairly empty, since it was a weekday, and your dorm mates would be sleeping if you waited out midnight by the fire. When you slipped through the portrait hole, you found the common room deserted and breathed a sigh of relief. Your favorite armchair by the fire was free and you sank into the cushion with a satisfied exhale.

“Can we talk?”

Just as quickly as you had fallen into the armchair, you jumped up from it. Your eyes found a lone figure near the steps to the boy’s dormitories. Harry’s hair was even more disheveled as usual and he looked tired, but he hadn't changed into his pyjamas yet. So he had been waiting for you.

Even though you were not keen on another lecture, you didn't want to affront him when he wasn't yelling at you anymore. So you nodded and sat back down, pulling your legs to your chest and resting your chin on your kneecaps to stare into the flickering flames. You heard Harry shuffle closer and saw him plopp down on the couch next to you out of your peripheral vision. He, too, seemed to have directed his eyes to the fire.

“I … ran into Nott earlier,” he said and you did a double take. “How are you still in one piece?” Harry gave you a deadpan look that you would've laughed about, if you had felt like laughing. “According to him, you made him promise not to hex me.”

“Right,” you said, remembering if vaguely, and leaned back into the cushion. “How did it go?” you asked shyly, drawing hope from the fact that Harry seemed unharmed. “He was … direct,” Harry said with pursed lips and you couldn't suppress the light chuckle that fell from your lips. “He tends to be. When it suits him.”

“Make sure you tell him I apologized,” Harry mumbled, giving you a tentative look. “Or he might take my head off.”

“You didn't,” you said firmly, feeling a pang of guilt when Harry looked up. The look in his eyes reminded you of when he was younger. “You didn't apologize yet,” you explained and Harry shifted, visibly uncomfortable. “Right.” With a long sigh, he ran a hand through his unruly hair. “I’m sorry. I shouldn't have called you naive, or stupid, or delusional.” “It hurt me,” you clarified and hugged your legs tighter to your chest. “Made me feel like I'm not even my own person. And you knew it would hurt me.”

“Yes,” Harry admitted and you could hear his regret laced into every syllable. “I wanted to hurt Nott, but I only hurt you. I overreacted a bit, I admit that. But-” “No buts,” you cut him off, sensing an incoming tirade over Theo. Sitting up in your seat, you crossed your arms and made him look at you. “You don't know him. But I do, and I trust him. And if you trust me, you should respect my decision. I get that you're worried, and it's sweet, it really is, but this is my call, not yours.”

“I know,” Harry groaned, hiding his face in his hands. You felt your resolve melt and rose out of your armchair to walk over to him, sitting down next to him and opening your arms. He slumped into them and you pulled him against your chest as you ran your hands through his hair.

“Harry?” “Hm?” “I'm sorry too. For not telling you.”

“Can't blame you,” he spoke against his hands so his voice came out muffled. “I was a prick last night.” “Stronzo,” you said proudly, “is what Theo would call you.” In reminiscence of your moments with him, you watched the flames flicker and patted your brothers head. “Apology accepted, by the way. If you keep your opinions about my relationship to yourself.”

“Thank you,” Harry muffled against your sweater and lifted himself up to put his head on your shoulder. You rested your chin upon his and pulled a blanket over the two of you. No more words were exchanged as you rested against each other, too lazy to stand up and go to your dorms. You closed your eyes and enjoyed the warmth of your brother and the fire. A weight that had accumulated over the last months was finally from your shoulders. Not in the way you had hoped, but you couldn't help but feel utterly content right now, with your brother, drowning in the cushion, head swarming with thoughts of Theo.

a/n: thank you all for reading! to wrap this story up, I'll ad an (unofficial) nsfw part for those who are interested that I hope to get out before the start of 2025 (no promises). until then, enjoy this little teaser:

You sat cross-legged on the king sized bed in the room of requirement, fingers picking at the threads of the soft duvet beneath you. Anticipation curled in your insides as you fixed your eyes on the door. The room had answered your subconscious wish and provided a clock, an old grandfather clock, that ticked softly. Apart from your breathing, it was the only sound breaking the silence. Until the door handle clicked.

The door creaked open, and you looked up sharply, your breath catching as Theo slipped inside. His hair was damp from the rain still falling outside, and he shoved his hands into the pockets of his robes, his sharp features softening as his eyes landed on you. He hesitated for a moment, as if gauging the mood, before closing the door behind him with a quiet thud. There was a sort of tension in the room, or maybe you were imagining it because your nerves ran high. When Theo crooked his head, you realized what he was waiting for.

“Oh, Harry apologized,” you reassured him and Theo nodded, approaching the bed slowly. On his way, he shed his cloak and bag and sat down on the bed, unbuttoning the first two buttons of his shirt. “How did your friends take the whole thing?” you asked and scooted back to make space for him. Theo's eyes followed your retreating figure and he raised his brow, moving after you. “Are you running from me, tesoro?”

“Are you avoiding my question, Theo?” you countered and scooted back even more to tease him. Theo chuckled darkly and surged forward, trapping you beneath him by seizing your wrists and pushing them gently into the cushion. You couldn't help the high pitched gasp that left your throat. One of Theo's large hands was enough to bind both your wrists, leaving you utterly helpless under his hungry eyes. The other drew a teasing line down your side.

“Wouldn't dream of it, tesoro.”

[...] -> to be continued

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traveler-at-heart · 11 months ago

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Cat's out of the (super) bag

Summary: Natasha doesn't like going on missions with you. Learning the truth might make her change her mind.

Natasha Romanoff x F!R

Big thanks to @soggy-wet-cat for hearing this idea before I wrote it :)

Fury was going soft.

That was the only way to explain your presence on most of Natasha’s missions.

Rogers, she gets. He’s a super soldier and as capable as Natasha is, it doesn’t hurt to have an enhanced individual around.

But you.

Always slow, always too relaxed for Natasha’s liking. Insisting you could do more, but last week you weren’t even able to pick a lock.

Not to mention how much you avoid hand to hand combat. Natasha suspects it’s because your skill level is very low.

“She’d do better out of the field” Natasha complains for the tenth time. Fury smirks. “This isn’t funny. I’m risking my neck to protect her and she’s not even worried about getting better. I’m not doing missions with her anymore”

“Now, hold on” Fury protests. “That’s not for you to decide. And I thought you trusted me”

“It’s her I can’t trust”

“Too damn bad. You have a mission. No Rogers this time. And I better hear it went well, Romanoff”

Natasha rolls her eyes and leaves his office.

It will only go well if she convinces you to sit and wait at the jet.

—

“What did you do to piss off Romanoff?”

“Morning to you too, Nick” you smile, placing a cup of coffee in front of him. “I don’t know. It’s pretty obvious she doesn’t like me”

“I know that. Have you done anything to upset her?”

“I barely speak to her and when I do she doesn’t answer” you shrug your shoulders, going back to every interaction you’ve had with the redhead. Her intense glare comes back to haunt you. “Do you think she knows?”

“You tell me. Did you screw up?”

“I keep a low profile. Like you asked me to” you nod, knowing how important this is for him.

“Better stay that way. You’re both leaving for a mission tomorrow” the man hands you a folder and you skim it. “Keep your head down and don’t make her angrier”

“Is that even possible?”

“You don’t wanna know”

—

It’s a mess from the start. You try to stay away from Natasha, but every time your attempts go in the worst way possible. Like when she’s walking down the jet, and you move aside so she has space. Except you end up pushing a few buttons on the console and Natasha has to come back and straighten the ship.

“Stay still” she mutters, glaring. You nod and sit on your hands, more concerned with the woman’s temper than about the mission.

“Wait here” is all she says after landing the jet.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a very simple mission” Natasha says, without looking at you, focused on adjusting her widow bites. “So, if you really want to help, stay out of my way”

“That’s not the plan. I’m supposed to watch the south entrance”

“They’ll never even noticed I inflitrated the building”

“You’re not my boss. Fury is. And if he wants me to stand outside and watch the south entrance, then that is exacly what I’ll do, Natasha”

The redhead finally turns back to look at you, surprised. This is the first time she’s seen you upset. You’re walking past her, not bothering to look her way… have you always been this tall? It always seems like you’re trying to look small.

“Hey” Natasha tries to make you turn, grabbing your arm. She’s surprised by how strong you are. “You better not screw up. Or I’ll make sure you’re on desk duty for the rest of your career, Y/L/N”

“Oh, now that’s funny. I’ve been here far longer than you” you lean forward, whispering. Natasha tries to understand what you mean, her eyes scanning your features for a sign. Aware of how close you are to her, you take a step back and jump out the door, ignoring the ladder.

Ridiculous, to think that you (you!) are an incompetent agent.

Maybe Fury was wrong for asking you to do this.

You’re kicking the ground, huffing every few minutes, still fuming at Natasha’s words. All this time, you thought she didn’t like you and though it sucked, you could live with that. But saying you were bad at your job when it was the exact opposite makes you see red.

“Y/N?” Natasha says over the comms.

“Here” you answer.

“A little help”

Those three words make your stomach drop. Natasha asking for your help?

This must be life or death kind of bad.

“Tell me where you are” you ask, breaking into the building.

“Intelligence room. Surrounded by at least 20 guards”

“Use the vents to go out and grab one of their vehicles. I’ll distract them”

“You’re gonna take down 20 people all on your own?”

“Just do as I say, Romanoff”

It feels good to finally use all your strenght. You practically rip open a door that sets off an alarm, and then you throw a couple of grenades around.

Now, all eyes are on you.

Sure enough, it takes them a few minutes to come find you, but you’re ready to shoot at the first guards, and when the second wave has gone through their ammo, you prepare for hand to hand combat.

“I’m out but there are two individuals after me. Towards the east, away from the jet”

“Got it. Gentleman” you turn to the man. “Change of plans. Let me go or die. Whichever is fine by me”

They laugh, until you send one of them flying across the room, his neck snapping.

“Who’s next, ladies?”

—

How could this mission have gone so wrong? Now Natasha is navigating the snowy road on a motorcycle, being chased by two of the guards and dodging their bullets.

The cold air is stabbing her hands and face but she has to keep going. She is too far away to communicate with you, but hoped you had the good sense of going back to the jet.

She’d find a way to survive.

Or maybe not, as she notices a third motorcycle joining the chase.

Through the rearview mirror, she sees the new person approaching one of the guards. A fight ensues and an exchange of shots. Next thing Natasha saw was the motorcycles colliding.

“Y/N?” she tries the comms, hoping you aren’t stupid enough to be knocking down people. Whoever those two were, the force of the hit was enough to kill them.

And yet, one of them begins to run after Natasha and the man still chasing her. The figure is fast approaching, which is ridiculous, considering Natasha was going 150 miles per hour.

The brute is clearly scared, as his movements become more erratic, trying to get rid of Natasha and the mysterious figure at the same time. He shoots behind him and then at Natasha, getting to one of the tires in her bike.

She tries to keep the handle steady, but can’t turn on the curve ahead of her. Natasha is sent flying directly to a river, the cold water making her momentarily paralized. The currents confused her, and she couldn’t tell up from down. She swam and swam, until her arms were too tired.

She began to drift, and the last thing she saw was a shadow hovering above her.

—

“Natasha? Nat?” you plead, doing CPR as gently as you can. You don’t want to add cracked ribs to her list of injuries.

Finally, after what felt like hours but were only seconds, Natasha lunges forward, coughing and throwing up water. You hold her head, helping her until she can breathe again.

“I’m freezing” Natasha complains, looking around. “Did we lose them? How did you…” she then turns to you and widens her eyes. “You’re bleeding”

“Yeah, he shot me. It’ll stop in a second. And yes, we lost them. Though I’m sure HYDRA is sending more people to track us down. Come on” you stand up, offering your hand. Natasha takes it and is once again surpised by how strong you are.

Your body is also warmer than hers, even if you dived to rescue her. On pure instinct, Natasha comes closer, practically melting against your body heat.

“You’re hiding something” she states and you chuckle.

“Now’s not the time. Come on, I’ll carry you. There must be a safe house close to the river”

Natasha climbs to your back, and as if she weights nothing, you walk down the river, trusting she’ll keep an eye for any place to hide.

Sure enough, after ten minutes of walking, the redhead gets your attention and points at the right. There’s a small cottage hiding between some trees.

“Here” you say as you kick open the door, not bothering to find a key. You set Natasha down and go around the place, looking for blankets and anything that will make her warm.

“Did it stop bleeding?” she asks, looking at your abdomen. You nod, placing a blanket over her shoulder and checking for other injuries. “Are you a super soldier?”

You smile, thinking that Fury will be up in arms. But technically, you didn’t tell Natasha. She figured it out.

“Yes”

“Why didn’t you tell me? Who else knows?” Natasha says, pulling the blanket closer, as if it will help her cover from you as well. It’s clear she doesn’t trust you right now.

“Fury asked me to keep a low profile. He’s the only one that knows. I think he’s concerned about the integrity of SHIELD. You know him, keeping an ace up his sleeve”

“How long have you known him for?”

“Thirty years, give or take. My existence is top secret, and I spent some time away from the job. My father died, and he was the last person that I knew before everything, so… it was hard, I guess”

“I’m sorry”

“Me too. I didn’t like lying to you or pretending to be something I’m not”

Natasha kicks herself for not noticing sooner. It’s so glaringly obvious now that she has to roll her eyes at herself.

Your build, the fact that you never seem to be tired or catching your breath. Hell, the fact you never train with anyone else.

Natasha made an assumption and ran with it, instead of trying to see past it.

“Hey, you ok?” you ask, craddling her head in your hands. “Did you hit your head? Feel dizzy?”

“I’m just cold”

“We can’t start a fire” you regret, looking out. “Here” you pull her closer, your arms going around her shoulders. She tries to protest, but whatever she was about to say dies in her throat as soon as she feels how warm you are.

“This suit is all wet” she says, pulling away and taking it off. “Don’t look or I’ll kill you”

“Uh… what is going on?” your eyes dart to the ceiling, blushing. Then, you feel Natasha’s cold skin against you. “Jesus, Nat. You’re freezing”

You bury the both of you in more blankets, and feel her melting against your side. On instinct, your arms go around her waist and bring her closer, to which she responds by burying her face on the crook of your neck.

“So I can’t look but I can touch, huh?”

“Glad we understand each other”

—

“So…”

“So” Natasha says, landing the jet back home.

“Can we be friends? Friendly, at least?”

“No” she stands up, walking towards you. “Friends don’t look at each other the way you’ve been looking at me for the entire ride home”

“Can you blame me?” your eyes drift to her cleavage, remembering how she was practically naked and clinging to you as if her life depended on it.

“Wine and dine me, Y/L/N. And we’ll take it from there”

“Yes, Ma’am”

“Am I interrupting?” Fury shouts from the hangar.

“Yes” you say, but Natasha leaves, glaring at Fury on her way out.

“I’ve known you for thirty years and you still can’t keep it together around a pretty lady. And now I’m in trouble too” Fury says, clearly displeased.

“Hey, at least you don’t have that problem with Rogers, huh?”

“For now, Y/L/N. There’s always some trouble waiting around the courner”

You laugh and clap his back, leaving the jet. His plan may have failed, but you’re certainly not complaining.

Not when you have a hot date waiting for you.

#Natasha Romanoff x Reader #Natasha Romanoff x Y/N #Natasha Romanoff x You

819 notes · View notes

sereinnu · 4 months ago

Text

Fractured Tides

Rafe Cameron x Step-sister!Reader

Despite your efforts to make peace, your stepbrother Rafe's hatred for you persists. Each attempt to bridge the gap only seems to widen the divide, leaving you wondering if you'll ever find common ground in this family.

The Outer Banks were alive with the sounds of summer—the rustle of the breeze through the palm trees, the distant roar of the ocean, and the hum of a world that seemed so far removed from the chaos within Tannyhill. You had lived here for years now, but the house never truly felt like home. It was a place you were forced to adapt to, much like the family you were thrown into when your mother married Ward Cameron.

You were only eight years old then, a wide-eyed child trying to make sense of this new life. But even at that young age, you could sense Rafe's disdain. He was older, already on the cusp of adolescence, and his resentment towards you was palpable. You were the intruder, the outsider who disrupted the Cameron family dynamic.

Now, a decade later, little had changed between you and Rafe. If anything, the years had only deepened the chasm between you. You tried to keep your distance, knowing that your presence in his life was unwanted. But living under the same roof made that nearly impossible.

You were in the kitchen, making a cup of tea when you heard the front door slam. The heavy, hurried footsteps that followed told you it was Rafe. His presence was almost always announced this way—loud, forceful, a storm barreling through the house.

You didn’t have to see him to know he was upset. You could feel it, like a pressure in the air that made your skin crawl. But when Rafe appeared in the doorway, his eyes wild and his hair disheveled, you couldn’t ignore him.

“What happened?” you asked cautiously, not sure if he would answer.

Rafe’s eyes snapped to you, narrowing in that way they always did when he looked at you—like you were something distasteful, something he wished would disappear. “None of your business,” he growled, moving past you to rummage through the cupboards.

You watched him, your fingers tightening around the handle of your mug. “I’m just trying to help,” you said softly, knowing your words would likely fall on deaf ears.

He slammed the cupboard door shut, making you flinch. “I don’t need your help,” he spat, turning to face you with a sneer. “You’ve been here for years, and you still don’t get it, do you? You’re not a Cameron. You never were, and you never will be.”

The words stung, even though you had heard variations of them before. But there was something particularly venomous in his tone today, something that made you realize this wasn’t just his usual hostility. He was angry—angrier than usual.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “Why do you hate me so much, Rafe? What did I ever do to you?”

Rafe laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You want a list? Because I can start with the fact that you ruined everything. Before you and your mom came along, we were fine. We were a family. But then you showed up, and everything went to shit.”

You shook your head, trying to make sense of his words. “That’s not fair, Rafe. I was just a kid. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“Yeah, well, neither did I,” he snapped. “But here we are, stuck in this fucked-up situation. And every time I look at you, I’m reminded of how much I hate it.”

His words were like a punch to the gut, knocking the air out of you. You knew Rafe didn’t like you, but hearing him say it out loud, with such malice, was something else entirely.

For a moment, the kitchen was silent except for the sound of your uneven breathing. Rafe’s gaze bore into you, his eyes dark and unforgiving. You wanted to say something, to defend yourself, but the words wouldn’t come. All you could do was stand there, rooted to the spot, feeling like the intruder he had always accused you of being.

Finally, Rafe shook his head, as if he were disgusted with himself for even engaging with you. “Just stay out of my way,” he muttered, brushing past you to leave the kitchen.

You watched him go, the tension in your chest slowly easing as the distance between you grew. But the ache his words had left behind didn’t fade. It lingered, a reminder that no matter how hard you tried, you would never be part of this family—not in Rafe’s eyes.

As you stood alone in the kitchen, the house around you seemed to grow colder, the warmth of the summer day outside a cruel contrast to the chill that had settled within. The Outer Banks were supposed to be a paradise, but for you, it was nothing more than a gilded cage, trapping you in a life where you didn’t belong.

And Rafe, with all his anger and resentment, was the constant reminder that you were an outsider—a permanent stain on the perfect Cameron image.

The days following your confrontation with Rafe were tense, but that wasn’t unusual. Tension had become the norm in your life at Tannyhill, and you had learned to navigate it as best you could. But this time, the tension felt different—more personal, more cutting. Rafe's words had sunk deep, and no matter how much you tried to shake them off, they lingered like a bruise that refused to heal.

You spent most of your time avoiding him, retreating to the few places in the house where you could find some semblance of peace. One of those places was the library, a grand room lined with shelves upon shelves of books. It was one of the only rooms in the house that felt like it belonged to another time, another life—somewhere far away from the chaos of the present.

You were there now, curled up in a corner with a book that you weren’t really reading. The words on the page blurred together as your thoughts drifted back to the encounter with Rafe. His anger had always been a part of your life, but now, it felt like something you couldn’t ignore, something that was slowly suffocating you.

The sound of the door creaking open pulled you from your thoughts. You tensed, hoping it wasn’t Rafe. But when you looked up, you saw Sarah standing in the doorway. Her expression was tentative, as if she wasn’t sure she was welcome.

“Hey,” she said softly, stepping into the room. “Mind if I join you?”

You shook your head, offering her a small smile. “Of course not.”

Sarah walked over and sat down beside you, her gaze scanning the room before settling on you. “I’ve been looking for you,” she said. “You’ve been hiding out in here a lot lately.”

“Just trying to stay out of the way,” you replied, knowing she would understand the implication. Sarah was the one person in the house who tried to bridge the gap between you and the rest of the family. She had always been kind to you, always tried to make you feel included, even when Rafe made it clear that you weren’t.

She sighed, leaning back against the armrest. “I’m sorry about Rafe,” she said quietly. “I know he can be… difficult.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “That’s putting it mildly.”

Sarah looked at you, her eyes full of sympathy. “He’s just… he’s been through a lot. But that doesn’t excuse the way he treats you.”

You nodded, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say anything. What was there to say? You had known Rafe was troubled from the start, but that didn’t make it any easier to deal with his hatred.

“Have you talked to him?” Sarah asked after a moment. “Really talked to him?”

You shook your head. “What’s the point? He’s made it clear how he feels about me. Talking won’t change that.”

Sarah frowned, her fingers twisting a strand of her blonde hair. “Maybe not. But I think he needs to hear that you’re not the enemy. You’re not the reason things changed.”

You knew she was right, but the thought of confronting Rafe again made your stomach turn. “I don’t think he cares about what I have to say, Sarah. He’s always seen me as an outsider, someone who doesn’t belong here. I’m not a Cameron to him, and I never will be.”

Sarah was quiet for a moment, as if she was trying to find the right words. “He’s not the only one who gets to decide that,” she said finally. “You’re a part of this family, whether he likes it or not. And I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide because of him.”

Her words were comforting, but they didn’t erase the fear that had taken root in you. “I just don’t want to make things worse,” you admitted. “The last thing I want is to set him off again.”

Sarah reached out and placed a hand on your arm. “You won’t. I’ll talk to him. Maybe I can help him see things differently.”

You smiled weakly, appreciating the offer but doubting it would make much of a difference. “Thanks, Sarah. But I don’t want you to get caught in the middle of this.”

“I’m already in the middle,” she said with a small shrug. “But that’s what family is for, right? We stick together, even when things are tough.”

Her words hit you harder than you expected. Family was a concept that had always been complicated for you, especially since moving in with the Camerons. But hearing Sarah say it, hearing her include you in that definition, made you realize how much you longed for that connection—for a place where you truly belonged.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I guess it is.”

Sarah gave you a reassuring smile before standing up. “Come on, let’s get out of here for a bit. We can go down to the beach or something. Clear our heads.”

You hesitated, glancing out the window at the fading light. The idea of leaving the safety of the library made you uneasy, but you knew Sarah was trying to help. And maybe getting out of the house, even for a little while, would do you some good.

“Okay,” you agreed, closing your book and standing up. “Let’s go.”

As you followed Sarah out of the library, you couldn’t help but feel a small sense of relief. For now, at least, you didn’t have to face Rafe alone. But deep down, you knew that sooner or later, you would have to confront him again—and when that time came, you weren’t sure how it would end.

The two of you walked down the grand staircase, the wooden steps creaking under your feet. The house was quiet, almost too quiet, as if it were holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. You tried to push the feeling aside, focusing instead on Sarah’s presence beside you. She was your anchor in this chaotic world, and you were grateful for it.

As you reached the front door, you hesitated for a moment, glancing back down the hallway. It was irrational, but you half-expected Rafe to appear out of nowhere, his anger boiling over once again. But the hall was empty, and the silence remained unbroken.

“Come on,” Sarah urged gently, sensing your reluctance. “It’ll be good to get some fresh air.”

You nodded, finally stepping out onto the porch. The warm evening air greeted you, carrying the scent of salt and sun-warmed earth. The sky was painted in shades of pink and orange, the sun dipping below the horizon. It was the kind of evening that should have brought you peace, but the tension in your chest refused to ease.

You followed Sarah down the steps and onto the path that led to the beach. The sand was cool beneath your feet as you kicked off your shoes, the grains slipping between your toes. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore was soothing, a rhythmic reminder that the world kept turning, even when it felt like everything else was falling apart.

Sarah walked a little ahead of you, her hair catching the last rays of the sun. She glanced back at you with a smile, trying to draw you into the moment. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? This is my favorite time of day.”

You managed a small smile in return. “Yeah, it is.”

The two of you walked in companionable silence for a while, the only sounds around you coming from the ocean and the occasional call of a seabird. It was peaceful, almost serene, and you found yourself relaxing just a little. Maybe Sarah was right—maybe this was exactly what you needed.

After a few minutes, Sarah spoke again, her tone more serious. “You know, Rafe wasn’t always like this.”

You glanced at her, curious. “What do you mean?”

She sighed, her gaze fixed on the horizon. “He was different when we were younger. Before Dad… well, before everything changed. He used to be kind, protective even. But when things started going wrong, he just… I don’t know, he shut down. And then he started acting out, getting into trouble. It’s like he became someone else.”

You listened intently, trying to picture the Rafe she was describing. It was hard to imagine him as anything other than the angry, volatile person you knew now. “What happened?” you asked softly.

Sarah hesitated, as if she were weighing her words carefully. “A lot of things. Mom leaving hit him hard, harder than he let on. And then Dad… he put so much pressure on Rafe to be the man of the house, to live up to this impossible standard. I think it broke something in him.”

You had known about Rafe’s struggles with his father, but hearing it from Sarah made it feel more real. It wasn’t an excuse for his behavior, but it gave you a glimpse of the pain that might be fueling his anger. “I had no idea it was that bad,” you admitted.

Sarah nodded, her expression sad. “He won’t talk about it, not even with me. But I see it in him, every day. He’s drowning, and I don’t know how to help him. And now, with you here, it’s like he’s lashing out because he doesn’t know what else to do.”

You swallowed hard, feeling a surge of empathy for both of them. “I don’t want to make things worse for him, Sarah. I just want to find a way to coexist, to be a part of this family without everything falling apart.”

Sarah reached out and squeezed your hand, her touch warm and reassuring. “You’re already part of this family. Don’t let Rafe make you feel like you’re not. He’ll come around eventually. I know he will.”

You wanted to believe her, but a part of you couldn’t shake the doubt. Rafe’s hatred for you ran deep, and you weren’t sure if anything could change that. But for Sarah’s sake, you would try. You owed her that much.

As the sun finally dipped below the horizon, casting the beach in shadows, you felt a sense of resolve settle within you. You couldn’t change the past, and you couldn’t force Rafe to accept you. But you could control how you responded to him, how you chose to live in this fractured family.

For now, that would have to be enough.

As the last rays of sunlight disappeared, you and Sarah found a spot to sit on the sand. The ocean stretched out before you, dark and endless, a stark contrast to the earlier warmth of the day. It was as if the world was mirroring your own emotions—caught in a delicate balance between light and darkness, peace and tension.

You pulled your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them as you watched the waves. Sarah sat beside you, her gaze also fixed on the horizon. For a while, neither of you spoke, content to just be in each other’s company. The quiet between you was comfortable, a welcome reprieve from the turmoil that so often surrounded you.

But even in the calm, your thoughts kept drifting back to Rafe. His anger, his pain—it was like a storm that loomed over you, always threatening to break. You knew it wasn’t fair to place all the blame on him, but his behavior had shaped so much of your life at Tannyhill. And no matter how much you tried to avoid it, you couldn’t escape the impact he had on you.

“Do you ever wish things were different?” you asked suddenly, the question slipping out before you could stop it.

Sarah looked at you, her brow furrowing slightly. “Different how?”

You sighed, searching for the right words. “I don’t know. I just… I wish things weren’t so complicated. I wish I didn’t feel like I have to tiptoe around Rafe all the time. I wish I could just… be.”

Sarah was quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful. “Yeah, I get that,” she said finally. “I wish things were different too. I wish Rafe could see that we’re all on the same side, that we’re family. But it’s like he’s stuck in this loop of anger and resentment, and he can’t break out of it.”

You nodded, feeling a pang of sadness. “Do you think he ever will?”

“I hope so,” Sarah replied, her voice soft. “But I don’t know. Sometimes, it feels like he’s so far gone that nothing can reach him. But other times… I see glimpses of the old Rafe, the one who cared about us. I just wish those moments lasted longer.”

Her words echoed your own feelings—this constant push and pull between hope and despair, between believing that things could get better and fearing that they never would. It was exhausting, living with that uncertainty, but it was all you had.

“I don’t know how to help him,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t even know if I can.”

Sarah turned to you, her eyes filled with empathy. “You’ve already helped him more than you realize. Just by being here, by not giving up on him, you’re doing more than most people would. And I think, deep down, he knows that. He just doesn’t know how to show it.”

You looked at her, surprised by her words. “You really think so?”

She nodded, her expression sincere. “I do. Rafe’s angry, but he’s not heartless. He’s just… lost. And maybe, in time, he’ll find his way back. But until then, we just have to keep being there for him, even when it’s hard.”

Her words gave you a small glimmer of hope, something to hold onto in the darkness. Maybe Sarah was right—maybe there was still a chance for Rafe to change, for things to get better. It wouldn’t be easy, and it wouldn’t happen overnight, but you were willing to try. For Sarah, for yourself, and maybe even for Rafe.

The two of you sat in silence for a while longer, watching as the stars began to twinkle in the night sky. The air had cooled, and you found yourself shivering slightly. Sarah noticed and nudged you with her shoulder. “Come on, let’s head back. It’s getting cold.”

You nodded, standing up and brushing the sand off your clothes. As you followed Sarah back up the path to the house, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread creeping in. The peace you had found on the beach was fleeting, and you knew that once you stepped back inside Tannyhill, the tension would return.

But you couldn’t avoid it forever. You had to face Rafe, and you had to find a way to live in this fractured family. It was the only way things would ever change.

As you approached the house, you caught sight of a figure standing by the front door. Your heart skipped a beat when you realized it was Rafe. He was leaning against the doorframe, a cigarette dangling from his lips, the glow of the ember illuminating his face in the darkness.

Sarah stiffened beside you, her steps faltering for a moment before she continued forward. You followed her lead, trying to keep your breathing steady as you approached Rafe. His eyes flicked to you, a scowl already forming on his face.

“Where’ve you been?” he asked, his tone laced with irritation.

“Just down at the beach,” Sarah replied, her voice calm. “Needed some fresh air.”

Rafe’s gaze shifted to you, his eyes narrowing. “What about you? Hiding out again?”

You swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady. “Just… trying to stay out of your way.”

Rafe let out a bitter laugh, taking a drag from his cigarette. “Yeah, right. You always have to be where you’re not wanted, don’t you?”

You flinched at his words, the sting of them hitting you harder than you expected. But before you could respond, Sarah stepped in, her tone firm. “Rafe, don’t. She’s just trying to keep the peace.”

Rafe glared at her, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or regret. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the usual anger. “Whatever,” he muttered, tossing his cigarette to the ground and crushing it under his heel. “I’m going out.”

He pushed past you both, his shoulder brushing yours as he walked away. You watched him go, the tension in your chest returning with full force.

“Let him go,” Sarah said quietly, placing a hand on your arm. “He needs to cool off.”

You nodded, your eyes still fixed on Rafe’s retreating figure. As much as you wanted to believe that there was hope for him, moments like this made it hard to hold onto that belief.

But you had promised yourself that you wouldn’t give up. Not yet. Not until you had tried everything.

With a deep breath, you turned back to the house, following Sarah inside. The warmth of the house was a stark contrast to the coldness you felt inside, but you forced yourself to push those feelings aside.

For now, all you could do was take it one day at a time, hoping that eventually, the storm would pass, and there would be something left worth saving.

The warmth of the house greeted you as you stepped inside, but it did little to chase away the chill that had settled in your bones. The encounter with Rafe had left you rattled, and no matter how much you tried to push it aside, it lingered in the back of your mind like a dark cloud.

As the night grew deeper, Sarah suggested heading to bed, and you agreed. The exhaustion was starting to weigh on you, and you knew you wouldn’t be able to keep your eyes open much longer.

But as you made your way up the stairs and to your room, your mind was still racing, your thoughts still tangled in the web of emotions that had been spun over the course of the day.

You paused outside your door, glancing down the hallway toward Rafe’s room. The door was closed, and the light was off, but you knew he wasn’t asleep.

You could feel his presence like a shadow, lurking just out of sight. The anger, the resentment—it was all still there, simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the next opportunity to boil over.

With a heavy sigh, you turned away and entered your room, closing the door behind you. The familiar surroundings did little to comfort you tonight, the weight of the day’s events pressing down on you like a lead blanket.

You changed into your pajamas and slipped into bed, pulling the covers up to your chin in a futile attempt to ward off the chill that had settled in your bones.

As you lay there in the darkness, your thoughts kept drifting back to Rafe. You couldn’t help but wonder what was going through his mind, what demons he was battling in the privacy of his own room.

You wished you could reach out to him, break through the walls he had built around himself, but you didn’t know how.And maybe, deep down, you were afraid that if you did, you would only find more anger, more pain—more reasons to keep your distance.

Sleep came slowly that night, your mind refusing to quiet down long enough for you to drift off. When you finally did fall asleep, it was restless, filled with fragmented dreams that left you feeling more exhausted than before. But even in your sleep, only a name remained constant.

You tried to sleep, but your mind refused to let go of the events of the day. The tension between you and Rafe was like a thorn lodged deep, impossible to ignore and growing more painful with every passing moment. You tossed and turned, the silence of the house amplifying the thoughts racing through your mind. Finally, you gave up, deciding that lying in bed, wide awake, would do nothing to ease the unrest.

Quietly, you slipped out of bed and made your way to the window. You pulled the curtain aside, letting the moonlight spill into the room. Outside, the world was still, the garden bathed in silver light. The sight should have been calming, but it only made the turmoil inside you feel even more out of place.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you grabbed a sweater and tiptoed out of your room. You needed to clear your head, and the fresh air might help. As you moved through the dark hallway, your steps were cautious, avoiding the spots that creaked. The last thing you wanted was to wake anyone up, least of all Rafe.

But as you passed his door, something made you stop. The door was slightly ajar, and a sliver of light spilled into the hallway. Your heart rate quickened. Rafe was awake. You hesitated, debating whether to go on with your plan to escape outside or to check on him.

Part of you wanted to keep walking, to avoid another confrontation that might end with more hurtful words, but another part of you was drawn to him—curious, worried even. Before you could overthink it, you stepped closer and gently pushed the door open.

Rafe was sitting on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands. His room was a mess, with clothes and other belongings strewn about carelessly. He didn’t notice you at first, too absorbed in his own thoughts. But the moment your shadow fell across the threshold, he looked up, his eyes narrowing.

“What are you doing here?” he snapped, his voice low but filled with irritation.

You swallowed, not entirely sure what had driven you to enter. “I couldn’t sleep,” you said softly, taking a cautious step forward. “I saw your light was on.”

Rafe’s gaze flicked to the bedside lamp, as if realizing it was on for the first time. He looked back at you, his expression hardening. “So what? You came to check on me? Don’t bother.”

The sharpness of his tone made you wince, but you didn’t retreat. You stood your ground, despite the tension crackling in the air between you.

“Rafe,” you started, trying to keep your voice steady, “I just… I wanted to see if you were okay.”

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, right. You don’t need to pretend like you care. You’re just another person in this house who’s waiting for me to screw up."

His words stung, but they didn’t surprise you. You’d heard them before, in different forms, always laced with the same bitterness. Still, hearing them now, when you had genuinely been concerned, cut deep.

“That’s not true,” you said quietly. “I do care, Rafe. Whether you believe it or not.”

He stood up abruptly, making you take a step back. His eyes bore into yours, intense and full of emotion that he kept bottled up most of the time. “Why? Why do you care, huh? You’re not even really part of this family. You’re just some—”

He stopped himself, but the words hung heavy in the air. Just some outsider, some girl who was forced into his life, someone who would never really belong.

You felt the lump forming in your throat, but you refused to let the tears fall. Not in front of him. “You’re right,” you said, your voice trembling despite your efforts to keep it steady. “Maybe I don’t belong. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about what happens to you.”

Rafe stared at you, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you thought you saw something soften in his gaze, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the familiar mask of anger and resentment.

“Don’t waste your time on me,” he said finally, his voice cold. “You’re better off staying away.”

The finality in his tone was like a door slamming shut. It was clear he didn’t want you there, didn’t want your concern or your attempts to reach out. But instead of retreating, you took a deep breath and pushed back.

“I can’t do that, Rafe,” you said, surprising even yourself with the firmness in your voice. “I can’t just pretend like you don’t matter. You’re my brother, whether you like it or not.”

Rafe’s eyes flashed with something you couldn’t quite identify—anger, hurt, maybe even fear. But he didn’t respond, just stood there, staring at you like he was waiting for you to leave.

When you realized he wasn’t going to say anything more, you turned away, feeling the sting of rejection but refusing to let it break you. You paused at the door, looking back at him one last time.

“If you ever want to talk… I’m here,” you offered, even though you knew he wouldn’t take you up on it.

With that, you left the room, closing the door softly behind you. You leaned against it for a moment, letting out a shaky breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

This was going to be harder than you thought, but you weren’t ready to give up on Rafe. Not yet. There was something underneath all that anger, something worth saving, and you were determined to find it—even if it meant getting hurt in the process.

#dark!rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x reader #rafe x reader #rafe cameron #rafe outer banks #rafe obx #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron x innocent!reader #step bro rafe #stepbro rafe x reader #step bro x reader #step brother rafe #stepbro rafe cameron #step bro rafe Cameron x reader

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semisolidmind · 9 months ago

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So, in your college au, assuming catnap does end up murdering y/n, why? for what reason would the prototype ask for y/n's execution?, also how would dogday and the others feel? does dogday ever find out who murdered y/n or if he was even murdered? are they just reported missing? does catnap get away with it?, and if he doesn't and dogday ends up finding out, what's his reaction towards his brother's actions? Sorry if this was long I got questions and they need answers😭

ive been thinking about it, and i think that the prototype (which is a demonic entity in this au) wouldn't really have a good reason to command catnap kill y/n.

y/n is good to catnap. you'll see after i finally draw him, but cat is skinny. mans forgets to feed himself, and the red smoke drug throws his mindfulness and metabolism all outta wack. y/n, good friend that they are, reminds catnap to eat. they'll bring him food that they make. they let him "steal" food from their plate at lunch time. (dogday, being a good brother, does these things too, but it's kinda his job so it doesn't make as big of an impact).

the "angel" is keeping his executioner functioning when he can't, so the prototype shouldn't have a reason to want them dead. unless, perhaps, he thought that they were making the executioner soft. that's not the case (he does his job just fine regardless of any growing attachments), but if it were and catnap was slacking...

the prototype would take over. he'd have his acolytes send catnap a very high dosage of the red smoke drug, allowing the demon to take hold of him fully. catnap would black out.

the next morning, he startles awake in bed to the sound of his brother's cry of anguish. he goes into the kitchen to see dogday clutching his phone to one ear, hunched over and crying. the canid can't speak through his tears for a long while. catnap stands awkwardly, waiting for him to speak as the dread creeps up his spine.

catnap's heart stops with dogday's stuttered admission of what has him so upset; y/n is dead. the police found them this morning.

the feline says nothing, does nothing, but feels the sting in his eyes, tears on his face, and the impact of his brother's arms solidly embracing him.

why...why would the prototype do this? there was no reason to kill the angel, they hadn't done anything wrong, they weren't in the way, hadn't crossed him, there shouldn't have...

he doesn't understand.

when he goes to the bathroom later to freshen up, catnap notices the small flecks of blood under his claws. he feels like throwing up.

but he doesn't. he washes the blood away, and leaves the bathroom.

catnap remains as silent as he always has. he says nothing when he and dogday are inevitably questioned by the police (as two people who were close to y/n), the grief (and the prototype's voice) rendering him unable to even write out a response. they let him go, accepting his alibi. he was home all evening, of course.

he attends the funeral in a daze. he stands and watches the casket be lowered into the ground, far away from his body. he can still feel the fog of the prototype's influence hovering in the back of his mind.

for the first time in a long time, catnap's faith in his god is shaken.

———

dogday is never the same after y/n's death. the light in his eyes is gone. after the funeral, he isolates himself, only leaving to attend class and complete errands. he barely speaks to his friends, though they continue to visit him and offer their support.

eventually, each of the critters is murdered by catnap at the behest of the prototype. these murders are completed by a much colder and less caring catnap, who, after y/n's death, has no mercy left to spare (the prototype takes advantage of his vessels' grief to take further control of him).

dogday's reaction to each death becomes angrier and angrier.

he's wanted to find the killer ever since the string of murders started, but now he's searching with a single-minded purpose.

he gets better at wielding a pistol, better at wielding a hunting knife...he takes self defense and fighting classes. dogday slowly turns himself into a weapon.

dogday finally figures out where the cult is hiding. an abandoned mine system in a nature reserve a short drive away from town, converted into a "holy site" and the place where the cult sacrifices their victims. he drives out there to confront their executioner.

when he finds out that it's catnap, his own little brother...it's too late for sentimentality. his friends are gone. the love of his life is gone. countless others have lost their lives to this... this thing wearing his brother's skin.

at this point, the prototype has almost fully possessed catnap. the transference into the felines' body is almost complete, and during this time he is most vulnerable...but still incredibly powerful.

the fight between the dog and cat is climactic and bloody. a clash of claws, knives, and a struggle for dogday's gun. the forest floor beneath the struggle is spattered with blood, both men covered in open wounds.

it's a close battle, but catnap, despite being nearly fully under the prototype's influence, breaks the hold long enough to allow himself to be killed.

it's the least he can do, after all the trouble he's caused.

dogday pulls the trigger. a clean shot through the heart. killing catnap kills the prototype.

dogday glares down at the body that once housed his little brother. there is nothing of him in the battered corpse before him now... aside from the small, satisfied smile on his muzzle.

dogday finally allows himself to break down. he sobs over the many great losses he's suffered. but...but he has to get out of there. the cult members will be there any minute, and he can't be there when they do. he calls from a campsite phone booth to report catnap's body, and leaves it in the woods.

dogday does his best to recover.

months pass. with their god dead, activity from the cult peters out.

#this is a tragic turn for this story to take #this is why yn cant die first #i see this playing out like an old slasher movie since i am in that headspace recently #this stopped weird but i ran outta steam #sc college/slasher au

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yeyinde · 1 year ago

Text

lavender skies | Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x GN!Reader

Then suddenly, and all at once, there's a loudness in your head: a hundred whispers echoing in time to the same off-beat rhythm, full of memories and moments shared between you, threads woven throughout the years all buoying to the surface as you realise you're a little bit in love with him. (And that, maybe, you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

tags: friends to lovers (but the type of friends who are basically already dating and everyone knows except them - until suddenly they do), mutual pining. Slight Kent bashing, oops. Golden Girls as a coping mechanism. warnings: none. very tame, considering who I am as a person. Heavy make-out sess, though. word count: 6,6k notes: This has been sitting in my requests forever (I lost the original, but the gist was: Gaz + pining + idiots in love). You can blame a lot of this on summer rain and 80s city pop. Been going to the pier and listening to it while I wrote this. Not my best, sure, but it was fun.

The Tinder date he warned you not to go on (and seriously, mate, who uses Tinder anymore?) ends like this:

Your date, the biggest gentleman in Kent, as proclaimed in his bio (a red flag in hindsight—there's no such thing as a gentleman from Kent), sneaks his number to the waitress, and then leaves you behind in downtown Manchester to go bar hopping with a group he just met.

It's not a great loss. All things considered, it's not even the worst date you've ever been on. It was just a spur-of-the-moment whim—equal parts anxiety and megrim: the sudden fear of being single forever (and no, despite what Kyle might say, it has nothing to do with the wedding invitation you'd gotten on Facebook, or the three others that came before it)—and therefore, there isn't much to be upset about. Not really.

But the world doesn't work on half-hearted lies and shaky truths, and on a dank little corner in Manchester, abandoned by your ride home, your abysmal date who barely looked at you, you can't deny that it hurts. That it's a little bit of a hit to your self-esteem in a way that makes you angrier than you were before, because, honestly—he wasn't even a catch to begin with.

Stupid.

You should have listened to Kyle, to his immaculate wisdom and emotional maturity far beyond his years, but you hadn't because—

Well. Sometimes the world should work on little lies. If only to the ones you tell yourself. Ones like:

It's completely fine—really it is—if your friend of nearly eight years is moving on with his life. And it's totally, absolutely okay if your best friend meets some flighty barista in Amsterdam and won't stop talking about her for the meagre three weeks he's been back from his impromptu trip to the Netherlands, then to Mexico. It's fine. It's all fine.

Because maybe you are, too.

And maybe that's the reason you went out with David from Kent.

From Kent? He texted, only hours before your date. (Hours because he'd been busy with this thing for his job—his boss is corrupt and the world is, too, but at least Amsterdam Barista is doing fine). You can do so much better than that, birdy.

You wanted to say, what? Like someone from Amsterdam instead? but you're doing this new thing where you try not to sound as mad as you think you are. Zen, maybe. Internal peace and happiness. So, instead, you say:

He's nice. I like him.

Words that, of course, have come back to bite you.

He isn't nice. He wouldn't stop staring at the waitress, and talking over you, or just generally ignoring your existence. He left you downtown, stranded without a way home. You don't like him. You really don't even think you were that interested in him.

But it makes sense.

Kyle is moving on. Your friends are getting married.

And where does that leave you?

Well—

It leaves you stuck downtown with shoes that were intended to be used for aesthetics, the kind that means standing entirely still and immobile, and not walking the fifteen kilometres to your flat because you'd spent all your money on this super flattering outfit and these unfunctional shoes, and can't afford a cab or an Uber.

Sometimes, you pretend you're a functional adult—one who knows how to navigate everything with ease, and you live in the present, the real world, where time is fluid and unchangeable, and things make sense (maths and geometry and physics) unless they don't (black holes and the vastitude of space and fate)—but moments like these remind you that you don't. That you live, instead, somewhere in the parentheses of both.

The indigo sky, murky black and void of any stars, seems to grumble along with you as you turn toward the street, readying yourself for the long walk home. Except the groan sounds less commiserating and more ominous. A noise that seems to reverberate through the crowded street, and right into your bones.

Some have the wherewithal to find shelter. A smart move because almost a moment later, the heavens split, and a summer deluge drenches the street. It's unrelenting in its downpour, soaking everything in its path in a shrill roar.

Caught in the middle of St Peter's Square, there are not many places to duck under for sanctuary, but you find an alcove beside a store, and dart toward it. The non-functional boots are pretty to look at, but with each step, you feel the hard synthetic rubber grind against your heel. Blisters form, break. The burn makes you inhale sharply against the pain, hobbling now on tender feet.

The wall is slick with condensation, but you lean against it to keep your feet from taking the brunt of your weight.

It reminds you, quite suddenly, of that night in Cardiff with Kyle. When you'd drank three-dollar margaritas at some downtrodden bar with your friends and ate rather limp-looking fish tacos (a mistake, of course, and Kyle still can't look at corn tortillas the same way), and laughed until your belly hurt at something he'd said—the words lost to alcohol and faded with time—and then leaned over, promptly throwing up in a bush.

You still can't drink tequila without giggling (and gagging) at nothing, a phantom memory, and the thought presses against a tender spot in your chest in all the wrong ways.

Time is fluid. An unavoidable truism that you can't escape.

There are people you've known since you were a child whose faces you can barely remember. Ones you promised the world to, to always be together, who you hardly think of anymore.

Moving on. Moving forward.

You think, then, of Kyle. Of the distance that lingers between you both, widening each day. It's nothing you've done, nor he; it's just—

Life. Concurrent. Everpresent.

It hurts to lose a friend, you'd always think. A small moment of grief, of loss. But not like this. Never like this.

Stuck in a downpour in the middle of Manchester, you realise you miss him. Have been missing him.

Huddling under an awning, you fish your phone from your soaked pocket, and pull up the only person you want to be around right now, in this moment of vulnerability. Loneliness.

You send him a quick text, date was a bust. Stuck downtown. Are you busy?

Kyle's reply comes three breaths later. For you? Never. Send me your location.

You send him your pin.

Another message pops up: stay put. I'm on my way.

You met Kyle Garrick at university.

It's one of those things in life that just sometimes happens. A happy accident. An eventuality that makes the world feel a little less daunting. A lock and key sliding into place. Sunsets in pretty ochre.

Someone you knew and someone he knew (two people who are now best man and groom in the upcoming wedding) decided to invite all of their friends out for a night, and it was then, slightly tipsy on cheap ale when you realised the boy in the back—a head taller than everyone else and more befitting inside the glossy pages of a magazine—was different, somehow, from anyone else you'd ever met.

It started when some stupid kids decided to pick on another. A smaller boy with a blue cap.

Kyle was the only one who noticed. The only one who seemed to care.

It was his anger that drew you to him in the first place. Moth to a flame. It's quick—the sizzling flame of a lit match: suddenly burning the wick and nearly uncontrollable. But it's short. A flickering star, burning bright, burning hot, and then being tempered and swallowed down until it's smouldering. Still hot, still dangerous, but—

Managed.

It was a snap. He was laughing, jovial. Telling jokes, and having fun, but still maintaining that enviable enigmatic persona: reserved but kind. Funny, but mature. And then it crumpled in an instant, folded away into anger. Bright and blistering. He walked to them, eyes blazing, and didn't wait for any excuses when the kids noticed him, just quickly decimated their foundations, and crushed their feeble lies between his teeth.

"Bullyin'? That's a pretty foul thing to do, innit, mate?"

And that was that.

He handed the kid back his hat—the one the others knocked off into the gutter—and told him, clipped, that he was better than them.

Just keep your chin up, yeah? Fuckin' losers, that lot. Don't go messing about with them anymore. Fucking pricks. That's a nice hat, too. Where'd you get it? Really? Oh, that's mint—

It was that moment when, unprompted and unnoticed, he easily slipped away from the group to help some kid he didn't even know that you realised you were very keen to get to know him.

"Fancy a kebab, hero?" You asked, smirking up at him.

A grin broke across his face. Sharp, feral. "I could always go to a lamb kebab."

The rest, really, just came quite naturally. Your best friend. The person you go to for anything—even terrible dates that leave you stranded in the rain.

You just wish you knew when it all began to change, to fall apart.

Kyle meets you near St Peter's Square.

You spot him first from your hiding spot beneath the awning, catching sight of his form moving through the (now) empty streets, hands shoved in the pockets of his denim trousers, the bottoms tucked, sensibly, into his fawn-coloured boots.

Even with the hood of his windbreaker pulled low over his brow, you can pick him out of a crowd with an ease that is as warming as it is jarring.

You wave him over when he stops on the mouth of Mount Street, looking in toward the Starbucks on the corner.

He finds you just as easily. And oh, his expression makes your toes curl in your misshapen boots.

Anger pinches the corner of his mouth, and hangs off the furrow of his brow, the divot between his eyes.

"Unbelievable," he huffs when he reaches you in the middle of the street, and sucks his teeth when you open your mouth to protest.

"It is what it is," you offer, playing the peacekeeper. You fall into step with him, trying not to wince. "I'm over it."

"Yeah?" The shadows across his brow deepen. "Are you sure? 'Cause… I'll fuck him up for you."

Setting your friend on a man from Kent feels entirely too vindictive, despite how much of a rush you get at the thought of seeing the man cowed a little bit. You shake your head, playing the part of a reasonable adult.

"It's okay. I'm just—I'm just, over this, yeah? Can we—"

Kyle stops you with his hand against your shoulder. "You alright?"

"My feet hurt," your smile is strained. "Terrible shoes."

"Take 'em off."

"Are you crazy—?"

"I brought slides for you. Figured you'd wear something stupid."

"Okay, fair. But—ouch? We can't all be crazy good-looking Armani models. Some of us have to work for it."

Kyle snorts. "Just take your shoes off, yeah? Throw 'em in my bag."

You can't deny it feels blissful when you lean against the slick wall outside of a shop, toeing off your tight boots. Aching feet freed from their prison. The sigh you let out makes him glance up at you from the pavement, bent over the rucksack he brought.

There's disapproval in his gaze—maybe at your choice. Choices. The date he warned you about. The boots. The socks he spots are stained with blood on the knob of your foot.

He tuts. A soft admonishment that cuts through the silence of the empty square. But it's all he says. He swallows the rest and drops the shoes he grabbed on the pavement in front of you, slowly pushing them forward with the tip of his toe.

You try not to grin when you see them.

Crocs. The ugliest ones you could find in Schuh. You'd bullied him into getting a matching pair with you. Neon yellow adorned with little clips.

You slip them on as Kyle reaches down to grab your boots. He pauses with them in his hand, eying them with something that taints the air with his disdain.

"When did you buy these?"

"On Friday." When he was sleeping off his impromptu trip to Chicago. He brought you home deep-dish pizza, frozen, and promised that it tasted much better fresh. "For the date."

"Why?" Is all he asks.

You shrug. "They're cute…?"

His eyes stray to your shoulders. The wet fabric of your shirt. His chin lowers slightly, but his eyes stay fixed on your flesh, on the goosebumps that bubble to the surface, spreading over your exposed skin. Eyes flicker, catching a droplet of water you can feel running down from behind your ear, falling over the slope of your neck. It breaks against your collarbone. He watches it all.

There's tension in the air. Static. The pressure builds and reeks of ozone when it presses into you, knuckles digging into the hollow of your throat. It renders you unable to speak—locked in a paradigm where the world beyond the honeycomb of his eyes ceases to matter, to exist almost. Thick honey ensnares you. Molasses. It clots against reason, logic, and makes you feel weightless. Floating, unmoored, in this unfamiliar abyss that closes in around you.

Except—

It isn’t.

There’s something aberrant about it, anomalous, that you can’t ignore; but beneath it sits a preternatural sense of familiarity that bends the paradox into knowns. Into tangibles. Concretes.

This is the same tension that has been simmering—festering, almost—since before he joined the miliary. In Cardiff when he leaned against you in the taxi, boney shoulder digging into your arm, and said, ‘dunno what I'd do without you, y’know?

It was the hazy smear of neon from the shops perched on the street. An ethereal gold hue streamed in from the window, cutting across the tenebrous in an asymmetrical chiaroscuro. The light was soaked up by him. Warm honey, the perfect compliment to his eyes, to the soft pink of his lips.

How could you possibly describe the feeling that spumes in the pit of your stomach outside of undiluted comfort?

Home.

It feels like like in shades; muted. A soft undercurrent that lingers inside something else, something deeper—

Moments in the foyer when he was heading back home for the evening. When he’d linger in the doorway, shoulder balanced against the frame, arms folded over his chest, and warned you not to watch Taskmaster without him.

He’d know, he said.

When you asked how, he just said:

“Because I know you.”

It feels like that. Like that and something more. Everything, all of it, coalesces into this. Into this moment where you can’t stop staring into the flecks of mahogany and charred birchwood in his eyes, and he can’t seem to decide where to keep his, vacillating between the slope of your neck and matching your stare. A lurch, a flash of something in your chest when your gazes meet. The deep sfumato of a bare forest in the middle of winter—rich browns, raw topaz, honey and amber in a sea of white. A sleepy hinterland. Solemnent and peaceful. Dreamy. Hypnogogic.

The world always seems to shudder into a deep slumber whenever he’s around.

He dips closer, swaying into you. Gravity, maybe. Tidally locked satellites on the same rung. Something bubbles in your chest. Unwinds from its dormant perch between the gaps in your ribs, and climbs up your esophagus. Ready, you think, to be free—

In the distance, tyres squeal against the pavement.

—and all at once, the moment burst, breaks. Shatters into a million pieces, cosmic dust, and you watch them fall around you, blinking rapidly, as though you’ve just woken.

It feels like slowly coming down to earth when you quietly gather your things, words now stuck in your throat. In their prison.

Kyle tears his gaze away from your bare skin, clearing his throat.

"Hardly." He murmurs after a moment and slips his jacket off his shoulders before wrapping it around yours. It smells of rainwater, wet rubber. Beneath the polymer, you can smell Kyle—vetiver, cypress, jasmine; sweet and heady—and you bury your nose in the hood when he turns back to the empty street. “Well, uh—”

You can’t speak. Not yet.

He seems to understand.

"Yeah," he nods, and reaches out, tugging on the end of the drawstring. "Let's get out of here."

The rain lightens into a muted drizzle, soft droplets that fall, almost rhythmless, on the wet pavement. The town sleeps, the streets bare. Empty. The only sounds come from your slick footfalls, a horn in the distance.

It’s an easy silence that lapses between you—not at all unlike the lulls before, when things were easy and featherlight and endless; when you could talk to him about everything, anything, and all of the worries in your life were saved for something else. Never him. Never, ever him.

But it tugs at something in your chest. The same pressure blooms at the edges, lingering in the periphery. You think of the spell you fell under—quiet yearning—and shake your head, desperate now to break it.

It’s just as easy to slip into familiarity. To tease, and taunt. And so, you do.

"I'm surprised you haven't said I told you so by now. That's so impressive self-restraint."

His gaze slides over to you. "Well, you know, it's implied."

"Oh, is it, now?"

"Yeah, like when you messaged me and told me about it and I said—"

"Who even uses Tinder?"

"—that he's knobhead, and you're gonna get hurt."

You scoff. "He's from Kent, so."

"Even worse," he makes a face, derision contrasted by the jaundiced lamp spilling over the pavement. "A Tinder date with a guy from Kent? What's next? Moving to Bristol?"

"It's a nice area."

He rolls his eyes. "Sure. As nice as Essex, maybe."

"The two are not even comparable—"

"'Dunno why you're rushing into anything, anyway,” he angles his chin toward you. “If this is about Carver's wedding, I said I'd go with you, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but…"

"But what?"

"That's sort of—like, you just have your own thing going on. I don't want to get in the way."

"I've always had my own thing going on. So have you. But that's never stopped us before, has it? What's changed."

"What about—" you swallow down something thick, bitter that wells in the back of your throat. "You know. Amsterdam. The Barista, or whatever."

His brow knots together. "And what about David from Kent?"

You sweep your hands out, motioning morosely toward your Crocs, your damp outfit. "This is what happened with David from Kent. Not exactly the fairytale meet cute you have with Amsterdam—" he makes a noise, like he means to interrupt. You cut him off. Bury it. "And besides, you should take her. I'll just—"

"I want to go with you."

"Why?"

Kyle falls to a stop near the Kebab shop you usually go to whenever he comes back from his missions, when he's craving good, hearty food that will rot his insides and clog his arteries. A small comfort from before, when everything he has now was just a dream, and you were struggling students in university who could barely afford a meal each and would split a lamb dinner over ale and terrible movies from the noughties back at your flat.

The suddenness of it all makes you blink beside him, slowly angling your chin up at him. A questioning noise wells in the back of your throat, but when you finally turn your gaze to him, it does out. A snuffed flame.

He brings his hand up, finger scratching at the soft patch of skin on the bridge of his nose where it starts to arch up. The look on his face, hidden, slightly, by the night blanketing overhead, but just illuminated enough by smears of neon and flushed street lamps for you to see it clove into something slightly flustered, hesitant. Sheepish, almost, like he hadn't meant to say what he did, and now doesn't know how to proceed forward. Cards tucked tight to his chest. Does he play his hand or fold?

You blink. Then blink again. Struggling, almost, to take in the suddenness of his flustered state.

Because the thing is:

Kyle doesn't get embarrassed or sheepish.

A running gag in your mutual friend group is that Kyle is twenty-eight going on sixty-five. An old man crammed inside the body of a young adult. He runs hot—passionate about his beliefs, quick to temper when he thinks an injustice is being doled out; a disciple of loose stoicism, but of a new age variety that is half parts stereotypical stoner chillness and ripe maturity—but he rarely is ever caught unawares enough to become embarrassed by something. He just has a perfect gauge of himself and those around him, able to quickly make friends with anybody he meets, and self-aware enough to know when he's in the wrong, when he needs to dial it back.

Being his friend for so long, you know the nuance of these expressions. His mien is ingrained in your head: known and catalogued. Nothing about Kyle is a mystery to you except the things you're barred from knowing (his second life away from home, you often joke: wholly confidential, entirety draped in secrecy).

But the look on his face is entirely alien to you. An expression you hadn't thought him capable of making.

It's jarring. It bludgeons into you with a ferocity that takes your breath away.

You know the man standing beside you, but this, everything else, is so unearthly. So foreign.

"Kyle," you hedge, taking a small step closer to him. You're not sure why. Maybe to reacquaint yourself with the man standing before you. Maybe to find something of familiarity within him to comfort the sudden crescendo of your pounding heart because even just the heady scent of his cologne—vetiver, amber—quells the sudden bloom of anxiety in the pit of your stomach. "Are you—?"

"No," he mumbles, then huffs out a soft laugh. It sounds mean, in a self-deprecating way, and your heart lurches for him. "Yeah, no. I'm alright. I just—shit, you know? 'Course I'd wanna go with you. Should be kinda obvious, no?"

Sure, you want to say. Sure, no, totally. Very obvious. And maybe had he not stopped, not made this peculiar expression on his face—like he isn't sure what to do when he always knows what he wants, what he's meant to do—you might have said them. Might let them tumble from your lips, equally self-deprecating and a touch forlorn despite never really knowing why, but that would be a lie, now.

Because you do.

The look on his face is upsetting—not because Kyle never makes that expression, or because he's never uncertain about anything, ever, but because you don't know it. It's not something you've ever seen before. And it hurts.

It's stupid. This whole thing. It shouldn't make you feel some sense of loss when he does something you don't expect. He always does. It's his brand, now—jettisoning across the world to catch bad guys and slap the trite American sense of justice and liberty for all across the faces of anyone who tries to oppose it—and you're very much acclimated to this side of him, the one he hides away from you, giving nothing at all about where he's going, what he's doing, what he's done, until he's back in England, safe and sound, and texting you at six in the morning for an English spread because he missed home. And maybe, maybe he missed you, too.

Those quiet moments are tucked into a cosm where it's only you and him, and greasy food, and reruns of Golden Girls together with your feet in his lap as you sit on the chaise and pick favourites (his is, of course, Rose) until the sun goes down, and he heads home because he has a debriefing in the morning in Hereford, and you have work. It's bereft of unease, of tension. Time slips through your fingers fluidly, and you hardly notice it's been hours since he first arrived. Comfortable, wholly, in his presence and in your skin.

Soulmates, everyone used to joke. You just get each other. Near finish each other's sentences.

Except for lately, where there has been this undeniable tension simmering between the two of you—a sense of fragility that you can't comprehend.

Growing apart, you thought. And then: guess it's time to do the same.

It made sense to make the first move. To download Tinder—much to his chagrin—and start looking for your—

Your Barista from Amsterdam.

And oh.

Oh.

Maybe it's the way the street light frames the angles and plains of his face, or the shadows that run deep lines of tenebrous across the valleys in his eyes, the sharp slope of his lips, the soft pout. The inscrutable expression that rents a jagged divot between his brow, and an unsure twist of his mouth. Maybe it's everything. Nothing.

But the only thing you know right now is that you know him. Have known him. Deeply. Intimately. In a way that goes beyond the boundaries of bodies, of flesh and blood. Bones and marrow. You know his soul. His essence. The foundations of who he is cobbled together in a lonely kebab shop over cheap ale, commiserating on an endless stream of papers and assignments; the eventuality of ever after when you hand in the final one. Over beans and toast in the afternoon, a whole day spent lounging in your flat watching reruns of Golden Girls, and petty arguments over Taskmaster that always seem to go a little bit too far, and never far enough. Fights that end two days later when he shows up with Greggs and a complete box set of that show you said you wanted to watch but never had the time for. Bargain shopping in Tottenham on an early Saturday morning because there's this chair, you see, one that you saw on their Instagram page and you simply must have it.

Soft moments in between, brackets where life doesn't seem to wrap its cold hands around your throat. Time spent in each other's company just for the sake of it.

Climbing onto your roof—a thatched mess of moss and straw and broken asphalt shingles that will one day give under your weight—and watching the stars, always searching for one that rockets across the sky while he murmurs beside you, quiet in this stillness that falls like snow in the dead of night around you. A hushed whisper as he relays the places he's been—all stars, he rasps, hand brushing wide strokes across the raspberry sky, dusted with light pollution: I'll take you there one day to see. Best fucking beer I'd ever had, too, just don't tell my cousin because he thinks the shitty lager he makes for his bar is good—and you try to picture it amongst the grey clouds. A life on the opposite side of the world. Just the two of you. Always.

And that's what it's always been, hasn't it? Just you. Just him.

It's sometime past midnight on a street corner in Manchester. Your feet hurt from walking all night, and your clothes are damp from the rain that caught you off-guard. A summer downpour. It clings to your skin in a way that's both freeing and wholly uncomfortable, but you're not thinking about that. You're not thinking about anything at all, not now. Not really. There's a silence in your head as the world falls into pieces, breaking like the jaundiced light that cuts crevasses and canyons in the tenebrous that colours sharp valleys of his face. He turns, then, a gentle list of his head as he takes you in, breathes your silence and questions the wideness of your eyes, the soft parting of your lips. The movement makes the light spill over the arch of his nose, the slope of his brow. The dawning of a new day. A new world. The untouchable of the moon where no light shines now burning hot under the sun.

(And maybe you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

So, you say it. You whisper all the words that bubble up, impatiently waiting between your teeth, effervescent and burning white-hot as they throw themselves over bone and flesh to be free.

Confessing goes like this:

Molten agony in your guts as the secrets you barely understand yourself dissolve into the atmosphere, spoken aloud and born on cobblestone and petrichor. Wide-eyed shock, uncertainty, as a new quiet falls over your shoulders, louder than anything you'd ever heard. Guncotton in your nose. A million detonations in your ears.

You've never much liked the silence. You break it, then, with your bare hands.

"...and that's basically it."

It isn't much. It isn't poetry. You're not even sure the words were real. A figment of your imagination, broken free because of baristas in Amsterdam and losers from Kent, abysmal dates and the unending fear of being wholly alone in a world you're not prepared for, all without the person who makes you feel a little bit better about the nothingness that permeates around you.

And sure. Sure. You don't need him. If Kyle decided never to speak to you again, you'd cry and you'd hurt, but you wouldn't be less of a person because of his absence. He doesn't complete you in the same way you've read about in thick books with strong-willed protagonists and an abundance of petty misunderstandings, but he compliments you. Elevates the good and stifles the bad. You want to experience things with him—not because there's some grand force at play, red strings knotted around your fingers that lead you back to him—but because you like his company. His thoughts. His mind. His presence. His essence fills you with joy in the same strokes it makes you want to pull your hair out sometimes. Good and bad. You want it all.

You want it. Want him.

And he—

He's taking you home a little past midnight where you'll make yourself beans and toast and maybe try and sleep, or turn on the television to watch four women you're intricately connected to eat cheesecake and solve each other's problems. He could be at his own flat right now, playing that video game he said he wanted to try when he got back, or watching that movie he was supposed to with his flatmates, his friends. He could be talking to some barista in Amsterdam.

But he isn't.

He's here with you. Still. Still.

"I just—," you say, or try to.

But the rest is a muffled gasp against soft lips when he presses his against yours, stealing the words out of your mouth.

You can feel your heart beating through your lips. Taste him on your tongue when he draws you closer, hands reaching, grasping. Pulling you into him, into his body. You fit against him, tucked safe between the parentheses of his arms. He tastes of cardamom and cornflower. Lavender notes between his molars. Hints of milk on his tongue. You drink him down and know, then, that this is what they mean they talk about love being a feast because you chase this taste for the rest of your life and never be satiated.

He loops his arm around the small of your back, dragging you closer still. As if any atom between your bodies is an affront. There’s no hesitation in the action, in the way he burrows into your skin. No trepidation.

And maybe it would be silly for there to be any. You know him—every iota, every inch; secrets whispered at midnight in a shallow breath and dreams uttered at noon. To be known, to know, is a powerful thing. You feel it ghost across your flesh, featherlight, and reach for it with your bare hands. Seeking, searching. You don’t stop until the tips of your fingers meet his warm skin, curling around him. Anchoring yourself to him. Stuck, now, in permanence.

You find spots that were untouched before. Behind his ears, the dip of his brow, the curve of his nose, and the slope of his jaw. Cupping it in the palm of your hand, a plinth for him to rest his chin.

Your canvassing makes him groan, makes him tilt down into you as he begins his own exploration, chasing you in a mad pursuit. Sliding over your valleys, your plains. Running over the rugged mountains and the steep cliffs. He scours your topography with eager, nimble fingers. It’s slow, languid. There’s no rush with this, a consensus you both seem to come to rather quickly when he pries open your mouth and tangles his tongue with yours. It’s sweet, soft. His hands mimic his chase, sliding along your body as if he means to commit the entirety of you to memory, searing it in his brain.

It’s only when he comes to a crossroads at your navel, pushed flush against his body, does he stop. You moan in despair at it, wanting more and more, not ready to give up this taste that curls over your tongue—saccharine sweet, salty—and Kyle echoes the noise with a groan, a quiet plea for air that both of you desperately need but can’t quite make yourself take.

“Fuck—” he groans again, breath stuttering out in sharp, deep gasps. “Can’t bloody tell you how long I wanted to do this for, fuck—”

His words seem to peel back the dreamy gossamer of a slowly burning sensuality. It ignites in a blaze, not at all unlike the swiftness of his anger. The sharp, sudden strike of a match. The crackle and hiss of flames renting the air.

The blaze starts at the point where your upper lip touches his, and almost immediately, it consumes you.

It's frenzied when he kisses you again—feral and wild: all teeth and tongue and nips against your bottom lip but the moment you sink into the fervour, Kyle changes it. Slows down. Chaste pecks to your sore lips amid a sensual onslaught. A languid roll of his tongue, soothing the burn his teeth left behind.

The way he kisses you feels like a paradox.

It's organised chaos. Refined madness. A cluttered mess of finesse and deliberate suckles; an artist's masterstroke.

You can't keep up. His rhythm is fierce and uncatchable.

Each step seems to stutter. An avartan you can’t keep pace with. Elongated taals, dips. A crescendo of harmony that is matchless, unreproducible. You struggle along with his swift current, his unerring tide that sweeps you away; unmoored, adrift. The tentative exploration ends. He knows you, now. All of you. And this is his summit. His scramble to the top. It’s biting passion; roaring flames.

You cling to him, holding tight to the liferaft he offers in a slow huff, a gust of mirth across your lips and into your lungs, slowing down to accommodate you. Malleable, now, he lets you lead, lets you take over, and move seamlessly with him. In tandem, parallel. Equilibrium brings you to heel, and you sigh into his mouth—a deep exhale of everything that has been building and building, tipping the scales around you until it was unbalanced and precarious. Teetering on the edge a precipice unknown.

His hand roams across your known geography—hills and streams, rivers and canyons—until he reaches your hand still bracketed around his cheeks, slowly peeling it away from his flesh to slide his fingers between yours, holding tight, and—

Kissing is immaculate. Bending at an altar, and making an offering to something bigger than yourself. It’s the spark of lightning flashing overhead, static in the air. Magnets drawing closer and closer until they snap together in the middle.

But holding his hand?

It feels like coming home.

The world tipping back into place. Amber warmth in your veins; the softness of a jasmine petal. You suck in a deep breath at the shock of it all.

You think of missing puzzles and loose sea ice drifting alone in the vastitude of the ocean. You think of a life where he isn’t in it and find yourself shuddering at the wrongness that emanates from it.

You want him. Want him—

It’s Kyle who pulls away first, resting his forehead against yours. You blink slowly, eyes catching dark amber, honeycomb. It draws a smile from you, full and deep. Giddy on the taste of him, of this.

The only thought in your head is finally, finally.

You see his lips curl in response, eyes lidded and heavy. Blooming with want, affection. Adoration.

"What, ah—," he laughs a little, then, breathless and happy, and the noise anchors itself to your breastbone, pressing into the hollow of your ribs. A place you'll keep it forever. "What now?"

He hands you the starless sky, and places it into the cup of your palm. Breathes laughter in the air, paints the moon with his joy. You think about the places he wants to take you, and the ones he swears you'll never go. You think about aeons from now when the world is gone and the stars all die out, when there's just the hazy lavender of endless abyss you can't make sense of. You think of him, and you think of you, and you wonder when it started to just make sense for there to always be two.

Maybe that night in Cardiff when he held your shoes and gave you his coat. When he draped his arm around your shoulders, laughing at something stupid you'd said. A year before he joined this task force he makes cheeky remarks about but never goes too deeply into detail. When it was just endless summers spent working and drinking and eating good food.

He'd asked the same thing, then, half slumped over in the taxi, and three sheets to the wind. It made his eyes darken, endless pits. Black holes. The expanse of the sky is framed by brown lashes, and drooping lids.

And you'd said—

"Beans and toast?" It feels right. It feels good. "We can—"

He huffed, too, just like he does now, and squeezes your hand once, tugging you along.

"We're not watching Golden Girls."

You watch Golden Girls. Kyle wraps his arm around your neck, keeps you tucked in close to his side. He steals kisses from you when Sophia says something that makes you laugh until you're breathless and trembling.

When David from Kent texts you, he grins wide, and whispers in your ear, think I've always been a little bit in love with you, you know?

Yeah, you say, and kiss back until the taste of him is etched into the space between your teeth. Since Cardiff. For you?

"Since Uni for sure." He smiles again, sheepish and a touch flustered. It glitters on his brow and nips the apples of his cheeks. "You stole my heart when you devoured four lamb kebabs and then ate my tabbouleh. Said to myself, yeah, that's the one for me, innit?"

"On second thought, what's that Barista's number? Might try my luck instead."

"Nah, you're smitten," he presses his lips into the hollow of your throat, nips his teeth against your pulse point. "And you're all mine. No take backs."

"Ah, for fuck's sake—"

Ahhhhhhhh. Sappy romcoms are my kryptonite and it shows.

COD MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

#kyle gaz garrick x reader #gaz x reader #cod gaz x reader #cod mw2 fanfic #ehhhhhh #these are my sloppiest tags #i didn't feel like making a gif so i threw this together real quick #will fix in the am #when my eyes aren't on fire

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 5 months ago

Note

I’d love if you wrote a wifexAemond fic where she’s not from King’s Landing so has different style and takes a ton of effort to get a new dress made that’s more locally aesthetic and when Aemond doesn’t notice/insults it she gets upset and he’s like “the only time I like your dresses are when they’re on the floor” angst/comfort/smut yknow

In the spirit of the ask game, here is a tidbit for you...

She smooths her hands over the plush, forest green velvet, a sudden rush of self consciousness making her skin grow heated with embarrassment as her fingers move over the brocade of her bodice. The gown feels much too dressy, after two decades spent adorned in the light, flowing fabric of her home.

However, she is now the wife of a Prince Regent, and she looks out of place next to the elaborate garb of both the Queen and Queen Regent. Their dresses are always richly embroidered, colourful and expensive. They make her feel drab when stood next to them in lighter fabrics, far simpler in cut, not as elaborately tailored.

She had requested the gown to be made, hoping to impress her new husband by dressing in a style that is befitting of both royalty and the fashion of the capital.

She paces anxiously outside of the small council chamber, wanting him to see her the moment the meeting draws to its close. After what feels like an eternity, the doors are finally flung open and Masester Orwyle files out alongside Lord Wylde, Lord Strong and Lord Lannister. As always, Aemond is last to leave.

Her eyes light up and she smiles brightly as he finally steps out into the corridor, however, she withers as his eye sweeps quickly over her before striding down the corridor without acknowledging her.

She hurries to keep up with his much longer gait, walking quickly beside him as he stalks ahead.

"Husband, I trust your efforts to advance upon Harrenhal are going as planned?"

"Mmm," comes his cool response, not sparing her a glance. "'Tis not for you to concern yourself with. Are there not more domestic pursuits you could occupy your time with?"

Her face falls and she stops walking, watching as he continues on, before rounding the corner. She wants to cry, her chest tightening painfully at the rejection.

But of course he is right, they are in midst of a war, and it is not her place to attempt to involve herself, and thoughtless of her to attempt to distract his attention when he has more pressing matters to attend to.

She decides she will wait until he retires to their apartments for the evening. He will be less distracted then, and surely take notice of the effort she has gone to.

As they sup within their chambers later that evening, she places her spoon back in her bowl, looking across the candlelit table at him as he stirs his own around, features pinched in annoyance.

"Do you notice anything different, husband?" She ventures hopefully.

"Yes," he replies, allowing his own spoon to drop with a clatter. "The stew has grown yet thinner still, thanks to that fucking blockade."

He is right, of course, but it is not the response she had hoped for. The foolish whims of a silly girl, not appreciative of the burden her husband shoulders, yet his inattention to her stings just the same.

Unable to stomach anymore food, especially with the lump that rapidly forms within her throat, she stands abruptly, her voice small and tight sounding.

"If you will excuse me..."

"You are upset," he says, an observation, not a question.

The matter of fact nature of his tone finally causes the dam to burst and hot tears spill from her lashline, trickling down her cheeks.

"Yes, I am upset!" She cries, her tone angrier than she intends for it to be. "I went to great effort to have this dress made, hoping you would appreciate it, and you have not commented on it once!"

His eye narrows, blazing with anger as his mouth presses into a tight line, pushing his own chair back with a loud scrape across the flagstones.

She shrinks away, suddenly fearful as he stalks towards her. She is not fast enough to evade him, and harshly he grabs her arm, tugging her flush against his chest as he glares down at her.

"I toil day and night to ensure your safety, wife," he spits the word with such venom it makes her flinch, his breath hot against her face. "And you concern yourself with vanity. Mittys iksā!" You are a fool!

She lowers her gaze, bottom lip trembling as more tears slip down her cheeks. "Forgive me, I am sorry. I did not think."

His expression softens momentarily as he gazes down at her, before his eye darkens again. In one swift movement, his hands come to the front of her bodice, grabbing the fabric and tearing it in two, exposing the thin, white cotton of the chemise beneath.

She gasps, her eyes widening in shock, too stunned to speak as she looks upon the predatory smirk that his full lips curl into.

"You will remove the rest yourself and then lay upon the bed. I shall teach you that it is the body beneath that I am interested in, not the fabric that covers it up."

She is quick to obey, eager for her husband's attention to finally be upon her.

#asked and answered #ask games #aemond targaryen x reader

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nothomegal · 1 year ago

Text

"My beloved monster"

(Pyramid Head x GN Reader)

Summary: There are always limitations for someting, and when these affect your ability to show love, it becomes a huge deal, so big that it's crushing... Devastating actually. But love itself is a weird thing. It may not break down said limitations. But maybe, it can make you accept and find your own ways to love instead?...

Warnings: a bit angsty at the begining (but lots of love at the end!)

Word Count: 2.1k

(Y/N) looks at their monster, concern filling their chest as they take in his uncannily still form. Since the moment they woke up they knew something was wrong, because one; they were laying on a mattress instead of their lover's body. And two, because Pyra seemed troubled, he looked so unnaturally dull and gloomy…

His helmet positioned lower than usual, as if his gaze is constantly down, his shoulders slump, his overall posture hunched as if something heavy is dragging his body down…

Is he… Is he sad?

This possible explanation both concerned and intrigued (Y/N). They are aware that Pyra’s feelings and mind don’t exactly work like human's, in occasions it feels like he’s being guided by instincts rather than thoughts (especially when things get intimate). But right now it seems like he's experiencing something big, big enough to send him into this wretched state.

With a sigh, (Y/N) stands up from the matress and slowly makes their way towards the beast, their steps careful and a tag hesitant since they had no idea what to expect.

—"Pyra?... Are you alright big guy?"— you ask, concern lingering in your tone.

But the monster didn't move or made any noise of acknowledgment, which obviously made (Y/N) frown. They step even closer, and still no reaction.

—"Did I do something wrong?..."— you ask despite knowing well that you didn't, but you still felt the need to apologize. —"If so I'm very sorry. If you need time alone then I'll leave- "—

A deep low growl was all it took to shut them up. (Y/N) stiffed in their place as they wait to see what will happen next. But instead of witnessing something volent, Pyra only tilted his helmet evel lower, appearing even more upset whith whatever is bothering him.

This image of him was enough for (Y/N) to collect the courage to move again, making their way to their lover's sitting form. This time however, they don't speak or ask anything, instead they carefully place their hand on his large shoulder and let it stay there for a while.

When there was still no reaction, they began to slowly caress his skin. Hand slowly traveling from his big arm to his broad back, which seemed to do the job in soothing him judging by the way his muscles began to relax under their touch. That until their hand traveled to his helmet, and the second it made contact with the metallic surface, a noise nearly resempling a roar errupted from it, causing (Y/N) to recoil violently almost as if their hand got burned.

They stay frozen, clutching their hand tightly and close to their chest as they observe Pyra, feeling both sad that they aren't able to help him and afraid that they may pushed their luck too far.

And to make things worse, their fear seemed to upset the beast even further, because soon another even angrier and louder roar errupted from the monster as he grabs the enges of his helmet tightly. This made (Y/N) even more afraid, but no longer for themselves, but for Pyra.

What is going on?! Is he in pain? Does his head hurt? Why is he so angry all of the sudden? Why...

Why does it look like he wants to rip his helmet off?...

Carefully and slowly, (Y/N) makes their way back to their lover. Movements wary and cautious, like they're in front of some wild animal.

When close enough, they notice something with the corner of their eye. It's a book, one they accidentaly stumble upon somewhere and been reading time to time. It wasn't anything special, just an classic old romance whith a lot of text and the only picture being the cover, which portraited the two protagonists being in each other's embrace and pressing their foreheads together in a loving and affectionate manner.

Oh... OH.

(Y/N)'s head snaps towards their lover, a frown placed on their face at the sight of his miserable form that was still holding his helmet and growling angrily, hatefully, at it.

—"Pyra..."— you call out softly as you step closer. —"Hey."—

They place their hands on top of his larger ones, making the beast stop fidgeting in place and stay completely still again.

—"Is that why you're upset?..."— you ask, voice gentle.

At first the beast does nothing. But when (Y/N) squeezed his hands slightly, that's when a metallic noise was made, which was something in between of metal scraping and a whine. It was new noise, noise that expressed nothing but misery.

But who wouldn't be upset after realizing how little one can do with their loved one while looking like this? A monster with no face, created with the sole purpose to spread pain upon others and drag them through eternal punishment. Pyramid Head never was supposed to love, he never was supposed to care for anything or anyone, only hunt and execute. But after (Y/N) came into this place... Just tell me, how couldn't he want more of them? How couldn't he desire to keep them? How couldn't he crave to have them close and feel their soft warm body against his? To feel excitement whenever they speak, the gentle tone of their voice, the sweet things they say about a creature like him... To fall further for them at the sensation of their soft lips on his damaged scarred skin, a gesture they made to tell him just how much he means to them withouth the need to use words...

(Y/N) can do so many things to show the love, affection and respect they have for him. Of course he tries to show them his desire for them too, but he can do so little... And that's just devastating. No matter how much noises he makes, no matter how carefully he tries to nuzzle his helmet against them... It will never resemble anything that another human could do to show love, it will never feel as sencere as what (Y/N) does... And it will never be possible for him to say these three words that make his inhuman heart pause and his chest squeeze in warmth whenever they leave (Y/N)'s lips...

These three words...

I love you.

After these intense seconds of dead silence passed, (Y/N) decided to take the matters in their hands and try again.

Slowly they slide their hands off of his and into his helmet. And this time the beast didn't pull away or made a sound, he just sat there in complete stillness.

—"I understand that we cannot do certain things..."— you say as you step closer. —"But do you think I care?"—

As they speak in a gentle voice, they run their hands along the metallic surface, caressing it carefully.

—"When I say 'I love you', I mean I love you, whole."— you smile as you say that. —"Head and everything included. I love you whole Pyra."—

Their words seemed to slowly break him, as another of these strange whines was emited. His hand slid off his helmet and placed on (Y/N)'s hips. For a second they thought he would push them away, but he doesn't, he simply keeps his hands on them.

Suddenly, (Y/N) stopped their caresses. Wich understandably caused Pyra's grip on them to tighten, as if to prevent they pull away from him. But of course, that's not something a deranged person like (Y/N) would do, instead they lean forward and wrap their arms around his helmet and press themselves closer to it.

—"And I don't say it expecting you'll say it back."— you mutter softly as you resume your caresses. —"But I know when you do try to say it back. It may not be through voice, or a kiss, or any other more intimate and 'human' action. And it doesn't make it any less important, if anything, it makes it more special."—

The two of them remain like this for a while. I probably looked so weird to embrace Pyra's helmet like that, but non of them seemed to mind it.

With a soft hum, (Y/N) pulls back just a bit and presses their forehead against the metallic surface.

—"Look, we can do that too."— you say playfully. —"Just like in the book's cover!"—

It was an immature and a cheap thing to do, (Y/N) knows it. But their efforts were recieved positively anyways judging by the soft rumble that was emited from the monster and the small careful tilt he did with his head to press it further against theirs.

However, this time (Y/N) didn't remain still for too long. Their arms soon unwrapped and began to travel down until their hands slipped underneath the beast's helmet. The second their fingers made contact with the soft and slimy flesh, a small shiver run through the monster's body.

—"Well, I know this is not something I could do with another human... But do I care? Absolutely not!"— you chuckle as you start to gently scratch the fleshy mass. —"And the fact that you even allow me to touch you there already tells me how much trust you have in me. See? No extra words or actions needed for me to understand how big of a deal it is."—

Their voice and scratches were soon recieved with the well known low rumbling, that was so similar to a deep purr. Pyra's hands slowly began to slide off their form as his body relaxed with each second. (Y/N) couldn't help but to childishly grin at his state, he looked so happy, almost like a cat recieving a good scratch.

They were about to tell more things, but the beast decided it was enough reassurance and that it's time for him to take action.

(Y/N) let out a surprised yelp when their body was suddenly dragged down by a great force and slammed against a solid torso. It all happened so fast that it took them a couple of seconds to process what just happened. The embrace was tight, keeping them caged in the beast's arms, so closely that it was almost suffocating...

Any normal person would freak out at that, too concerned about the wellbeing of their spine. But (Y/N)? Nah.

They let a small yet joyful laught as they attempted to wrap their arms around Pyra's waist, though due to their limited mobility and his huge size it was quite a task. Nevertheless, their attempts were appreciated anyways, and the amused rumple was a proof of it.

The monster curls his larger body around his human a bit more, holding them tightly and closely. So closely that he could feel their heartbeat, heartbeat that was slow and perfectly rhythmic, indicating just how calm and content (Y/N) was in his arms, trusting him completely and totally unafraid of his monstrous strength.

It was unclear how long they've been holding each other like that. It could be minutes, it could be hours... But what was clear for both of them, was that they didn't want to let go of each other, not now, not anytime soon.

Until...

—"Hey Pyra, one last thing."— you suddenly say.

Their sentence was responded by a quizical rumble.

—"Can you stick out your tongue for a second?"—

At first there is no reaction, as if Pyra was caught off guard with this seemingly random request. Nevertheless, he lose his grip on them just enough to allow his human to lean back. And as they do so, the pink muscle was already sticking out of the corner of his helmet and curiously wiggling in place.

(Y/N) smiles and gently grabs the tongue with both hands, slowly pulling it closer to them. They silently observe it for a comple of seconds, before bringing it right to their lips and giving a small kiss. Yes, it felt weird, maybe disgusting for some. But not for (Y/N).

After that sweet gesture they glance at their lover, who was completely frozen in place, even his tongue was no longer wiggling.

—"Look, we just kissed!"— you announce with a cheerful laugh. —"Y'know, maybe I was wrong. Maybe there aren't as many limitations as we thought. Sure, some methods are weird and all... But doesn't it feel more special? More like... Ours?"—

The monster remains unresponsive for a while, either thinking or just staring at their little naive form. Whatever the case it, their genuine expression of joy and warmth was enough to melt away whatever bits of doubt their lover had, and the shy wiggling of his tongue towards their lips was a clear demonstration of that.

After sharing some more 'kisses', (Y/N) was soon pulled back into this suffocating embrace again. And this time, it wasn't just desperate...

It was also warm, affectionate, intimate... Absolutelly everything about this embrace screamed one message and one message only, which combined with the soft purrs and noises coming from the beast, was much more clear...

I love you.

#nothomegal fic #nothomegal oneshot #gn reader #pyramid head x reader #pyramid head #slasher x reader #slasher fluff

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stairain · 2 years ago

Text

Mommy's Boyfriend.

While dropping off your son at school, the last thing you expect is your ex-boyfriend Mr.Reid to be his teacher.

Warnings: Soft Dom Spencer, Mother reader, Your child is unnamed don't think too much about it, make-up sex, cunnilingus, begging, gentle-ish sex, doggy style, light choking, cream pie, he loves you too much.

WC: 7.1K

It was the first day of school, and you were dropping your son off, walking through the hallway and holding the little boy's hand. As you passed through various rooms, you smiled at passing teachers and students. When you finally make it to your son's classroom, you kneel down and kiss his forehead before saying a few encouraging words to him, patting his back before urging him into the room.

"I'll see you in a few hours, love.."

You say to him as he walks away from you. When you stand up, you're not at all expecting Spencer to be standing there behind you. The two of you had broken up just before summer started, and although you knew he was a teacher, you were really hoping you didn't see him today.

What are the chances he’s your son's teacher? Apparently very high ones.

You give him a forced polite smile before trying to walk away from him as quickly as you could.

As Spencer watches you go, he’s hit with a wave of shame, guilt, and disgust. He should never have let things end the way he had. He should’ve tried to fix things but, instead, he had just given up. It was something he would never forgive himself for. He decides that he’s not going to let you go without at least knowing that he regrets his actions. He walks after you.

"Hey."

You hear him, and the clicking of your heels against the floor speeds up as you try to get away from him as fast as possible.

"Wait.." He says in a calm, firm, serious voice with a hint of a pleading tone. He picks up his pace and is quickly closing the distance between you two. When he moves closer to you, he reaches a hand out to plant on your shoulder, trying to stop you.

When you shrug off his hand, he purses his lips and quickly runs in front of you, so you're forced to stop. You blink at the quick movement and look up at him with eyes full of undercover malice. Pushing your tongue into your cheek in annoyance, you quietly snap at him, so as to not attract a crowd.

"Can I help you?"

Spencer looks at you with eyes that are full of regret, sadness, shame, and longing. He takes a small step closer to you. You can see that he’s upset, but most of the emotions he is feeling are negative ones directed at himself. He looks like he wants to hug you and cry at the same time, but he is restraining himself, far too scared to make you even angrier at him. Even in all of his sadness and regret there is still a little bit of love in his eyes, and it looks like he’s about to cry.

You bite your lips as the look in his eyes still never ceases to make you melt. With a small shake of your head, you speak.

"Listen, it's been great seeing you, but I just came to drop off my kid, alright?" You push past him and start walking towards the front doors, not wanting to be around him any longer than you already have.

Spencer reaches out and grabs your wrist before you can make it to the door. He looks at you with pleading eyes, still full of the same negative self-loathing emotions, but there’s a glint of hope and love in them.

"Wait–please." He says, his tone now urgent. "I just need two minutes of your time; to explain."

You take a deep breath and look down at your watch before you look back at him. "Don't you have a job to do?"

Spencer takes a deep breath and his eyes narrow before his expression softens again. "Yes, I do," he says.

"But, I'll go to work every day for the rest of my life. Please, just two minutes of your time." He looks desperate and pleading but, if you refuse again, he seems like he’ll let you go.

It hurts you to admit it, but his words make your heart swell. If there was one thing he was always good at doing, it was putting you first. But ironically, that's what got the two of you here in the first place. With wavering eyes, you look around before sighing, and agreeing.

"Two minutes."

A huge wave of relief washes over Spencer and he can't help but smile a little bit. He walks you to a quiet place to talk. Once you are out of earshot of everyone around he looks at you with regretful eyes, and his voice begins to crack a bit.

"I am so sorry. I never meant to hurt you and I am so sorry for the way I treated you. I was too caught up in my work and didn't give our relationship the attention it needed and I regret it every day. Please, forgive me."

You shake your head and look down at anywhere but him, because you know the second your gaze locks with those puppy-dog eyes you've always adored, all of your progress of "getting over him" in the past few months would go to waste in a heartbeat.

"I-I don't know, Spence.."

You hadn't even noticed the way you referred to him as his nickname you always used to call him, too caught up in your emotions to acknowledge it now.

"Please," His voice sounds desperate, like he might break down any moment now.

"I would do anything to fix what I have done. Please, just give me one more chance. I will never take you or our relationship for granted again. I love you."

As those last few words escape his lips his voice breaks and he looks like he might just get down on both knees and beg you. He looks completely ready and willing to show you, not just tell you, how sorry he is and that he can and will make things right.

Raising your chin a little to look at him through teary lashes, you run your thumb along your waterline. With a heavy sigh, you finally find the courage to look him in the eyes.

"You have a class to teach, Spencer. I'm sorry."

"I'll call in sick. I'd walk away from my job in an instant if it meant I got you back."

His voice is desperate as it breaks again and tears well up in his eyes.

"Please, love. Just give me a chance."

He looks heartbroken, and this is probably the most emotional, intense, and passionate he has ever been about his love for you and it's hard for you to resist. You’re sure you'll be making a mistake by saying no, but at the same time, you feel you’ll be making an even bigger mistake by saying yes.

You almost laugh at his words, but you stop yourself before you do. If you laughed in his face right now, you know he'd absolutely be crushed. With a sad smile, you sniff.

"Don't do that, Spencer."

With one last look at your watch, you barely think about the next words that leave your mouth. You were just saying whatever he wanted to hear, you couldn't help it. Even after everything, you just wanted to please him.

"Listen, I- School ends at three, right? When I come to pick him up, we can talk more, okay?"

Spencer is absolutely thrilled by how things just went. He fully expected you to just walk out on him, and he wouldn’t even blame you. He tries to hide the happiness on his face but he's unable to prevent himself from letting a small smile creep onto his lips. He nods his head in agreement.

"Three o'clock," He says in a calming, but still emotional, voice. "I'll be right here." He looks over you for a second before he turns and walks away, still clearly full of hope and optimism.

And you're left in the room by yourself and your thoughts as he walks out. You know this is a mistake, and you should've just ignored him and went on with your life, but it was too late now. In a battle with your heart and your head, you think you're going to let your heart win.

As the day passes, you're running errands and doing some work of your own, but your mind is somewhere else.

It's only two thirty, you've got another half hour until you see him again, and you feel your nerves race through your body. As you sit in your car in silence, the sound of your heart pounding in your chest rings in your ears, and it taunts you.

You can't help but feel excited as you think about finally getting the chance to talk to him and try to work things out despite knowing full well that this is a bad idea. Part of you still wants to run, but the idea of having him in your life again feels like a dream come true and it’s hard to resist that kind of temptation when it is just within your grasp.

At three o'clock Spencer is waiting at the school, just as he promised, hoping you won't change your mind.

Taking a deep breath and shaking out your hands, you get out of the car and begin to walk towards the entrance of the school. All of the other children and parents were walking back to their own cars, and you remember then that your son had after-school sports, and he wouldn't be going home with you now.

At least it gave you and Spencer more time to speak. As you walk closer to him, the pounding of your pulse fills all of your senses, and you force a polite smile on your face.

As you approach him he smiles and hugs you. His arms are warm and comforting, and just having him hold you again makes you feel better. You can tell he is nervous too, you can see it in the way his eyes are darting around and how he keeps fidgeting his hands. You can also tell that he’s trying to keep his composure and has the same polite smile you do. He's trying to act like things are normal and like he isn't just dying of impatience for when you two can go somewhere to have a serious conversation.

With a small push to his chest, you break the hug with an awkward chuckle. His touch felt so nice, so comforting, but it was too much for you right now. You clear your throat as you stand in front of him with your arms behind your back and stutter as you speak.

When you push him away you can see a little bit of hurt in his eyes before it’s quickly replaced with understanding and patience.

"I-I forgot that.. I forgot my son has soccer practice now.. So I don't have to pick him up for a few hours.." Your voice is wavering and sheepish, and you sound so unsure of yourself. The woman you were this morning, strong and unwilling to speak to the man in front of you was traded for a whole new persona, one that couldn't help but fumble under the gaze of Spencer.

"I see." He says in a calm, comforting tone, "Then, what would you like to do? Where would you like to talk?" As he speaks you can see him relax a little bit, but he is still filled with nervous energy, but it's clear that he’s trying to help you calm down.

And before you can stop yourself.

"We could go back to my place.."

When you say those words a huge smile makes its way across Spencer's face. He nods in agreement and takes your hand in his. You let him hold it.

"Your place, it is." As he speaks he leads you to his car and opens the passenger side door for you before getting into the driver's side himself. He turns to look at you to make sure you've gotten in safely and smiles again before turning forward to drive from the school to your house. As he drives, your thoughts race. You start thinking of all the ways this could go wrong, and they outweigh everything that could go right.

It almost hurts your heart that he still remembers where you live, without a GPS or directions. It's like he never really forgot, how could he? It's all muscle memory to him.

As Spencer drives, a wave of nostalgia hits him hard. He can't help but remember all the sweet moments you have had at your place. He remembers the long nights, and the quiet mornings. He remembers the way you used to make him feel.

Then it hits him, these are the same feelings that made him make the huge, dumb mistake that got him in this situation in the first place. If he doesn't want to lose you again he’s going to have to do everything in his power to fix his mistakes and do everything he needs to do in order to make you happy.

Pulling into your driveway, you swallow before unbuckling yourself and stepping out of the car. You don't wait on him as you're walking up the pavement to your front door, pushing it open and walking inside.

Spencer gets out of the car and follows you inside, closing the door gently behind him. He walks over to you and looks at you with intense love and affection in his eyes. Before you can speak, he gives you a long, passionate kiss. For those few seconds he is able to forget everything and all he can think about is just how much he's missed you and how much he loves you. When he finally pulls away, you can see how hard he had to try to pull himself away in the first place, he missed the taste of your lips on his.

"I love you.."

You gasp against his lips when he breaks the kiss, and the way your eyes widen almost rivals the moon. The nerve of him, you thought. But when his hands reach up to cradle your jaw, you can feel the anger fizzling into pathetic dust and you pull him in for another bruising kiss.

Spencer kisses you back passionately and his arms wrap all the way around your waist in the embrace. A wave of calm crashes over him as he holds you close to him because nothing feels better in the moment than being close to you again.

After a few minutes of kissing you he pulls back just a little bit to look at you and breathlessly speak.

"I missed you," he says, a little breathless, "So much."

Your eyes are full of passion and vexation towards him and you all but growl out your words.

"Shut up and kiss me." Grabbing the collar of his dress shirt, you deal another violent kiss to him.

"Yes, ma'am."

Is all he can say as he moves in again. He had to pry your mouth away from him for air, and he leans in to kiss you again, but this time, instead of going straight for your mouth he makes his way to your neck. He’s leaning over slightly as kisses your neck, your ears, and your jaw in a playful move that has more passion behind it than playfulness, but you can still tell he is trying to tease you.

Growing impatient and letting months of pent up emotions control you, you grab his hand on your head and forcefully move it down to your ass, putting your hand overtop of his as you make him squeeze your rear.

Spencer lets out a gentle groan at the feeling of you gripped in his hand, and grabs the handful roughly, digging his fingers into the denim of your jeans.

"Now, can we talk?" His voice is gravelly and breathless.

You’re pushing his body back until the backs of his knees hit the couch, and he sits down on it. You sit down next to him and begin to kiss up his neck, one of your hands moving to hold his jaw steady.

"Go ahead.." You murmur against his neck as you press a wet and sloppy kiss against the goosebump raised skin.

Spencer lets out a small chuckle at how much you seem to be enjoying this. He's loving every second of it and he just smiles as his eyes start to go a little bit cross-eyed as he leans back into you.

"Stop that. I don't think I can hold a coherent thought like this."

His voice is half serious and half playful, still filled with the same passion and lust for you it has been the whole time.

"You're a genius, figure it out." Your voice is low and teasing as you bare your teeth against the flesh and nibble at it, leaving small, red marks.

Spencer groans a little bit as a shiver runs down his spine at the feeling of your teeth against his skin. His eyes go a little bit more cross-eyed the longer you do it to him.

"Please," His voice is a little bit breathless and it's unclear if he is asking you to stop or if he's just asking you to take a little break from it so he can finish his sentence. "I'm begging."

Despite his words, you continue to suck at his neck, determined to mark him as yours once more. He was right, you two needed to talk about it, but you were a little preoccupied at the moment. Smiling against his skin, you lick over a fresh hickey.

“Haven't changed much then, Spence.."

Spencer lets out a small noise that is part moan, part whine, and part laugh. His eyes are just about completely rolled back into his skull at this point.

"I can't talk at all while you're doing this," His voice is strained but it's clear he is trying desperately to keep a playful tone to it. "You're not going to make this easy are you?" You can hear him take a deep breath as he is just barely able to calm himself down enough to give you a warning.

"Nothing about this is easy, love.." The pet name just slips from your mouth, as if it were a habit. You don't dwell on it for too long as you lift yourself onto his lap and continue to kiss and mark his neck.

Spencer moves slightly to make it easier for you to sit on his lap and he lets out a soft sigh when he feels your weight against him and once again he can't help but smile.

"Baby," He says, his voice getting just a little bit more sincere now as he gives you a soft kiss on the cheek, "Please..." he asks one last time with pleading in his eyes.

"I have a lot to talk to you about. I'm not sure how you feel about everything but I promise it will be okay if you let me explain."

With a final press of your lips against him, you pull back and rest your hands on his shoulders.

"Speak then."

The man takes a deep breath and speaks with the most sincerity you have ever heard in his voice.

"I am truly, truly, sorry for what I did to you," His voice cracks at the end of the word ‘you’ as he gets emotional again. He takes a few more deep breaths to compose himself before tearily speaking again. You can see how much he means the things he is saying and how much it hurts him having to tell you this.

“You didn’t and don’t deserve anything I did to you. I was wrong, and I’m sorry."

You had hoped the cloud of lust that sat between the two of you was enough to distract and mask the real reason why he was here, and you sigh. The arousal in your body fades and is quickly replaced with solemnness.

"I didn't deserve it, and I so badly want to hate you, Spencer." He reaches a hand out to run through your hair as you talk, and you lean into his comforting touch. "I spent months wanting to scream at you, yell at you for how you treated me. I wasn't even going to talk to you today, really.."

At your words Spencer's eyes fill with regret. He can only imagine how hard and awful the past few months must have been for you and to know he is the one who put you through it all makes him feel like he's a monster.

"I can't blame you, I know I'm a terrible person.. I really do." Spencer's voice cracks and tears start to form in his eyes too, he looks at you with a sad, pitiful look in his eyes. "You didn't deserve any of it, baby. I don't know what I was thinking.."

You tilt your head to the side at his words and pout at the way he's putting himself down. With a slightly trembling hand, you reach to wipe the tears forming in his eyes.

"You're not a terrible person, Spence. Just.." Taking a deep breath, you actually think about your response this time. When you come to a conclusion, you don't know if it's the right one or not. "Just, promise not to do it again, alright?"

Spencer watches you as you wipe away the tears that have formed in his eyes. He looks up and meets your eyes with some of the most pure love and devotion he has ever had. He slowly nods his head in agreement as a small smile starts to form on his face at your response.

"I promise, my love... I will do anything to make up for what I've done."

His words are filled with so much love and compassion it almost seems impossible that he is the same man who hurt you so many months ago.

You slowly nod and swallow, and try to push away the already rising feelings of sadness and regret.

"Can I kiss you without being interrupted, now?"

Spencer chuckles a little and nods.

"Of course you can... I've been dying for one." He gives you a playful wink and a playful shove to your shoulder before turning to kiss you deeply. When he pulls away his eyes are filled with the same passion and desire you have always loved, and a bit of the same lust you felt earlier as well. He smiles at you as he leans back on the couch and wraps his hands on your hips.

"Come closer. I've missed you so much."

A warm feeling fills your body at his words and you grab the back of his head to tug him into a hot and heavy kiss, full of pent up emotions of anger, lust, love, and hurt.

Spencer moves in for the kiss with just as much desire and lust as you. He lets out a small, playful moan as you pull on his hair, he grabs your waist as you kiss him and a small smile forms on his mouth.

As your lips break apart he catches his breath for a minute but he seems unable to resist you for too long as he pulls you in again for another kiss, this one even stronger than the one before and his hands start to wander under your clothes to the small of your back. Just one moment seems to be too long without his arms around you and his lips on yours.

A sigh of satisfaction pours from your mouth into his, and the feeling of his hands on your bare skin was a sensation you've gone far too long without. His fingers swirling up the flesh of your back feels like it's burning you in the best way, and you're all too eager to finally connect with him again.

Moving your hands to take off your shirt, you pull away from the kiss, much to his disappointment. As you tug the fabric off your body and over your head, you're left in your bra and jeans as you look up at him through long lashes and sultry eyes.

Spencer gasps at the sight of you and it takes all of his restraint not to just pounce you like an animal. A grin washes across his face and that devilish glint returns to his eyes once more.

“You are more beautiful than I ever remembered,” He says in a way that is both flirtatious but also full of love and adoration. He smiles as he looks up at you.

“Will you allow me the honor of taking those off of you?”

"Please.." Is all you can mewl out, lust washing over your entire body, just ready to be his again.

At your words, Spencer's eyes light up with excitement and he smiles widely before getting off the couch and kneeling down in front of you. He slowly reaches out to the clasp of your bra and undoes it before slowly sliding it down your arms and off of you. He doesn't even try to hide his joy, it's evident in just how much he's smiling and the glimmer in his eye.

"You're still so perfect, my love... Just like a goddess." He whispers as he reaches to undo your jeans and unzip them.

You lift your bottom a bit off the couch to help him pull your pants down your legs, moaning softly at the cool air hitting your skin. Your arms cross over your chest, not used to being exposed like this after so long.

Spencer can't take his eyes away from you as he takes in your body again and a deep, content sigh escapes his lips as he looks at you.

"God.. You're more beautiful than I ever thought was possible," He whispers in amazement as his eyes take in your exposed body. "And you're just as beautiful on the inside too. I’m sorry it took me so long to understand that.."

You can feel your breath hitching at his words, and a warm blush spreads over your cheeks, and you slowly lower your hands from over your chest, and rest them next to your bare thighs. You're only left in your panties now, sitting on the couch as he's kneeling in front of you.

Spencer's heart speeds up and he breathes heavily as he takes in the view in front of him. It's almost a little overwhelming, but all he can manage to do is take it in and admire you as he is left speechless for a moment. Finally, he comes to and he slowly moves in to touch your thighs. He takes his time and caresses them softly with his fingertips.

At his soft soft, you flinch slightly before letting your body relax. You trusted him, even after so long.

You can see the care and love in every soft caress that Spencer deals to your delicate body. His slow, steady touch is done with an intensity and a passion that almost seems to radiate off of him and you can feel it as his fingertips glide over the skin of your thighs. You don't know if you have ever felt someone be so delicate, slow, and methodical with something before but it’s beautiful, almost like he was dealing with a piece of art.

Subconsciously, you feel yourself slowly spreading your legs as you watch his large hands move towards your body, and take the bands of your underwear in his fingers. He looks up at you for approval.

Spencer's breath catches in his throat and you can see his jaw practically hanging open as he's overwhelmed by the view that's in front of him. "You're beautiful, darling.." He says like it's a prayer. He lets out a soft sigh, and he nods in approval before slowly taking the bands off and peeling them down your legs.

You moan now that you're fully exposed in front of him, and all previous confidence you had in you has completely dissipated under his intense glare. Once the air flushes against your bare, soaked cunt, it makes you shudder with a shiver.

Spencer's eyes narrow down on you and they burn with passion and emotion at seeing you there on the couch in front of him, all spread out and ready for him. He's lost in you for a minute and you can see it as his breath hitches and his jaw is still hanging half open. He still moves with deliberate, slow, and gentle touches as he moves his hand to the top of your thigh.

"Baby.. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." He whispers breathless, almost as though he is stunned by just the sight of you.

Moving your legs, you hook your calf around the back of his head, pulling him closer to your spread thighs, and there's a devilish smirk on your face.

He’s caught aback by how you pull him closer to your core and his eyes go wide at the gesture. He seems a little bit surprised but in the end he doesn't argue, instead he lets out a small chuckle and moves in closer to the point that the front of his face is pressed up against your thighs.

"What are you doing to me, love?" He asks innocently with a smirk of his own as he looks up at you with an amused smile on his face. His warm breath is ghosting over your glistening hole, and it makes you all the more desperate for him.

“Making up for lost time.”

You pull him in closer with your leg latched around him, urging him to get on with it already. You hadn’t slept with anyone since the two of you broke up, and you never really had time to take care of yourself. But that’s what he was there for.

“Guess I better get to work, then..”

Spencer huskily spoke before leaning down and encasing your puffy clit between his spit slicked lips. The sensation instantly made you arch your back and jolt away from him, but he was quick to wrap his hands and arms under your thighs and over your hips, forcing you closer.

As he pulls you closer, his long wet tongue peeks out from his mouth and licks a broad stripe up your cunt, tasting just how much you missed him. With each lick, he was lapping up at your juices like a man starved, moaning at the way your slick coated his tongue.

Your lips were parted in a high pitched mewl, and you squeezed his head tighter with your legs. It made him dizzy, being suffocated by your shaking thighs and your gushing pussy, and he couldn’t have asked to be anywhere better.

The wet muscle between your folds was pistoning in and out of you like heavy machinery, working you just the way you needed. You could feel your cunt contracting around him, further gushing your arousal on his tongue.

Spencer was breathlessly moaning into your core, not being able to contain it. He was agonizingly hard in his pants, and it took everything in him to pry himself away from you. When he does, he deals one last slow, tortuous lick up your folds, before licking his lips and backing away.

You look up at him with pleading eyes, and he was already working on lifting you from the couch, quickly making his way into the hallway and where he knew your bedroom was.

You could feel your still soaked cunt rubbing against the silky fabric of his shirt, and couldn't help but grind your hips down against it. You had been so touch starved, that even this tiny bit of satisfaction made your breath catch in your throat.

He gently laid you down on the bed, making sure your head was rested against a pillow, before he practically tore the buttons off his shirt trying to take it off. And his pants were no different, the leather of his belt slid against the fabric of his dress pants, and as soon as you heard a small clank of metal against your floor, his pants followed suit.

When he was fully undressed, and crawled over your body until he was caging you underneath him, and the sight of his slightly sweaty hair falling over his face made your chest heavy with emotion.

Spencer leans down to kiss a line from your chin to your jaw, before stopping at your ear and lowly whispering into it.

“Think you can let me take care of you again, like old times?”

And it’s almost like his voice has put you under a trance, because before he can even finish, you’re nodding. It didn’t matter what he asked of you, you’d always say yes.

He lifts himself away from you with a small mirrored nod, before hoisting you by your waist and flipping your pliant body around, and propping a pillow under your stomach and hips.

The cool material pressed against your sweat sheened skin made you sigh, and his rough hands traced over the curves of your hips and ass like he was trying to relive all the nights that he used to have you like this; plush ass bent over in front of him, soaked cunt begging for attention, spread legs practically inviting him between them.

He swallows at the memories, and has a hard time convincing himself this is actually happening again. But he doesn’t dwell on it for too long, whether or not you’re really in front of him, or he’s just dreaming again, he can’t leave you like this. He loves you too much.

Trembling hands find the heavy bobbing length of his cock, and he grabs himself at the base, shakily squeezing in order to urge himself to not cum immediately. You deserved better than that. You deserved so much better than everything he could give you, and he promised himself he’d somehow redeem himself.

There wasn’t a better time to start than now, he thinks to himself as he tilts his hips forward to rub the leaking tip of his member against the silky folds of your cunt. And thank goodness he’s kneeling, because the second he felt soft, wet flesh against him, he would’ve collapsed.

“G-God.. Missed this..”

You lift your head slightly from where it’s pressed against the pillow, and look back at him with a lazy smile. Your voice is slighted muffled against the fabric, but he understands you.

“Didn’t get laid over the summer, Spence?”

You lift your ass higher, arching your back further so he would get the memo to fuck you already, and with a shake of his head and the cant of his hips, he’s easing himself inside of you, inch by inch.

“N-No.. Was always yours, love.”

The smile slowly falls from your face and you turn back around to bury your face in the pillow, trying to play it off with a pleasured sigh.

The two of you had stayed loyal to one another, despite everything. The thought made your heart swell and your cunt clench. He was unmistakably yours, and he always would be, no matter what.

The squeeze of your hole around him forced him inside of you quicker than he had planned on, and he had to bite his lip, breaking skin, to stop himself from finishing right there and then. He grunted as he tried to regain control over himself, and pushed himself the rest of the way inside of you.

When he was buried to the hilt inside of you, your eyes rolled back into your skull and you bit at the pillow to stop yourself from screaming. He filled you so perfectly, just as he used to. It felt right, like he belonged nowhere else but entirely swallowed by your cunt.

Spencer mutters out a few curses to himself before he’s draping himself over your body, pressing his firm chest against your damp back. His mouth is right by your ear, and you move your head to the side a bit to hear him better.

And hear him better you definitely do. You can feel the heave of his chest as he breathlessly begins to withdraw his cock from inside of you. The rub of his veiny, long length dragging along your soft walls had you cursing like a sailor.

As his breaths and moans quicken, so does the shove of his hips against your ass. He was so deep inside of you it was a miracle he was even able to pull himself out of you, but he managed to do it just fine. There were no complaints from you whatsoever as you felt him imprint the image of his tip right against your spot with every thrust he dealt to you.

Your hands were planted out in front of you, gripping at the fabric of the comforter when his own came and fully encompassed them. Spencer intertwined your fingers together as the visceral sound of your pussy sucking him deeper and deeper filled your ears.

Every time he humped into you, your clit brushed against the pillow, and it only made your cries of pleasure grow louder. The friction was dizzying, and you unknowingly clench around him impossibly tighter.

And he just about loses his mind at that moment. When he’s sucked flush against your body, he goes cross eyed and squeezes your hands in his, as if trying to ground himself. A guttural groan leaves him and it’s a few more moments before he’s panting in your ear as he starts to move once more.

He pulled back his hips to let his cock slide halfway out of you, before forcing himself back into that tight drenched cunt of yours. You can feel the spurt of arousal that leaks out of you at the force of his thrust, and you writhed at the feeling.

Your body shakes underneath his as the combined feeling of grinding yourself down against the pillow and how deliciously his length abused your cervix and puffy folds drives you mad. You were gasping for air, trading your desperate moans and whines for a chance at breathing.

“Sp-Spence.. Baby–please.”

There wasn’t one single thought in your brain that knew what you were begging for, but somehow, Spencer knew exactly what to give you.

“L-Love you so much, sweet thing..”

He moans out to you, then he leans down unbelievably closer to you. He lets go of one of your hands to wrap his own around your neck, grabbing at your throat as gently as he can to urge your face up to kiss him.

It’s a little hard to catch his lips with yours, as with each plow into you sent your body forward, along with how heavily he was breathing. But when you do, the two of you seal your lips together in a passionate, burning kiss.

His grip around your throat tightens a bit, and it’s enough to entirely set you off the edge. With one more ground of your hips against the pillow, and one more stamp of his cock against that little spongy spot inside of you, you’re suddenly soaking everything around you.

The wet noise of your release is all you and him can hear, as you’re spraying your arousal all over his hips, his cock, your thighs, and those poor sheets underneath the two of you. Your eyes cross almost comically at the feeling of your orgasm rushing through you, and Spencer is doing no better.

As he feels you squirt all over him, he curses into your ear and his entire body goes rigid. His hips still and he pushes himself as deep as he can possibly get before dumping everything he’s worth right into your soaked velvet core, sending ribbon after ribbon of his cum right against your cervix.

“F-Fuck.. Fuck.. fuck..”

All you can think about is how full you are. His cock is miraculously still hard inside of you, even though he’s emptied everything he’s got into you, and his thick cum is practically fighting for any room left you’ve got inside you.

Wet. Wet would be the only word to describe the scene you’ve found yourself in. Your body goes limp against the soaked bed, and his sweat drenched body finds itself at the same fate as he collapses against you. The hand around your throat loosens and snakes its way back to your lonely hand, intertwining them once again.

The both of you are panting against each other's faces for god knows how long, and neither of you have moved a muscle. You can feel his cum dripping out of you, running down the expanse of your thighs to join the puddles of your own arousal that pool against the bed.

With a groan, he slowly pulled out of you, and it was like pulling the plug to a well, because the second his cock left your hole, a gush of a mixture of your arousals flowed out of you.

He chuckles at the sight, while you just moan softly. Spencer lays down right next to you and pulls your body against his, so you’re chest to chest. He reaches to move your sweaty hair out of your face, pressing a warm kiss against your sticky cheek. When he speaks, his voice is strained and you wouldn’t be surprised if he had lost his voice.

“You know, he was talking about you during class today..”

The slight rasp and squeak in his voice is problematically attractive to you, but you don’t think you could deal with another orgasm after flooding your own bed.

You shake your head and groan softly at his words.

“Oh god, what’d he say?”

“He kept saying to everyone, ‘Mr.Reid is Mommy’s boyfriend!’”

The tone in his voice heightens as he tries his best to imitate your son's words. You groan again and close your eyes.

“And I’m guessing you didn’t say anything to him about it?”

Your voice is strained and laced with faux annoyance, but he sees right through it. Spencer huffs out a small laugh and presses a kiss to your forehead. With the arm that’s holding you against him, he squeezes your shoulders lightly, as if to tease you.

“Course I didn’t, can’t embarrass him like that..”

Rolling your eyes, you sigh and he pulls you closer to him as you shake your head.

“You’re the worst, I hope you know.” Your tone is playful and teasing, but you can feel yourself relaxing in his hold, allowing yourself to savor the moment for the time being.

“Maybe, but at least I’m ‘Mommy’s boyfriend’ again..”

#spencer reid #spencer x reader #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #spencer reid smut #dom spencer reid #spencer reid x reader smut #dom spencer reid x reader #dom!spencer #dom!spencer reid #soft dom spencer reid #dom spencer #spencer reid angst

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thecapricunt1616 · 8 months ago

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NURSE!!! NURSE!!! SHE BROKE OUT OF HER CAGE TO POST MORE- Dad!Carmy brainrot for you all 😉🫶

— so I Imagine him getting a call in the middle of the night, you’re heavily pregnant with your third. His Apple Watch thankfully woke him (you’d be worried for him to get a call so late). He gets up without waking you going into the living room and answering to hear your teen daughters watery voice at the end of the line and she’s all “Daddy promise you won’t be mad at me” (more below)

He’s immediately grabbing his keys, putting on his shoes and brown plaid coat that he’s had longer than she’d been alive, or then he’d even been knowing you for that matter - his heart thumping in his chest and throat tightening. “Sweetheart why aren’t you home right now?! are you safe? Tell me wha’s wrong- what happened- I won’t be upset honey” he assured her, his stomach clenching at the thought of her hurt.

“P-paisley wanted me to go t’this party with her and - and the police came daddy and she left me there alone- and I got arrested. Come get me I don’t wanna die in hereeee” she sobbed dramatically. He sighed gratefully, starting the car.

“You aren’t going to die princess. Give me 20 minutes mm? And we can talk ‘bout y’punishment w’mommy t’morrow” he said and she huffs

“You’re gonna snitch on me T’mommy?! Daddy you’re being so unfair! “ she whined

He chuckled a bit, “I’m bein’ very fair. I love you babygirl I’ll s’ya soon” he said and hung up. He knew if he’d have woken you, you would have freaked out and panicked at the thought of your little girl drunk and scared and alone. Considering how far along you were currently the stress could most definitely cause early labor and he did not want to deal with that tonight.

He’d make it to the police station fast bc ofc when he was picking a home for his family it would be super close to one for safety reasons and when he walked in and saw his baby sitting in a holding cell with other adults being held on misdemeanor charges, his heart would break.

She would be curled into herself on the bench, knees flush to her chest hugging herself, cheeks tear stained, big blue doe-like eyes puffy and red with thick tears that were still falling. He wanted to pick her up like she was 2 again - even though the top of her head hit his shoulder now, and cradle her like the baby he couldn’t help but see any time he looked at her.

“Oh princess” he said softly and she looks up, quickly standing up and she couldn’t help but burst in to sobs as relief washed over her when she finally saw her dad, who had never let her down from the day she was born - he was always there for her, as were you, but Carmy was always softer on the kids then you were because his dad never showed any of his siblings softness, so he wanted to be sure the kids always trusted him in that way

“Daddy you came! I’m so scared please please I’ll never do it again please get me out of here dad I’m so sorry I’m so so sorry daddy” she broke down and he felt tears pushing at the back of his eyes he could only swallow back because they were in public.

“You- hey-“ he snaps his fingers and the cop standing outside the holding cell door finally acknowledges him “I’m her fuckin father- let ‘er out. Now.” He said annoyed with the man’s lack of attention for his own job.

“She’s unable to be released until her fine is paid” he said and shrugged “it’s the law”

Carmen dug the stupid reciept paper he’d shoved in his pocket that he’d paid the front clerk when he got here, pushing it to his chest “open the fucking door, jagoff. Shes 16 the fuck is wrong with you she’s a baby” he said angrier, voice getting louder.

“Sir I’m gonna need you to calm down.” He said and Carmen rolled his eyes, 2 words he hated hearing even more than anything when put together.

“Look at the fucking paper. And let my daughter go” he snapped, holding his baby’s hand through the bars gently and rubbing a soothing thumb over her knuckles, she was shaking like a leaf.

“Mmm” the man grumbled, opening up the door and she rushed into Carmen’s arms. He kisses the top of her head tenderly, wrapping her in a tight bear hug.

“Y’never allowed t’scare me like that again angel girl” he mumbled into her hair, breathing in her scent that he could pick out even in his sleep as his baby girl.

“I’m sorry daddy I’m so so sorry” she mumbled over and over, tears soaking his shirt. He hushed her how he did when she was just a baby and rubbed her back soothingly.

“S’okay babygirl I think y’learned y’lesson mm? Y’think you wanna go out drinkin again before y’21?” He teased lightly and she sniffled, shaking her head lightly. He didn’t care that she was getting snot all over him, or that she was staining one of his near $80 white shirts with her mascara and eyeliner she’d gotten with a Ulta gift card ‘Santa’ had gotten her, since Carmen couldn’t bare the fact his baby girl was growing up.

“No- no daddy I promise. I promise I’ll never do it ever again. Please don’t tell mommy” she pleads and looks up at him with big watery eyes. He carefully thumbed away the large rings of black under her eyes and cups her face tenderly.

“Sweetheart I am not in control of what mommy does. You know this, and I can’t lie to mommy. Are you asking me t’lie t’mommy? M’already riskin’ my spot in bed by not waking her up t’tell her ‘bout this” He asked sternly, she knew that lies were a big boundary in your family - they just hurt people unless they were ‘happy lies’ aka surprises like gifts or sweet things, but withholding information from each other in fear of making someone upset was a big no no in your house.

She huffed annoyed, lip quivering and she nuzzled back into his chest “unfair. Mommy is gonna ground me forever” she whined.

“Mm - maybe she should ground you. What the hell is this outfit? She’s not gonna be happy ‘bout this, y’gonna get sick” he tells her. She was in nothing but a tank top dress, flimsy nylons, and a half cardigan. He wraps his jacket around her shoulders as they walk out to the car, of course he couldn’t care less about freezing his ass off because his baby needed to be warm even if it was a short walk to his SUV.

“It’s cute dad and m’not gonna get sick! All the girls were wearing dresses like this!” She snapped sassily as she buckled in.

“Mm cute - sure pumpkin. What were you even doin’ - what party was worth the rage of y’mother? Especially when you know she’s been in a mood lately” he asked. A mood was what he called it, you were really just overly hormonal and sore and giving birth within the next 14 days, so everything was ticking you off

“Hally Hawkins party dad. Only the coolest senior at school!! If I was the only one who wasn’t there how was I supposed to ever find a date to the winter ball next month?!” She huffed, crossing her arms

“Date?!” His eyes widen “since when did we say you could date?!” He asked quickly “you aren’t dating you- you can’t date until you’re married!” He said seriously to which she just giggled

“How am I supposed to get married if I don’t date daddy! I’m 16 now! I’m getting my license soon! I should be able to hold hands with a boy I like-“

“Hold hands?!” He exclaims “who the hell is holdin’ y’hand? No- no. No! I’m the only man that holds y’hand and it’s to help you across the street” he grips the steering wheel tighter “y’too little” he said and she whines

“Daddy I’m not little! I’m 16! You promised to stop calling me little” she pushes his hand away at a stoplight when he goes to fix the strap of her dress out of habit “daaaad!!!” She whines and he huffs

“Quit all the whinin’! Y’little as long as y’live w’me and that means that y’not dating and y’not holding hands” he pulls into your driveway, turning the lights off before as to not wake you. “And quiet comin inside- if you wake y’sister mommy is gonna be upset she’s been havin’ a hard time sleepin’ “ he opened her door, taking her purse and helping her out of the car.

“Is this mommy’s?” He holds up the purse and she takes it from him, holding it to her chest defensively.

“She never wears it anymore what- are you gonna snitch?! If you do I’ll tell her about you eating all her ice cream” she teased and headed to the door

He gasped, “you wouldn’t dare- you’d sell out y’own father?! After he just went and picked y’ass up outta the slammer. Maybe I shoulda let you stay there eh’? A night in jail may teach you some manners missy” he jokes as he unlocks the door, not seeing the kitchen light on.

“Where were you!” You were stood at the end of the hallway, fluffy robe and slippers on, hand over your bump as you stood there while nervously pacing. Carmy and your Daughter give eachother the we’ve been caught look before Carmy looks at you, as you narrow your eyes at your daughters arm adorning a very familiar looking black bag.

“Is that- red lipstick…and my purse?!”

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laswells-ashtray · 1 month ago

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Lmaooo can we get THIS interaction?

Fuck yeahhhhh, I wasn't sure anyone would think twice about that little tidbit. Also sorry for taking ages to respond to this.

"Kate- Kate, fucking calm down. Christ, don't you fucking- Kate."

He grabs the other omega by her shoulders, holding her in place in an attempt to stop her from sending an e-mail that details how she thinks a certain bald-headed man should gargle a dildo made out of razor blades.

Shepherd had sent her out onto the field last minute with barely enough time to warn Sarah and then promptly hung up before she could protest. Even a passing-by alpha had stepped back after hearing the string of utterly vile curses and threats Kate had let out. So, John was on impulse control duty.

"Kate, take a second and breathe before you end both of our careers. Please."

Nikolai was watching from a distance. For a split second, he suggested that Kate calm down, and the omega had thrown her phone off of his head. Luckily, the phone wasn't broken. Nikolai however? He was less important in these circumstances.

"Take your breathing and stick it up your ass, John. I fucking missed it last year and Sarah was less than happy and he pulls this shit? Last fucking minute? We had an entire fucking day planned. That stupid, haircut like a shaved pussy, patriotic prick." She snaps back at him, pushing herself forward and promptly knocking his ass back a few steps. She was a lot stronger than most people would've expected, John knew better. He'd swung a pillow at her once while they were drunk and he still saw the little scar above his left eyebrow whenever he looked in the mirror.

"Sarah will forgive you, it's not something you can help and she knows that. It's not like you're doing it on purpose." He's holding his hands out like you do when trying not to scare a stray cat and he's unsure if it's working.

"No, you don't- Fucking- Fuck. Sarah was going to ask me to renew our vows."

Oh shit.

His face falls, as do his stray cat hands as he rests his hand on her shoulder yet again with a far more comforting grip.

"I wasn't supposed to know but her sister slipped up and mentioned it at Easter, it's why she was so insisted that I be home and I swore I would. I fucking promised, John."

He's never seen Kate look so guilty in his life and it makes him far angrier at Shepherd, he would hunt the man down and put a bullet between his eyes at that very moment if it weren't for the look on Kate's face.

He pulls her close to his chest, letting the other omega rest her head on his shoulder as she mutters frustratedly under her breath and thinks. And then he makes possibly the most stupid decision of his life.

"Fuck."

He dislocates Kate's thumb.

"Hmm, shite. Looks like you're injured, Watcher, Doesn't seem suitable for the field. I suppose you'll have to go home and Ghost will be so forced to do overwatch." He says dramatically, looking at her thumb with an utterly Shakespearean act of concern.

He watches for the exact moment Kate stops thinking about kneeing him in the balls and instead, a look of realisation washes over her face.

"John, I can't-"

"You see this, lads? Oh, it's a career ender for sure."

The other four men don't even try to pretend that they hadn't been listening in, much to John's amusement.

"Oh, how will she survive?" Ghost comments dryly.

"Christ, Laswell. Ye need an ambulance for that?" Soap cuts in, barely hiding his amusement.

Gaz steps forward with an utterly comedic look of shock. "Someone find some morphine, she looks about ready to drop."

Nikolai doesn't but in, instead he offers her the phone she'd tossed at him back.

He looks down at the other omega, nodding back to the direction that had come from before abruptly stopping. "Go home, Kate. Don't go upsetting the missus." His tone is non-negotiable.

Kate stands for a second with a blank face, he can see the cogs turning in her head before eventually, she lands on what to do. "Think I can still get back in time."

#captain john price #john price #laswells wife #laswell cod #kate laswell #cod nikolai #nikprice #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #general shepherd #kate laswells wife

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danikamariewrites · 9 months ago

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Hi! I’m in LOVE with your blog! Would you be able to write something with nessian x reader where the reader has just an awful no good day/week and maybe something small sets her off and they comfort her and calm her down? I have had a very bad week and I had a whole breakdown over dropping a pen lol and I wish they had been there to comfort me. Anyways, I hope you have an amazing day!!!

Just A Bad Day

Nessian x reader

a/n: They would be so sweet and caring, especially Cass my fav gentle giant☺️ also I’m so sorry this feels very boring/typical. I might take a break for a few days bc this slump is killing me.

warnings: slight angst

Slamming the front door an angry sigh escapes your lips. You head staright to your personal bedroom wanting space from your mates. If you saw anyone right now you might yell at them.

Not even bothering to take your boots off you flop on the bed face down. Grabbing your pillow you stuff your face into the feathery soft fabric letting out a blood curdling scream.

You screamed and screamed and screamed until there was no air left in your lungs. Until your throat burned. Throwing the pillow as hard as you could against the headboard you flop back down on the bed.

Why are people so difficult to deal with? Today made you never want to speak with the governors or the general public ever again. You don't know if you just weren't communicating properly or what. But everyone was stupid and deserves to have a bad day. Not you.

After an hour of laying in bed you decided your throat was tortured enough and that cold water was necessary. Making your way down the stairs Nesta and Cassian's mixed scents hit you. It didn't calm you or anger you. You felt nothing but the exhaustion slowly creeping into your bones.

Another sigh leaves your lips as you open the cup cabinet. Frowning, you realize the glass you want is on a higher than usual self. Not feeling like asking Cassian to get it for you you strech up on your tip toes, grasping at the edge of the shelf. As your mind wandered to Cassian's usual teasing remarks about your height you get angrier.

The glass was just out of reach. Just a hair's breadth away from your finger tip. Your nail finally catches on the glass, bringing it forward. You finally grasp it with between your fingers and pull it down.

The glass slips from between your pointer finger and thumb. Your other hand reacts thanks to your fae reflexes, landing safely in your palm. You turn on your heel a little too quickly, sending the glass flying out of your grasp. It hits the wall shattering far too loudly.

Your hands go to cover your ears instantly. Tears pricking your eyes. You try to tune out the muffled sounds of Cassian and Nesta’s worried voices followed by their footsteps. Your face quickly contorted in anger. Angry at yourself. At the fucking glass. At your mates.

Your fingers tug at your hair in frustration. Your eyes are so clouded by tears you don’t even see Cassian in front of you. He gently takes your hands in his large ones. Slightly pressing his thumbs into your palms to lessen the death grip on the roots of your hair.

“Hey,” he coos, “what’s going on sweet pea?” You don’t look at him. Keeping your eyes down so you don’t break at the look of pity on their faces. Nesta hooks a finger under your chin, pulling your face up to look at them. The sad frowns on their lips broke you. The last thing you wanted to do today was upset or disappoint your mates.

Nesta took in a sharp breath at the projection of your feelings through the bond. “Oh, sweetheart. We’re not upset with you at all.” She wraps her arms tightly around your shoulders, swaying you gently. At Nesta’s loving embrace you break down. Sobs shaking your body.

Cassian smoothed your hair talking you through your tears. “I’m sorry.” You choked out repeatedly through your sobs. After hearing enough Cassian pulls you into his arms to carry you upstairs. Sitting you in his lap you continue to cry into his chest.

Nesta finally joins she has the glass of ice water you’ve been dying for. Just like Cassian taught her Nesta began massaging the pressure point on the back of your neck. She wanted to do everything to prevent your eventual headache.

When your tears finally stopped you took deep shaky breaths. They were coming too fast making the simple task difficult. Cassian laid you flat on the sheets to give you space. “Slow down, y/n. In for five and out for five.” He began to breathe with you until you finally calmed down. “Thank you,” you whisper.

You grabbed their hands so they can hold you up. Nesta hands you the water which you immediately gulp down. The cool liquid soothing your throat. Once it was empty Nesta took it from your hand. You lean into Cassian, resting your hand against his chest. Your fingers toy with the old fabric of his shirt to ground you.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Nesta coos. You shake your head mumbling, “Just a bad day.” “Do you want to talk about it?” You sniffle and shake your head. “No. That cry was good enough, honestly.” A short humorless laugh escapes your lips. Cassian kisses the top of your head letting out a small hum in answer. “Let’s get you some dinner and relax, yeah?” You nod again. Cassian lifts you again, carrying you downstairs.

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clean-bands-dirty-stories · 1 year ago

Text

Rough Waters ~ P.P.

A/n: Added a little bit more than what the request asked for. Hope you like it!

Request: “Tasm!peter x male reader, where Pete and reader been having a rough time in their relationship to where Peter asks if reader wants to break up” by anon

Word Count: 1700+

MASTERLIST

"Where have you been?"

Peter frozen, mask in hand as he heard his partner's voice. He turned slowly - like a teenager caught coming home past curfew. He hesitated, analyzing their expression and body language to try to grasp whether they were anxious or angry. What time was it? He was in costume - they knew exactly where he'd been, which meant the problem was something else. Had he forgotten an anniversary or birthday? A performance? Had he stayed out too late and forgotten to message his boyfriend?

There were too many possibilties.

Y/n was especially hard to read tonight, which meant he was even more upset than usual. Peter braced himself. "Out."

That was not the right thing to say. Y/n's face turned a light shade of red as he tried very hard to keep calm and talk slowly. Calmly. "Okay. I'll give you that one." His eyes dropped to Peter's suit and for a second the most visceral rage crossed his face, before he smoothed it out again and met Peter's eyes. "I'm assuming you forgot then."

Peter shrugged, defensive. Always defensive. "I've got a lot going on Y/n, I forget."

"You forget," Y/n scoffed. The words curled from his lips like they were almost laughable, almost offensive. "I know you forget Peter. You forget, a lot."

He swallowed, wringing his mask. He felt cornered and he never responded well when he felt cornered. "What did I forget? Don't just leave it up in the air."

The calm coming from Peter seemed to make Y/n angrier. "No. I'm not going to remember everything for you. And don't you dare-" He rushed as Peter went to argue again, cutting him off before he could. "-start with me about how busy you are. I know you are busy Peter Benjamin." Ooh, middle name. This was very bad then. "If it was something I at least cared about I'd let it slide. I'm more than used to that. But May?"

His words hurt, but nothing knocked the breath out of his lungs like thinking he'd let May down. "What? Y/n you can't hold this from me, what did I forget?"

Y/n scoffed, turning away and heading further into the apartment. He seemed done with the conversation.

Peter wasn't though. He chased his boyfriend, his own anger growing. This wasn't something they could work through together - May was waiting for something from him. Y/n was holding him back from doing something for his aunt. This wasn't a small thing - this was huge. May didn't know Peter was Spider-Man. Had Y/n given him an excuse again? Was she okay? "Y/n-" He reached out, grabbing his boyfriend's arm in a desperate attempt to get him to stop.

Usually Y/n would pull away from him, spin around and start going off. Reprimand him and tell him everything and then they'd argue and after a while maybe cry and then they'd hold each other because it felt like their relationship was falling through their fingers. They did it every time anything went wrong - it was habit. Easy to play out. Every step was expected. Pre-written.

Except Y/n just stopped walking away. He froze, feet together, still looking away from Peter. It was so unexpected, so cold and far away, that it made Peter panic more than he'd ever panicked in their relationship before. He was stiff solid for a beat before he was falling forward, feet tripping to keep up as he made his way around Y/n. The man's eyes were blank. Empty. There was no anger on his face anymore, just... emptiness. He look exhausted.

"Y/n-" Peter began.

"It was May's birthday."

There was a long silence. It went on maybe even too long as Peter's will to fight suddenly left him. It was immediately gone - like a light switch turned off. He had been forgetful recently, scattered and distant. But.. surely he wouldn't forget that. Not something so important. He'd always rushed to keep himself busy. Work, Spider-Man, relationship. Or... arguing. Fighting. Had that really been every part of his life recently? Sure he did other things -

But, no. He couldn't think of a single other thing he'd done. Sleep, eat, shower, brush teeth, work, Spider-Man, come home and argue. When had arguing become part of the routine? When had the days started to blend together, every single one identical to the last? How had so much time passed without him even realizing it?

How long had they been like this?

He looked at Y/n, a horrible feeling sinking in his skin, settling in his rib cage. An ache. "We're not working anymore, are we?" He knew why Y/n didn't fight this time. Why he'd given up. There was nothing to fight for. Not when all they did was argue.

Y/n didn't even sigh, or shrug. He just sat on the bed. No hands through his hair. He didn't seem angry of frustrated or even sad. Just tired. It was more of an answer than he could have ever given with words. "We haven't worked for a very long time, Peter."

Peter sat on the other side of the bed, mask still in his hands, dangling between his legs. They sat like that for a very long time, backs to each other. It seemed silly, but he had to ask it out loud. "Do you want to break up?" His voice sounded heavy, hollow. It didn't even shock him. He realized it still hurt... but he'd seen this coming for a long time. That was why he was avoiding it, after all. He didn't want to address it. He had always been one to bury his head and pretend nothing was wrong.

This time Y/n did sigh. "Yeah." No argument. No fight. Just one, single word. It was so final, Peter didn't say anything else. He didn't even look up as the weight on the bed lifted and a few sounds here and there began to be made. A zipper, drawers opening and closing, a few doors opening and closing. Until - "You were worth it. In the end. I'm glad we got the time we did." A pause and then, "Peter?" When he didn't say anything, Y/n went silent. Then the bedroom door closed, and the apartment door opened, and then closed again.

The rest of the night was silent.

The daycare was loud. Peter was only here because May had asked him for a favor. Her neighbor had been caught up with something and needed someone to pick up her son. The first time had been a few months ago, and he had volunteered to pick the kid up for her as often as he could since then. It helped her out and... and...

Y/n was helping Michael - the child Peter was supposed to pick up - with his jacket. Y/n had kneeled down, and was laughing at some story Michael was telling. He looked breathtaking. All the weight from his shoulders gone, seeming to have slept very well. Brighter than before. He looked up when Peter approached, and not a lick of recognition was in his eyes. Peter thought back to the other world, with the two other Peters and the villains they'd fought together. The spell that would send everyone home and make everyone forget about Peter Parker.

Everyone.

He swallowed, forcing himself to collect himself. Y/n's eyes light up in the way they always did when he was looking at something he found wonderful. Or someone attractive. They'd seen each other from a distance so often. Y/n was usually busy with one of the other kids who favored him, a little girl with green eyes that always begged him to help her get her shoes on. Today she was with one of the other teachers though. Peter tried to dismiss the thought that Y/n might have arranged this on purpose.

"Hey little dude," he greeted Michael first, grinning as the toddler waddled up to him, hands reaching up. Peter scooped him up. Michael launched into a story about play time where they'd pretended to be Spider-Man. Peter felt his heart warm. He'd only been back from the other world for a year - and undoing his tarnished reputation had been hard work. But some people saw the old Spider-Man, and they were slowly opening up to him again. Glad to see him doing better. Some people didn't - but some people never would have in the first place, so he didn't hold it against himself too harshly.

In the middle of the story, Y/n chuckled. "Right?" Michael asked the teacher, as if remembering he was there for the first time. "You got the bad guy!"

Y/n blushed. The way Michael had been telling the story, Peter had assumed the boy had been playing Spider-Man. But, in that moment, it clicked that Y/n had been playing the hero, leaving the mischievous villain to the youth. "Spider-Man always gets the bad guy. That's what heroes do." Peter's breath caught. he hadn't heard Y/n call him a hero in a very long time. His unknowing ex looked over, suddenly sheepish "Sorry, I know- um- not a lot of people approve of Spider-Man. I didn't mean to-"

"It's okay," Peter was quick to reassure. "His mom is a fan of Spider-Man. But even if she wasn't, I wouldn't rat you out." He winked, as if they were conspirators, and he watched Y/n's face turn red. It was so easy to pick up on all their little hints and expressions - they were still so familiar to him. He hadn't forgotten a single detail of them, even after all this time. He had gone to another world, cleaned up his act, and even started therapy.

Maybe a second chance wouldn't be too out of the question. He could do it better this time.

"A trust worthy guy," Y/n mused. "Does he keep his promises?"

Peter thought on it. Y/n had said something similar the first time he had flirted with Peter too. He'd follow it up with, 'maybe you can promise me dinner then?' or something. But it was a real question - one Peter hadn't taken seriously enough the first time it was asked. "I try to."

Y/n's face light up with a smile. "Maybe you could promise we a coffee and if you succeed keeping that one, we can make a few more after that."

It was better than last time, so quickly on a better foot already. Peter smiled. "Yeah. I'd love that."

Y/n had been right the night he'd left. Peter was glad they'd met, and their love was worth all of the mess they'd gone through to experience it. This time, Peter would try harder though. This time it would work. He was sure of it.

Male Readers: @ravenpuff-oli @sortzz @fadedver

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