#morning supplication

[vclko]

🌿☀️اذكار الصباح ☀️🌿 ☀️🌿 morning zikr☀️🌿

أَصْبَحْنَا وَأَصْبَحَ الْمُلْكُ لِلَّهِ رَبِّ الْعَالَمِينَ، اللَّهُمَّ إِنِّـي أَسْأَلُكَ خَـيْرَ هَذَا الْـيَوْمِ ، فَتْحَهُ، وَنَصْرَهُ، وَنُورَهُ وَبَرَكَتَهُ، وَهُدَاهُ، وَأَعُوذُ بِكَ مِنْ شَرِّ مَا فِيهِ وَشَرِّ مَا بَعْدَهُ.

We have reached the morning and at this very time all sovereignty belongs to Allah, Lord of the worlds. O Allah, I ask You for the good of this day, its triumphs and its victories, its light and its blessings and its guidance, and I take refuge in You from the evil of this day and the evil that follows it.

اللَّهُمَّ عَالِمَ الْغَيْبِ وَالشَّهَادَةِ فَاطِرَ السَّماوَاتِ وَالْأَرْضِ، رَبَّ كُلِّ شَيْءٍ وَمَل��يكَهُ، أَشْهَدُ أَنْ لَا إِلَهَ إِلَّا أَنْتَ، أَعُوذُ بِكَ مِنْ شَرِّ نَفْسِي، وَمِنْ شَرِّ الشَّيْطَانِ وَشِرْكِهِ، وَأَنْ أَقْتَرِفَ عَلَى نَفْسِي سُوءاً أَوْ أَجُرَّهُ إِلَى مُسْلِمٍ.

O Allah, Knower of the unseen and the seen, Creator of the heavens and the Earth, Lord and Sovereign of all things, I bear witness that none has the right to be worshipped except You. I take refuge in You from the evil of my soul and from the evil and shirk of the devil, and from committing wrong against my soul or bringing such upon another Muslim.

اللَّهُمَّ إِنِّي أَسْأَلُكَ الْعَفْوَ وَالْعَافِيَةَ فِي الدُّنْيَا وَالْآخِرَةِ، اللَّهُمَّ إِنِّي أَسْأَلُكَ الْعَفْوَ وَالْعَافِيَةَ فِي دِينِي، وَدُنْيَايَ، وَأَهْلِي، وَمَالِي، اللَّهُمَّ اسْتُرْ عَوْرَاتِي، وَآمِنْ رَوْعَاتِي، اللَّهُمَّ احْفَظْنِي مِنْ بَيْنِ يَدَيَّ، وَمِنْ خَلْفِي، وَعَنْ يَمِينِي، وَعَنْ شِمَالِي، وَمِنْ فَوْقِي، وَأَعُوذُ بِعَظَمَتِكَ أَنْ أُغْتَالَ مِنْ تَحْتِيَ.

O Allah, I ask You for pardon and well-being in this life and the next. O Allah, I ask You for pardon and well-being in my religious and worldly affairs, and my family and my wealth. O Allah, veil my weaknesses and set at ease my dismay. O Allah, preserve me from the front and from behind and on my right and on my left and from above, and I take refuge with You lest I be swallowed up by the earth.

حَسْبِيَ اللَّهُ لَآ إِلَهَ إِلَّا هُوَ عَلَيْهِ تَوَكَّلْتُ وَهُوَ رَبُّ الْعَرْشِ الْعَظِيمِ

Allah is Sufficient for me, none has the right to be worshipped except Him, upon Him I rely and He is Lord of the exalted throne. (seven times morning and evening

أَعُوذُ بِكَلِمَاتِ اللَّهِ التَّامَّاتِ مِنْ شَرِّ مَا خَلَقَ

I take refuge in Allah’s perfect words from the evil He has created. (three times in the evening)

اللَّهُمَّ عَافِـني فِي بَدَنِي، اللَّهُمَّ عَافِـنِي فِي سَمْعِي، اللَّهُمَّ عَافِنِي فِي بَصَرِي، لَا إِلَهَ إلاَّ أَنْتَ.(ثلاثاً) اللَّهُمَّ إِنِّي أَعُوذُبِكَ مِنَ الْكُفْر، وَالفَقْرِ، وَأَعُوذُبِكَ مِنْ عَذَابِ الْقَبْرِ ، لَا إلَهَ إلاَّ أَنْتَ

O Allah, grant my body health, O Allah, grant my hearing health, O Allah, grant my sight health. None has the right to be worshipped except You.(three times) O Allah, I take refuge with You from disbelief and poverty, and I take refuge with You from the punishment of the grave. None has the right to be worshipped except You. (three times)

اللَّهُمَّ مَا أَصْبَحَ بِي مِنْ نِعْمَةٍ أَوْ بِأَحَدٍ مِنْ خَلْقِكَ فَمِنْكَ وَحْدَكَ لَا شَرِيكَ لَكَ، فَلَكَ الْحَمْدُ وَلَكَ الشُّكْرُ

O Allah, what blessing I or any of Your creation have risen upon, is from You alone, without partner, so for You is all praise and unto You all thanks

اللَّهُمَّ إِنِّي أَصْبَحْتُ أُشْهِدُكَ وَأُشْهِدُ حَمَلَةَ عَرْشِكَ، وَمَلَائِكَتَكَ وَجَمِيعَ خَلْقِكَ، أَنَّكَ أَنْتَ اللَّهُ لَا إِلَهَ إِلَّا أَنْتَ وَحْدَكَ لَا شَرِيكَ لَكَ، وَأَنَّ مُحَمَّداً عَبْدُكَ وَرَسُولُكَ

O Allah, verily I have reached the morning and call on You, the bearers of Your throne, Your angles, and all of Your creation to witness that You are Allah, none has the right to be worshipped except You, alone, without partner and that Muhammad is Your Servant and Messenger. (four times).

[authorafterhours]

I just want Will Graham to have a good night's sleep, to never be hungry, and to be worshipped. Is that too much to ask?

[restorationofthetentofdavid]

MORNING DEVOTION AND PRAYERS. PROVERBS CHAPTER 16. PART 3 - INTERSESSION

1 Timothy 2:1-4 (ESV) First of all, then, I urge that supplications, prayers, intercessions, and thanksgivings be made for all people, for kings and all who are in high positions, that we may lead a peaceful and quiet life, godly and dignified in every way. This is good, and it is pleasing in the sight of God our Savior, who desires all people to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the…

[kalisbaby]

“From the River to the Sea.” A Poem by Samer Abu Hawwash, translated by Huda Fakhreddine

every street, every house, every room, every window, every balcony, every wall, every stone, every sorrow, every word, every letter, every whisper, every touch, every glance, every kiss, every tree, every spear of grass, every tear, every scream, every air, every hope, every supplication, every secret, every well, every prayer, every song, every ballad, every book, every paper, every color, every ray, every cloud, every rain, every drop of rain, every drip of sweat, every lisp, every stutter, every yamma, mother, every yaba, father, every shadow, every light, every little hand that drew in a little notebook a tree or house or heart or a family of a father, a mother, siblings, and pets, every longing, every possibility, every letter between two lovers that arrived or didn’t arrive, every gasp of love dispersed in the distant clouds, every moment of despair at every turn, every suitcase on top of

every closet, every library, every shelf, every minaret, every rug, every bell toll in every church, every rosary, every holy praise, every arrival, every goodbye, every Good Morning, every Thank God, every ‘ala rasi, my pleasure, every hill ‘an sama’i, leave me alone, every rock, every wave, every grain of sand, every hair-do, every mirror, every glance in every mirror, every cat, every meow, every happy donkey, every sad donkey’s gaze, every pot, every vapor rising from every pot, every scent, every bowl, every school queue, every school shoes, every ring of the bell, every blackboard, every piece of chalk, every school costume, every mabruk ma ijakum, congratulations on the baby, every y ‘awid bi-salamtak, condolences, every ‘ayn al- ḥasud tibla bil-‘ama, may the envious be blinded, every photograph, every person in every photograph, every niyyalak, how lucky, every ishta’nalak, we’ve missed you, every grain of wheat in every bird’s gullet, every lock of hair, every hair knot, every hand, every foot, every football, every finger, every nail, every bicycle, every rider on every bicycle, every turn of air fanning from every bicycle, every bad joke, every mean joke, every laugh, every smile, every curse, every yearning, every fight, every sitti, grandma, every

sidi, grandpa, every meadow, every flower, every tree, every grove, every olive, every orange, every plastic rose covered with dust on an abandoned counter, every portrait of a martyr hanging on a wall since forever, every gravestone, every sura, every verse, every hymn, every ḥajj mabrur wa sa ‘yy mashkur, may your ḥajj and effort be rewarded, every yalla tnam yalla tnam, every lullaby, every red teddy bear on every Valentine’s, every clothesline, every hot skirt, every joyful dress, every torn trousers, every days-spun sweater, every button, every nail, every song, every ballad, every mirror, every peg, every bench, every shelf, every dream, every illusion, every hope, every disappointment, every hand holding another hand, every hand alone, every scattered thought, every beautiful thought, every terrifying thought, every whisper, every touch, every street, every house, every room, every balcony, every eye, every tear, every word, every letter, every name, every voice, every name, every house, every name, every face, every name, every cloud, every name, every rose, every name, every spear of grass, every name, every wave, every grain of sand, every street, every kiss, every image, every eye, every tear, every yamma, every yaba, every name, every name, every name, every name, every name, every name, every name, every name, all…

[ienjoywritingfilth]

a sinner i am part ii

You should regret what you did. . . so why don't you?

trope: Boyfriend's Dad PP character: Joel Miller x f reader / Shawn Miller x f reader chapter summary: It's the day after your encounter with Joel you should both regret what you did, right?

series masterlist

you wanted more of this story so i'm gonna give it to you!!!!!!!!!! i have a whole story plotted so i hope you stick around and reblog and review and all that good shit. - IEWF

warning: 10/10 on the sexual tension scale, fantasy oral, lotsa guilt, public masturbation, male masturbation, cheating on your bf (but it’s cool, cuz its with Joel and everything is fictional in this universe), alternative universe b/c daddy miller stays alive and hates golf and he has a son named Shawn, no Sarah. rating: E

words 6.3k

taglist: @lady-viscera | @cjdign | @fuckthatbazinga | @liciafonseca | @stevie75 | @joelalorian | @oldenoughtoknowbettersstuff | @akah565 | @dontknow446 | @pedritosgfreal | @yesjazzywazzylove-blog | @untamedheart81 | @ashleyfilm | @sptbear | @elegantduckturtle | @noneofmyshipsarereal | @blahkateisdone | @hisandsnakes | @wintersquirrel | @shivkillian | @sheepdogchick3 | @moel-jiller | @cuteanimalmama | @gossipgirl-03 | @cowboymarcs | @tahi2006 | @guelyury | @churchofjoemiller | @r3dheadedwitch | @tutarrads | @galway-girlatwork | @supertoga

part ii:  fun in the sun

I am good, but not an angel. I do sin, but I am not the devil. I am just a small girl in a big world trying to find someone to love. - Marilyn Monroe

You lay in bed the next morning, eyes on the ceiling and a deep ache in your stomach. You glance to your left, looking at the sleeping form of Shawn, his thick hair falling onto his cheek as he inhales and exhales slowly. The light hits his golden skin, making him glow. His sharp nose leads into his pouty mouth, always so soft against yours. 

He looks so much like Joel.

Is this what Joel looked like at this age?

You feel bile rise up in your throat as the thought skitters across your mind like a beetle. You throw yourself out of bed, rushing into the bathroom. You tug the door open on your side, making it to the sink in just enough time to vomit.

As you continue regurgitating last nights kaleidoscope of alcohol you hear the door creak and the visage of Shawn appears in the mirror, coming up behind you with a concerned look on his face.

“You okay, babe?” he asks, coming to pull your hair back from your face into a loose ponytail as you spit.

“Too much to drink at dinner I think,” you offer between gags.

“Let’s hop in the shower,” he says, pressing a chaste kiss to your shoulder when you’re finished brushing your teeth minutes later.

The two of you undress and you welcome the water that coats you. You imagine it washing the sins of last night from your body. Shawn washes your hair tenderly, making sure to scrub at your scalp how you like. You soap up everywhere, as well as his body. He’s hard when you get to his cock, his mouth in a sultry smile.

“We just got clean, but I think I wanna get dirty,” he grins.

“I just puked,” you say, trying not to look disgusted.

“Don’t need your mouth,” Shawn says with a playful grin as he kneels in front of you. He kisses your lower abdomen softly, his eyes trained on your face. You gaze at him there, supplicant and sweet and guilt washes over you.

“No, its okay,” you say shooting him a wobbly smile. “I’m still not feeling great.”

“Is this because of last night?” Shawn asks, concern on his features when he pulls himself to stand. “I’m sorry, I just wasn’t in the mood.”

“No, it’s not that at all, I promise.” You swallow a lump in your throat. “I was just being a bitch last night, because I drank too much. Forget anything I said, I’m so glad I’m here with you.”

The water sluices over the two of you as you hug him to you, your eyes shut tightly. He hugs you back, murmuring that you’re not a bitch, that he loves you, and that you’re both going to have such a fun time. The entire time all you can focus on is how his body feels slighter, softer than his fathers.

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

The two of you exit a short while later hand-in-hand. You’re wearing your denim shorts and a cute t-shirt over your new bikini. Shawn is dressed in the cut offs and blue Hawaiian shirt you bought him the week before as a pre-gift.  

You hold your breath when you step around the corner into the kitchen and see Joel standing there in shorts and a similar shirt to Shawn’s but in burgundy. He’s working on making an espresso with the machine; his head rising when he sees you two enter.

“Mornin’ lovebirds,” Joel offers in a sleepy, morning voice.

That voice has your thighs clenching together as you remember his moan in your ear from last night. What the fuck is wrong with you? How could you think those things about a man twenty years older than you? Your boyfriends father?

You can’t even look at him. You just look at the refrigerator over his shoulder.

“Mornin’, let’s get some breakfast,” Shawn suggests. “I’m starvin’.”

“You two go on,” Joel says plastering a smile on his face. “I’m a little slower this mornin’. Musta drank too much last night.”

“You and this one,” Shawn says slinging an arm around your neck and tugging playfully. “Don’t know how to handle your liquor.”

You and Joel laugh uncomfortably. A buzzing sounds and Joel pulls his cell from his pocket.

“S’Tess,” Joel says reading the number. “Gimme a sec.”

Joel moves past the two of you to head outside. You feel his shoulder brush yours and you stiffen but he doesn’t seem to notice. You watch him raise it to his ear as he steps into the sunlight, a handsome smile crossing his face. You look over at Shawn. 

“Tess?”

“My dad’s girlfriend,” Shawn says after he swallows a sip of his dad’s coffee.

“Oh right,” you nod. “You mentioned that.”

That’s right. If this secret gets out it’s not just your relationship that will be blown up, but Joel’s as well. You feel a little more relaxed at that, knowing that it’s not just your life on the line so to speak.

You sneak another glance at Joel as Shawn finishes off his dad’s drink. Joel’s hair is beach and curled in parts, woven with silver streaks. His neck is long, his hands large and his biceps curl lusciously as he holds the phone to his ear.

His voice is muffled through the closed door, but you can still hear snatches of it, low and deep and rumbling. You exhale shakily, trying to muffle it behind getting a glass of water. But your eyes remain on Joel as Shawn, oblivious to everything, pulls out his phone to check out something on his fantasy football WhatsApp group. 

As if he can feel you looking at him through the glass window of the door, Joel’s eyes cast in your direction. You quickly spin, feeling your heart pound. You hear the squeak of the door opening and you see Shawn smile at his dad.

“How’s Tess?”

“Good,” Joel says, quickly darting a look at you before looking back at his son. “She was just lettin’ me know that her flight gets in around eight tomorrow morning.”

“Good,” Shawn says. “Are we still plannin’ on bookin’ some excursions today? Wanna get to the desk before everything gets filled up.”

The three of you walk along the stone pathway that leads to the main resort. Women in large sunhats and men in ball caps with lobster red sunburns wish you a good morning. Staff in blue polo shirts embroidered with the resorts logo tell you to have a wonderful day.

The sun beats down from above, coating your shoulders in delicious, warm rays. You tilt your head back a bit, letting it touch your face. You want to enjoy your time here, despite everything that happened last night.

“Just gotta stop at the washroom,” Shawn says with a guilty look as you all walk into the air-conditioned resort lobby. “Dad’s espresso isn’t exactly sitting well.”

“You can’t handle my caffeine level, son,” Joel says with a grin. “Still just an amateur.”

Shawn rolls his eyes and moves through the crowd of chattering people to hit the washroom. You watch him leave, suddenly very aware that it’s just you and Joel standing there by the planters alone.

“S’a real gorgeous day,” Joel offers after a beat.

“Mhmmm. I can’t wait to go swimming.”

The two of you fall into an uneasy silence and you hold in the urge to cry. Joel has always been a safe, comfortable person to be around. This new withdrawn man that stands so stiffly beside you is like a stranger. You twist your fingers together anxiously, wishing Shawn would hurry the fuck up.

Joel clears his throat.

“I gotta say one thing and then we’re never talkin’ about it again.”

You feel your eyes widen at his words. You crane your neck over your shoulder to make sure you have privacy before turning back to face Joel. The man who is normally so cool and casual looks like a wind up toy on cocaine. He’s jittery and nervous looking.

“I just need to make somethin’ real clear, somethin’ that’s been botherin’ me since last night,” Joel says, licking his lips nervously. “You gotta know I never saw you like that or had feelings like that. All those times you were in my house over the years, I never thought about you like that. Ever. Not just because you’re my son’s girlfriend, but because you were so young. And that’s not my type, I mean, I don’t like younger women.”

It comes out of him in an awkward mess of tripping over his words and wincing. You can’t say that you’ve ever seen Joel with women even close to your age. The youngest maybe in her late thirties.

You never even considered that Joel could have been attracted to you until last night. He wasn’t a lecherous older man leering at you during family dinners or hugging you too long. He’d always kept a respectable distance, always made sure he looked at you with respect. When you dressed up to go out with Shawn for special dates the most he said was that you looked elegant.

Joel still looks agitated. When he takes your hand in his it’s firm, like a handshake.

“And I’m sorry I took advantage of you. I never shoulda let it get that far, even if I was a little tipsy.”

Surprised, you blink up at him. Joel thinks he took advantage of you? It’s almost laughable. You were the one who initiated everything.

“You didn’t take advantage of me, Joel,” you assure him, feeling sympathy vibrating against your bones. “I wanted to do it. It felt good to do it.”

Joel’s eyes sweep your face, concern and something else in them. You wonder if you should have not said the part about it feeling good.

“I hope we can go back to how things were before,” he says.  “I like how you and Shawn are together, you’re a good couple. I don’t want a stupid mistake to fuck it all up.”

You feel a relieved smile slide over your lips. Yes, that’s exactly what you want.

“Me too.”

 Joel smiles relieved at you, his eyes taking on that familiar chocolate brown warmth. Joel’s hand drops yours.

“He’s comin’ back,” Joel says quickly. “We’re never talkin’ about this again. Ever.”

“Okay,” you reply quietly, feeling chastised by his tone of voice.

Shawn comes up to you both and slips his arm around your waist, pulling you close. You smile up at him.

“Let’s go book some fun shit!”

After a breakfast in the resort dining room and a stop at the excursion desk your week of Hawaiian paradise is loosely mapped out.  Guided hikes, snorkelling, Dole plantation, museums, a luau on your last night. Most days have at least one activity and you’re looking forward to most.

But you left off the turtle swimming. You felt embarrassed about it after Shawn’s reaction yesterday.

Besides, you could use the money you saved for it on other things like souvenirs for your brother and parents. They’re all together this Christmas back in your hometown, sad to miss you but excited for you to have an adventure.

‘You work so hard, you deserve a little luxury,’ your mom had said when you told her.

“Tess loves hiking,” Joel says with a roll of his eyes as the three of you head to the pool. “I’m sure she’ll have us all up at sunrise for that.”

“Not me,” you say with a laugh. “I hate hiking.”

“C’mon,” Shawn insists, “you gotta go on at least one. Promise me.”

“Ugh, fine,” you say dramatically. “But only if you promise me a great view.”

“It’s Hawaii,” Shawn shoots back. “You can’t throw a rock around here without hitting a great view.”

Joel stops at the little hut next to the pool, telling the two of you to grab towels from the staff.  When you and Shawn return Joel is smiling behind his sunglasses, telling you both to follow him. You’re excited, skipping behind Shawn with a huge smile on your face. Things can get back to normal now! You’ve talked with Joel, you’ve smoothed over the issue and you can pretend like it never happened.

You follow the man in the blue polo to a nearby private area, one with teak wooden areas sat side by side along a shallow pool of water. Gauzy curtains hang blocking out the wind and several lounge chairs with plush white cushions. On the low table is a bowl of fresh fruit and several bottles of water in glass tumblers. A hammock is tied to one side, colourful pillows inside.

“Here you are, sir,” the man in blue polo says to Joel, motioning to the large wooden cabana on the end, the one with the best view of the ocean in front. “We will be back to take your lunch order soon.”

Joel thanks the man, slipping a fifty into his hand before he looks over at you and Shawn.

“Thought our first day should be one to remember.”

You squeal before throwing your tote bag onto the hammock. You toss your towel in along with it before your hands go to the hem of your swimsuit cover up, a cute little crochet piece that you happily throw onto the towel.

You glance behind you to thank Joel when your mouth runs dry. He’s got his book and phone on the lounger, but he’s shrugging off his Hawaiian shirt, hanging it on one of the hooks. He wears only his navy swim trunks and without a shirt on he’s fucking delectable. Gold all over,  broad shoulders and a back that ripples with power as he pulls the lounger out of the sun. His body is firm, but his belly has just enough softness to suggest comfort. There’s no way he’s gonna be fifty in a few years, how can that be?

He slides onto the lounger as Shawn takes off his own t-shirt, slipping it onto the same hook. You have to admire Shawn’s body, trimmer, leaner, and sexy as fuck. Shawn works hard on his muscles, but he’s not broad in the shoulder or chest like Joel. He’s the kind you find in the gym, with strong arms and calves to die for.  You look at your boyfriend’s biceps that bulge when he grabs a water and take a sip and you muse like father, like son. They’re both so fucking sexy for vastly different reasons.

Stop. Stop thinking that Joel is sexy.

The ocean is calling your name and you must answer. You dig in your back for your sunscreen as Joel and Shawn settle themselves into the two loungers side by side, talking lowly about something back home with the business.

You squirt suntan lotion into your hands, rubbing together and then sliding your slick hands down your arms and shoulders. You hate burning, and you want to avoid skin cancer, so you’re diligent in putting lotion on. You get every inch of your front and your legs, turning to ask Shawn to do your front.

You catch sight of Joel from the corner of your eyes, finding that his head is tilted slightly in your direction, despite scrolling on his phone.  It’s impossible to see where Joel is looking due to his mirrored sunglasses, but there’s this strange part of you that’s certain he’s watching you lotion up. You can’t be positive of course; perhaps it’s just your own paranoia. . . or desire.  

Why does the thought of him watching you turn you on so much?

You don’t know what on earth is guiding your actions next. You squeeze the lotion into your hands, rubbing them together before coming to your throat, sliding your coated hands down. You move sensually over the exposed mounds of your breasts, exhaling softly as they dip below the hemline and under the straps. Your nipples are hard, both at the sensation of your fingers grazing them over top the fabric, and the thought that Joel might be watching. You finish with your heart pounding in your ears as you imagine Joel watching you caress your chest.  

Stop it. This is not you. This is your boyfriend’s dad. You’re fucking disgusting.

You walk over in front of Shawn, blocking the sun from his face.

“Will you get my back?” you ask Shawn, your eyes back on the ocean in front of you. “I’m dying to swim.”

Shawn takes the lotion from you, parting his legs so you can sit between them on his lounger. You move your hair over your shoulder, letting him squeeze the lotion onto your back. You shudder a bit, its cold on your sun-warmed skin.

It makes you wriggle in your seat, making Shawn pinch you lightly on the side, murmuring “stop squirmin’.”

Joel’s head tilts in your direction and you feel your stomach clench pleasurably. Is he watching you? You arch your back slightly, sighing as Shawn gets your shoulders.

You have to give your head a shake at your sick thoughts. Why would Joel be watching you? He already apologized for everything; he wants things to go back to normal. And you want them back to normal! You don’t want to live with this guilt.

Shawn kisses your shoulder and announces he’s done, snapping the lotion bottle closed as you jump up.  When he doesn’t make any move to join you, you stop, looking down at his supine pose and frowning.

“Aren’t you gonna come?”

“You know I don’t like swimming,” Shawn says with a smile.

“Back home in the pools,” you pout, pulling your sunglasses on and straightening. “But this is Hawaii.”

“Yeah, and I’m gonna sit here and read my book while I enjoy watchin’ you swim.”

You roll your eyes and press a kiss to his cheek.

“You’re no fun.”

“Dad, you like swimmin’,” Shawn says, patting your bottom playfully. “Will you go with her?”

You clock Joel tensing up as he unbuttons his Hawaiian shirt. He darts his gaze from his son over to you and you try to keep your voice from wobbling.

“No, its fine,” you say quickly. “I’m probably gonna be quick anyway.”

You turn and quickly make your way down the sand, grateful at how isolated this section of the beach is, thankful that you don’t have to stay there with Joel looking at you.

Joel watches you saunter down the sand, trying not to focus on how your ass jiggles deliciously in your swimsuit.  He’s thankful he doesn’t have to swim with you right now because he’s not sure he could keep from getting hard.

He doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with him. You’re off limits, you’re his son’s girlfriend and you’re so much younger than him. He doesn’t know why something in his brain suddenly transformed you from his son’s girlfriend into a sexy woman with curves in all the right places. He’s never looked at you like that, never seen you as anything but an extension of his son. But now? Now it’s like you’re a stranger to him, a stranger he desperately craves to touch again.

Watching you lotion yourself up was like his own personal hell, trying to convince himself not to watch you while trying his best not to brick up.  He exhales softly, watching as you dance along the edge of the water, dipping a toe in to test the temperature.

"Dad how did you know you wanted to marry mom?" 

Joel looks to his son in surprise, seeing the reflected insecurity in the question. The topic of Shawn’s mother is one that is often avoided, or brushed under the rug. Joel doesn’t like to ruminate on the past, he doesn’t like living in that time when money was tight and his son was going to the first grade without a mother. He doesn’t like remembering the long nights trying to build up his business while he made cupcakes for school bake sales.

But perhaps he should thank her. Without her absence maybe he wouldn’t have striven so hard for success. Without her absence perhaps he would have grown complacent being a foreman instead of running his now incredibly successful company.

"Couldn't imagine a life without her," Joel finally answers honestly. "Didn't want to do anything without her by my side." 

He takes a large gulp of the drink, thankful for its cool and refreshing taste as the sun warms the sand. He doesn't like to think of his ex wife very often. Maria was a kind woman in many ways, a fun wife but a terrible mother. 

Shawn looks nervously at you in the water, his lips thinning.  You’re prancing in it now, it’s up to your waist and you’re splashing it in front of you, maybe trying to scare off an insect. Joel watches as you spin, holding your breath and finally diving in.

You emerge seconds later, your hair slicked back and your body glistening with water. It sluices down your body in rivulets as you stride back to shore, your body shining, your swimsuit clinging to you and from here Joel can see your nipples hardened.

Fuck.

"And how did you know things were over for you and mom?" 

Joel forces his attention from you over to where his son is looking anxiously at his hands.

"I didn't really. I was still in love with her until she took off. But she just wasn't cut out for bein' a mom. She never really took to it." 

Shawn hates hearing that, hates knowing that his mom never really took to him. He nods, looking a little broken. Joel feels the familiar guilt of not being enough washing over him, like the waves on the ocean.

"It was never about you, son," Joel assures him. "Your mom just had a lot of demons." 

He sees the way Shawn is looking at you, a curious mixture of love and something else. You’re coming closer, a smile on your face as you wave at Shawn. He returns it with a smile and wave of his own.

"Why?" Joel asks. "You thinkin' of ending things-"

"It's nothing," Shawn says shaking his head. "Never mind." 

You enter into the cabana, washing your sandy feet in the shallow pool of water outside the cabana.

“It’s so nice and refreshing,” you tell them both, drying yourself with the towel before hauling yourself into the hammock. “You’re missing out, Shawn.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

You’re a little wobbly at it but finally you right yourself and sink into the comfortable canvas. It’s not long before you look drowsy, a yawn escaping you. The three of you fall into a comfortable silence, reading books, swaying in hammocks, listening to the waves of the ocean.

“I’m gonna get a beer,” Shawn announces when the sun is directly overhead. He glances over at you while standing up and pulling his t-shirt on. “You want anything babe?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Dad?”

“Bud if they have it,” Joel replies, leaning back and putting his book over his face to block some of the sun.

“Be right back.”

Joel listens to his son leaving the cabana, his sandals slapping as he makes his way back to the resort. Joel could have called over one of the staff, but he has a feeling Shawn needs moment to think. He’s always been like that since he was a kid, a chronic over-thinker.

There are some in the nearby cabanas, Joel can’t see them but he can hear them. Some chuckle throatily, others snore.  He glances over at you, seeing the way the sun glistens off your skin. You must be parched.

“You want some water?”

Joel realizes that you yourself have joined the land of the sleeping when you don’t answer him. And despite everything he said to you this morning about making things go back to normal, he can’t stop himself from taking in your body.

Your breasts are practically spilling out of your suit, at least a size too small for you. As you breathe they rise and fall invitingly. He would only need to push it down an inch to have your sweet pink buds there, waiting for his tongue and teeth.

That’s your son’s girlfriend.

Joel exhales before tilting back in his lounge chair. 

Shawn's a good kid, a damn fine son. They've been through a lot together, a seamless bond, a friendship as well as being father and son. Joel knows so many other parents who can't wait for their kids to leave the house, who roll their eyes when their kids hang around. 

Not Joel, he loved when his son came home from college all wet behind the ears and excited about his classes. Joel loved having a mini-me that was just as passionate about the same things. 

He loves him so much that sometimes it cleaves his heart, making it ache and always has. He remembers the pain of taking Shawn for his inoculations, of kissing his first scraped knee, of holding him when a girl turned him down to the high school dance. 

Shawn had always been more sensitive than Joel, more even-tempered. Joel admired that in his son, hell sometimes he was even a little jealous. But to know that his own flesh and blood wouldn't stand up for his partner puts a bad taste in his mouth. 

Joel remembers when Shawn was born several weeks premature, he remembers his wife asleep in the hospital bed as beeps and hushed voices sounded. He remembers going to see his tiny son hooked up to wires, fighting to live. Joel remembers so vividly begging on his hands and knees to the entity above to spare his child, that he would give him the best life possible. 

And now that same father who would have sacrificed anything for his son sits with his thick cock aching as he watches that son's pretty girlfriend gently sway in the breeze. 

It's bad enough he's looking, bad enough that you're with Shawn. But Joel is with Tess, the sexiest subcontractor he's ever met. A woman who takes his cock with gusto just as easily as she berates insolent employees. She's tough, she's beautiful, and she’s his.

And yet he frittered that all away on a stolen kiss with you. 

Why? 

You make a soft sighing sound in your sleep and Joel feels his cock twitch. You twist in the hammock, nestling more on your side. Your breasts press heavily together and Joel swallows a moan when he sees the sweet blush of your nipples poking out at the top. 

Joel feels like the most lecherous person on the planet as he sits next to you in the cabana, watching you nap in the hammock from behind his glasses. 

He should throw a towel over you. You talked about this. If was a mistake. A onetime drunken mistake. But it's like it unlocked something in Joel, something feral and dark. Something that demands to be fed and it only costumes lust. 

He watches as you continue to sleep on, your curves touched by the sun sending skittering sunbeams along your gorgeous body. 

The desire in him is overwhelming. 

Joel glances behind him, noting that it's still fairly secluded. No one around to see him

I could be fast.

His hand slides down his stomach, over his swim trunks, coming to graze the aching cock as he watches those sweet little buds poking through your bathing suit. You're fast asleep and you have him rock hard.  

Joel keeps his eyes on you as he squeezes the head of his cock through his trunks, groaning a bit to himself as he recalls the kiss last night. Fuck you'd felt good in his arms, all supple and sweet. You'd wanted him bad, your pussy practically a magnet for his cock. 

Would you have let him touch all of you? If that splash hadn't startled you both would you have let him finger you, your head thrown back and your body jolting against his palm? Or maybe you'd even have let him fuck you against the nearby palm tree? Your arms around his neck as he fucked into your sweet velvet clench, holding you possessively and telling you exactly how to come for him. 

He's stroking himself through his trunks in earnest now, his breathing coming out in short little gasps between his plush parted lips. He imagines you on the shore, crawling to him in your swimsuit, your breasts swinging heavily as you grin up at him.

That's right, pretty girl. I'd make you cum right on this cock. Make you beg me on your hands and knees to fuck you harder. 

Joel's hand moves faster, jerking himself through the fabric as you sleep unaware that you're the star in his debauched daydream. The sound of the waves and rustling of his trunks are all that can be heard. 

Fill you full of my cum, makin’ you into my own little fuck toy. Yeah you'd like that, goin’ all whiny because I won't let you cum when you want. Have you slobber around my cock like a filthy little slut.

Joel's getting carried away now. His hand slides under his swim trunks, swallowing a groan when his wide grip finds his hardened length, weeping at the tip. Before he can stop and think rationally he's begun jacking himself off underneath his shorts.

He's all red faced, breathing through clenched teeth. He wants you to wake up and see what he's doing but at the same time he doesn't. Fuck he's losing his mind. He feels out of control, like he can't help himself. He's not this guy. He's not this guy but you're so fucking sexy and you kissed him and he could make you feel so good, he knows he could. 

Bounce that sweet body in my lap, c'mon babygirl, make daddy cum. Make him-

Nearby whistling causes Joel's blood to run cold. It’s followed by the telltale sound of sandals slapping the sand. It's Shawn on his way back from the bar. 

The fuck is wrong with me? Joel thinks to himself, tugging his hand out of his swim shorts. I'm fuckin' sick.

He wills his cock to soften, terrified that Shawn will see. In a panic he grabs the nearby towel, throwing it over his crotch and placing his book over top. Shawn rounds on the cabana, passing his father the cool bottle.  

"They didn't have bud. Hope Corona will do."

"Yeah, that's great, thanks." 

Shawn collapses into the chair beside his father. If he thinks the towel over Joel's lower half is odd, he doesn't remark on it. 

"She's passed right out," Shawn says casting a loving gaze your way as you away in the breeze. "She could sleep anywhere."

"Yeah?"

Shawn nods. "She fell asleep on the subway when we went to New York."

Joel grins at that, imagining you there, eyes shut as tourists walk by you on the bustling train.

He's known you for years and he has seen you fall asleep in some comical places. His favourite was last summer when the three of you went to a symphony because Joel was gifted tickets from a client at work. 

You'd been excited, wearing a beautiful dress and knotting your hair. Joel had thought you looked so elegant, feeling strangely proud of the woman his son was with. You were intelligent and funny and warm and beautiful. You reflected well on Shawn and subsequently Joel. 

You were sat between the Miller men, your eyes luminous as the concert began. But before intermission had arrived Joel felt your cheek against his shoulder. He glanced down to see your eyes shut and your body slack with sleep.

That was back when things were simple. When he just thought you were a sweet little thing that made his son happy.

Desperate to change his clouded imagination, Joel turns to his son.

“You still enjoyin’ school?” Joel asks, tipping the beer into his mouth.

“It’s okay,” Shawn nods, taking a long pull from his own bottle. “I just kinda wish I coulda done the Computer Science program instead.”

“I figured with you takin’ over the company one day, you’d wanna focus more on the business end of things,” Joel muses, his eyes still taking in your sleeping form from behind his mirrored glasses. “I guess I didn’t see how a degree in computers was gonna help.”

Shawn looks uncomfortable, “It’s a Masters of Science in Computer Science, dad.”

“Okay, still.”

“I don’t see why I need to take it over anyway,” Shawn mumbles. “You got Uncle Tommy and his son.”

“Your uncle Tommy didn’t build the company from the ground up,” Joel says darkly.

Shawn hates talking about the future of the Miller Company. Hates the thought that he’ll have to carry on the legacy that his father built from the ground up. Hates that his own interests and passions have to be pushed to the side. Hates that yet another part of his life needs to be shut down.

“Dad, it’s my vacation,” Shawn says sighing. “Can we not talk about this stuff now?”

Joel frowns before nodding, looking back to the ocean. He’s irritable and tired and he’s so pent up he could scream. He takes one last look at you before announcing to Shawn that he’s going to swim. Shawn nods, looking at his phone.

Joel moves quickly into the water, thankful that not a lot of people are around. The sun is beating down and he swims quickly, his long arms slicing through the waves until he’s a good distance away. From where you and Shawn rest in the cabana you only see Joel’s head.

He looks out into the endless blue, his mind a jumble. His cock is hard again, just remembering how you looked coming out of the water. He glances around casually, still ensuring the scattering of couples are nowhere near him and then he pulls out his cock underwater, stroking it quickly.

His eyes shut as he bobs in the water, trying to keep his motions subtle. But despite the lag of the water he has it at a good pace, the pleasure easily building in his body. 

He imagines you both in the cabana  alone, the two of you naked. His hand sliding up your ankles, your calves before tracing along your soaked slit. In this fantasy your eyes flutter open and you smile sweetly as his hands slide up and begin to grope your breasts.

‘Feels good’, you tell him. ‘Feels so good. Don’t stop.’

He sees your cunt getting wetter, your head falling back. You’re arching for him, desperate before you’re suddenly falling to your knees in front of him, noticing his hard cock. You lick the tip, moaning as you gaze up at him with a fucked-out expression.

‘Please daddy? I want your cock.’

Joel taps the head of his cock onto your waiting tongue, satisfied that you sit there waiting.

‘Yeah, babygirl. Make daddy cum.’

Your fantasy self urges his cock into your mouth, eyes on him as he fucks into your mouth. His balls tighten and he floods your mouth while you moan around his girth.

“Fuck, fuck,” Joel hisses as he erupts under the water, sending ropes of watery cum shooting into the waves, quickly evaporating as he swims in the other direction. Disgust fills him immediately as he realizes what he’s done and who he thought about.

He races to the cabana, pulling his shirt from the hook and grabbing his book from his lounger. You’re awake, talking to Shawn. You both look over at Joel in confusion at his rapid movements.

“You okay, old man?”

“Headache,” Joel replies to his son. “See ya back at the room.”

Tomorrow Tess will be here, he tells himself as he walks back to the unit. Tomorrow things will be better.

It’s just that he has no distraction, no outlet for these weird feelings. He hasn’t been laid in over a week, that’s all.  And you’re just there in front of him. It could be anyone.

He’s hard again by the time he gets back to his bedroom.

He rushes into the bathroom, turning on the shower. He’s about to get in when he spots the door to your bedroom cracked open. He can’t stop himself from moving in, eyes darting around the space. Your suitcases sit side by side by the closet. Your dress for dinner tonight is hung on the back of the chair before the mirror. Shawn’s baseball cap, forgotten this morning, rests on the ledge of the window.

Joel continues this strange voyeuristic adventure, seeing that you don’t make your bed in the morning like he does. Your vitamins sit in a plastic pack beside your phone charger on the bedside table. Your makeup is on the table by the mirror, along with your perfume.  Joel pops open the cap, inhaling the sweet aroma of violet and black coconut. Its how you smelled last night, your sticky body pressed to his, your lips so soft and desperate for him.

His cock twitches at the memory.

Don’t fuckin’ do it, man. This is crossin’ so many lines.

He can’t stop himself. He sprays it onto his wrist before placing the bottle back on the vanity. His cock is throbbing now and he throws himself into the shower, tugging his cock furiously as he holds his wrist to his nose.

It’s like you’re there in the shower with him, begging him to fuck you.  He inhales the sweet floral scent as his hand jerks quickly, causing the pleasure in his spine to run the length of his body. His cum hits the tiles seconds later, your name echoed in the space.

He feels absolutely disgusting when the last vestige of his arousal slips from him, along with his cum down the drain.

When he hears Shawn and you come through the doors a short while later he tells his son through the door that he’s not feeling great, that he thinks its sunstroke and gonna stay in his room for the night.

Tomorrow when Tess is here things will be better. Things will go back to normal.

They have to.

[untolduttering]

It was Sanji that started the habit of dressing each other. After sex, he would pick the garments off the floor, either his shirt and underwear or your clothes, depending on what you had to do after. And soon, once you had been dressed, you’d do the same for him. It was an incredibly intimate act, to sit and patiently dress the other button by button, taking the chance to kiss the exposed skin right before it was covered, to sit lower than the other at times in supplication and servitude. The habit entered into the morning, although a little more difficult for you. After making breakfast, Sanji would come to fetch you, gently waking you and waiting for you to choose the outfit he would dress you in, or sometimes get to pick the outfit himself, an opportunity that would send him over the moon each time. You, on the other hand, were not as fond about getting up at 5 AM, and so you usually missed the chance. Sometimes, however, when the lack of his weight and warmth beside you would wake you, you’d groggily sit up, pouting. You’d try to get up to help, half awake and upset at your missed chance, and he’d softly put you back to bed. Other times, he’d offer you his tie, letting you put it on him, the final touch. And most of those times, you’d do a terrible job, leaving it crooked and more like a knot than a proper tie. But Sanji wouldn’t care, he’d love it, even, and proudly wear it throughout the day, much to your own embarrassment. Very rarely would he let you fix it, as he would think back to your pouting, focused face each time he’d look at it, and feel himself smile at the memory. It would be then that he’d be happiest that he started the habit.

[maacbrem]

Thinking about Lieve’tel and Bertrand and crying at the club

She’s off putting and she knows it, knows that she moves a bit too carefully to seem entirely natural and when she speaks there’s an unearthly resonance to her voice and when she closes her eyes she sees all the threads of the world converging into warp and weft. She’s seen generations pass her by while she remains unchanged, her goddess’s voice and silence guiding her onwards, and she knows when people look at her they reject what they can’t understand. The Champion left behind his family to serve the Matron, and she takes it as her duty to watch over them even when they insult, demean, mock and dismiss her (even when they watch her back in battle and allow her to guard theirs in turn, which for warrior folk like them is as good as a declaration of care even as they refuse to meet her eyes or hold her gaze too long in a challenge she won’t answer).

And Bertrand is… normal. Ordinary. Unremarkable until he opens his mouth, and prone to sticking his foot there. He’s an aging human enamoured with the idea of being not a hero, per se, but a heroic figure. The dream of a legacy drives him. He learned to duel in fencing clubs but his first real fight was a half-drunken brawl to reclaim a bard’s stolen tips. He has a sense of righteousness but doesn’t always act on it and the older he gets the more frightened he is of dying without meaning. He makes her laugh, and then he does it again on purpose, and he keeps doing it for as long as they spend together.

She makes time for him when he’s in Vasselheim, usually scouting out the up-and-coming young adventuring parties that make their way through the city because he wants to be a mentor but hasn’t quite figured out what he has to offer yet. He attends services and makes offerings and lets her unpick his tangled anxieties about what comes after. They get thirty years in intervals of hours to weeks, and they’re not exclusive - neither of them is ever in a place to make promises they don’t really need - but they keep circling back to each other.

She knows she’s going to lose him and he knows she’s already mourning him. He gives her a bell for her prayer beads and she passes on the name of an old supplicant with a bloody past who might have work that suits him in Marquet. When he dies, she knows he’s gone before she wakes that morning. When the world is poised to end, she puts herself on the line with his token in hand because it is her duty and her honor, and because Bertrand once said that to be remembered well is to be immortal without cost, and what they had might not have been love but it was important.

[wannab-urs]

You’re So Dark

Pairing: Professor!Dave York x Grad Student!f!Reader

Summary: There’s only one thing you really want out of this conference – your research adviser, Dave York. 

Warnings: smut, professor/student relationship, reader is a brat, this is very close to a self insert fic so she’s also a cocky little asshole, power dynamics, age gap (Dave is in his late 40s, reader is at least 21 but not specified), Dave is conflicted, that’s why he’s such a dickhead, Divorced!Dave, drinking but no one is all that intoxicated, unprotected PIV (but he has a vasectomy and reader is on BC), creampie, oral f!receiving, lots of arguing, no use of y/n. WC: 2.4k

A/N: Based on a true story. Just had this idea out of nowhere, don’t look at me. Thanks to @pedgito for the beta <3

Dave York Masterlist | Main Masterlist | AO3 | Kofi | Playlist

You knock on his door, wearing nothing but a skimpy tank top and shorts. The conference doesn’t start for a while, so you put on comfy clothes following the long car ride. That’s not your only motivation, though, for showing up at his hotel room in barely anything. 

The hotel is nice, nice enough that you feel underdressed in the hallway. You’re set to present your paper on John Donne today at 2. Your research adviser Dr. York – Dave – had picked you up at your apartment at 5 this morning to drive you both to the conference. He’s presenting his latest paper. Something about journals kept by British people during World War II. 

You shift your weight from foot to foot waiting for him to answer the door. Finally, you hear the chain drop and the door opens. He eyes you up and down, one eyebrow quirked, before turning around and walking back into the room. 

“Are you wearing that to the conference?” He’s already settling back into the shitty desk chair by the window. You look down at your outfit and then back up to glare at the back of his head. 

“Yeah. Obviously.” You lay back on his bed and stretch your back, sore from the 5 hour car ride. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Working.” 

You roll onto your stomach and look at him. The mid morning light casts a glare over his screen, but only serves to highlight his features. You hate how pretty he is, how much you want him.

“Are you wearing that to the conference?” He’s wearing navy dress pants and a tight white t-shirt that is definitely a size too small. 

“I have a dress shirt.” He seems irritated today. Shoulders tense, sentences clipped. You wonder if it’s you that has him all worked up. 

You slide off the bed into the floor and go through some simple yoga poses. Your back is really messed up from that car ride. You sit on your knees and walk your hands forward as far as they’ll go, dropping your head to the floor. You sigh as you sink into child’s pose, feeling the stretch in your sore hips and back. “What are you working on?” You ask, voice muffled by the carpet. 

“Will you shut up?” You snap your head up to look at him. He’s fucking tetchy today… and he hasn’t looked over at you once, as far as you can tell. 

“Make me.”

“When have I ever been able to make you do anything?” 

You sit back on your heels and tilt your head to the side. He’s almost shaking, he’s so tense. You’ve never seen him like this. “You never ask nicely.”

He wordlessly scoots his chair back and spreads his legs, still typing away on his laptop. You crawl over and settle yourself between his legs. He still doesn’t look at you.

“What do you want, Dave?” 

“For you to stop talking.”

“Is that all you want?”

“No.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“You’re such a fucking brat.”

You lean in and drag your lips over the bulge in his slacks, hear the sharp snatch of breath, the clack of keys as his hands hit them all at once. 

You’re not going to do it until he tells you to and he isn’t going to ask. It’s a standoff. He thinks he has to let you make the first move. Does this not count as a first move? You in such a supplicant pose, gazing up at him from between his thighs. 

“You should go get dressed. We have to leave soon.” Quiet, strained, so unlike his usually smooth and confident cadence, and still not meeting your eyes. He rolls the chair back so you have room to scoot out. 

Your cheeks sting with rejection, but you know he wants you as bad as you want him. He’s just afraid of the consequences. You slip out from under his desk and retreat to your room to get changed. 

–-

The conference goes as smoothly as it can – it was your first ever presentation at something like this, and you definitely got tripped up on some of the questions the audience asked you. Afterward, Dave drags you outside to a group of people. He introduces you to Will, Laurie, Anna, and Doug. They’re colleagues, friends, that he often meets up with at conferences. 

“Wanna come with us to get drinks?” Anna asks. 

“Sure!” you agree before Dave can turn them down. He scowls at you, but turns a megawatt smile on when he looks back to Anna. 

“Sounds good,” he says through his teeth. 

Dave gossips in your ear all night, filling you in on each of his friends. Will and Laurie are both supposedly polyamorous and only hook up with each other at conferences, but Dave knows Will’s wife has no idea. Anna is in trouble with her school for a presentation she did last year, and she had to have today’s presentation reviewed by her department chair before she could present. Doug has a thing for Anna, but she’s married. 

The gossip is a good holdover, but you’re antsy the whole time. You sip vodka sodas slowly while your mind whirs with the possibilities of tonight. Dave drinks whiskey on the rocks, jokes with his friends when he’s not whispering in your ear. 

You and Dave go out to smoke, leaving everyone else in the bar. You split an American Spirit with him. 

“If you only smoke when you drink, why do you have a near empty pack of expensive cigarettes?” 

“I drink every night.” 

“God you’re pathetic.” 

“Not as pathetic as the grad student with a thing for her professor.” 

“Fuck you. You’re not my professor.” 

“Oh, so you do have a thing for me?”

You’d thought that was obvious from your earlier attempt to blow him.

 “You know what’s actually pathetic, Dave? The professor who wants to fuck his student.” 

“You’re not my student.”

 “Oh, so you do want to fuck me?” 

He puts out the cigarette in the ashtray and stalks off inside. 

By the end of the night, you regret agreeing to go out, desperate to get back to the hotel and get Dave alone. This may be your only shot at getting what you want from him and you can’t waste it. You say goodnight to everyone, tell them how nice it was to meet them all, and head out, Dave close behind you. You think you catch Laurie giving him a knowing look, but you can’t be certain. 

You walk back to the hotel, your arm brushing his. Out of nowhere, Dave chuckles and pushes his shoulder into you. 

“What? What’s funny?”

“Nothing. I like that you step on the sewer grates.”

“What?”

“The drainage grates. My ex wife was terrified of them. She’d rather walk in the street than step on one. You don’t even hesitate.”

“Oh.”

“I just mean– I don’t know what I mean. You’re brave.”

“Thanks,” you say earnestly, looking into his eyes. 

“You’re welcome.” He averts his gaze, looks back down at the ground. You think he might be blushing. 

You get to the hotel and the lady at the desk gives you and Dave a strange look. An “I know what this is and I don’t like it” look. You roll your eyes and stalk over to the elevators, punching the button with more force than necessary. You didn’t think it was that obvious, the dance you two were doing around each other. 

The ride up to the tenth floor is tense. Dave doesn’t look at you, doesn’t say a word. When you get up to where you’re supposed to split off, he asks if you want to come to his room for a drink. You say yes and follow him to his room. Now the nerves really kick in. It’s fine, you’re fine. You wonder if he’s gonna reject you again. It would be cruel after inviting you to his room, but he’s never really been kind. 

When you get into his room you sit on the bed and take off your dress shoes, your coat, and the blazer you’ve been wearing all day. He pours himself a bourbon from the minibar and offers you one. You take the cup in your hand, sipping the liquor and feeling heat trail down your throat. He knocks his back in one shot and stands in front of you at the bed.

You stand up, putting you inches from his body. You cover his bulge with your hand, squeezing lightly and nip your teeth at his throat. “Do you want to fuck me, Dave?” 

He shoves you backward with a growl and you fall on the bed. He tugs your trousers off and lowers himself between your legs. He licks you over your panties, feeling how wet you already are. He hooks his fingers into the gusset of your panties, knuckles brushing your entrance. 

“Oh you’re soaked for me, baby girl.” 

“Don’t call me that. Ew. God. Ew.”

“Fine. Brat.” Dave tugs your panties down and tosses them on the floor. He pushes your thighs apart and settles your legs over his shoulders. He covers your cunt with his mouth and flicks his tongue against your clit. You let out a moan and bury your fingers in his short hair. He flattens his tongue against you and you ride his face, grinding his aquiline nose into your mound as you move against him. 

He brings a hand up to press your stomach down, holding you still while he slips two fingers of his other hand inside you. You keen loudly at the stretch, squirming as he sucks your clit into his mouth. 

You’re so wet you can hear the wet squelch of your pussy around his fingers. He crooks them upward and you buck your hips hard enough to break the hold he has on you. 

“F-Fuck, Dave. Please,” you whine. 

“So polite when you finally get what you want,” he mutters into your cunt. 

He’s making you feel so fucking good, you’d let him say anything right now. He strokes your sweet spot almost methodically, like he’s had a lifetime of practice that led him here, making you whine and moan and squirm pathetically on just two of his fingers. Your grip tightens on his hair as you feel white hot bliss crawling up your spine. 

“Fuck. Dave. Gonna come.”

He doesn’t let up, the firm strokes of his fingers driving you higher and higher until finally you reach your peak and come crashing back down. You shatter, your pussy clenching rhythmically. 

“Can I fuck you?” Dave’s voice is rough and low like he’s been yelling.

“Do you have a condom?” 

“Do I need one?” 

“I mean I’m on birth control” 

“Oh I got snipped when I divorced Carol, that’s not what I meant” 

“They had vasectomies in the 1800s?”

“Are you clean or not?” 

“It’s a little fucking late to ask that, man, you just had your tongue inside me, but yeah.” 

“Fair enough.”

Dave helps you up the bed until your head rests on the pillows. He takes your shirt off, stripping your bra with it. He’s fully dressed and you’re bare before him. He leans down and kisses your neck, before his lips trail down to your chest. He sucks a mark into the soft skin of your breast. You start unbuttoning his shirt but he just pulls it off over his head, an urgency that wasn’t there before taking hold. 

“Need to be inside you, fuck.” 

He shucks his slacks down as far as possible without getting up and immediately slots his length against your slit. You reach down and adjust him yourself, lining up the tip with your entrance. He mutters something about “impatient” but pushes inside you anyway. He’s long and thick and he makes you feel so full. When he’s fully sheathed inside you, your eyes roll back in your head with pleasure. 

“Fuck. You’re huge, Dave. Fuck,” you whine, as if he needed the ego boost. 

You gasp his name as he starts fucking you, your fingernails digging into the skin at his sides. You pull him into you, urging him to fuck you harder. He growls and picks up the pace, the slapping of your skin, your loud moans, his grunts fill the room. 

You get lost in it a little, your mind slipping into that space where all you can think about is the sensation of his cock spearing you over and over. 

He slips a hand between your bodies and presses the pads of his fingers to your clit, rubbing in small circles. You throw your head back and scream his name as a wave of pleasure crashes over you. Dave fucks you through it, thrusts slowing but not stopping yet. 

“Where?”

It takes you a second to process what he’s asking. Where do you want his cum? 

“Inside. Please.”

“So polite. Fucked the brat right out of you, huh?”

You’re too fucked out to respond with a witty comment, so he must be right. He thrusts into you deep and you feel his cock pulse as he spills inside you. The sensation almost makes you feel like you could come again. 

He pulls out as soon as he’s finished, rolling to his feet and heading into the bathroom. The bastard doesn’t even seem winded. He comes back from the bathroom holding a wet washcloth in his hand. Dave wipes up the mess between your thighs and tosses the rag onto the floor.  

It’s after he’s cleaned you up and is standing in front of the bed that you notice his body. He’s more lean and muscled than you could really see beneath his dress shirts. You wonder idly if you’ll ever see him like this again. His bare, broad chest. His happy trail leading down to his unbuttoned slacks. 

He strips off his pants, leaving him in his briefs. His thighs are toned too. You kind of wish you’d gotten to explore his body more thoroughly. He crawls into bed and lays beside you, but doesn’t fit his body against yours the way you want him to. Never one to not get exactly what you want, you snuggle up to his side, throwing your arm across his chest. He readjusts and holds you close. 

“Didn’t take you for a cuddler.” 

“Didn’t take you for a missionary guy. Guess we’re both full of surprises.” 

“Don’t act like you didn’t fucking love it.” 

You hum noncommittally. It was probably the best sex of your life, but he doesn’t need to know that. 

[nothingbutsweetwords]

ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ꜱᴏɴ, ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ

ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ!ɴɪᴇᴄᴇ

"…ꜱʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇꜱ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ ɢᴀᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴄᴀʀꜱ."

Word count: 5,000.

Fandom: House of the Dragon.

Pairing: Aemond x Reader!Velaryon!Niece.

Warnings: Angst, mention of SA!

RELEASE — 14. Him.

“Is all well, my son?” His mother’s voice pierced through the stillness that had ensnared him. He looked up abruptly, struggling to conceal the emotions threatening to break free.

His concentration had vanished like wisps of smoke caught in a draft. He found himself trapped in a labyrinth of anxieties and questions, all revolving around her and the recent unsettling events. The past night had been an interminable whirlwind of unease.

The day had begun with a purpose as clear as the open sky: to persuade her to heed his words. Yet despite his ceaseless efforts, his quest had borne no fruit. She had vanished like a ghost. He had rapped upon her door in vain and then scoured the castle. Each shadowed corner yielded only the hollow echo of his own distress.

“What?” 

“You have been rather distracted these past days” she observed softly, yet her frown was imbued with concern and seriousness. He inhaled deeply, trying to clear the fog that clouded his mind, striving to offer her the attentiveness she so rightfully deserved.

“Ser Criston Cole has remarked upon your absence from the training sessions” she continued, her tone carrying a subtle undertone of reproach. “We cannot afford to neglect our obligations.”

It was true that since her arrival, he had forsaken the training yard, abandoning the regimen he had diligently maintained. In the past, he had attended every session, morning and afternoon, as though his existence depended on it. He understood his mother’s concern, yet his recent absences seemed to him a minor transgression in the face of his current preoccupations.

“My apologies” he finally said, resuming his breakfast.

“Shall you return to your training once we have concluded here?” she inquired, a slight tension hanging over the table.

His heart ached to continue searching until he found his way back to her, prepared to spend the entire day in earnest supplication if necessary but the expectation in his mother’s face kept him grounded.

Resigned, he nodded, unwilling to add further burden to her shoulders.

“Yes, mother” he affirmed with a note of acquiescence.

At last, disheartened, feeling as though he had exhausted all avenues, he chose to don his training attire—a gesture both of surrender and a final attempt to refocus on something tangible, seeking to reconcile with his duties.

Hours later, the throne room was a display of opulence, its lavish décor setting the stage for the evening’s festivities. As she entered, her demeanor was one of practiced detachment. Her gaze barely flickered in his direction, as if he were but an extra upon the grand stage. He could not blame her for it, given the delicate state they were in.

They took their places, each occupying their designated end. He was seated at one extremity, while she was positioned at the opposite, separated by the length of the table.

Servants moved with efficiency, finalizing the details of the meal. They ensured that each jug brimmed with wine, every plate was aligned with precision, and trays heaped with an array of sumptuous dishes were delivered.

The side of the table where he sat remained steeped in almost sepulchral silence, broken only by the faint clinking of glasses. In contrast, her side buzzed with vibrant laughter and animated conversation, though she didn’t join in. Her displeasure was palpable, even from a distance. 

Remorse devoured him; he knew she had longed for this grand celebration, and he had marred it with his own missteps.

Amidst the chatter, a voice rose with levity. “I believe,” he began, drawing all eyes toward him, “that this presents an excellent opportunity for our young ones to seek out their future spouses.” The king smiled benevolently, he casted a fleeting glance at him and Daeron before refocusing on the other side of the table.

The proclamation struck him like a frigid wave. It was not the notion of marriage itself that unsettled him; he had long accepted that it was expected of him, given his station and age. And he had already resolved it. if it could not be with her, then he would remain unwed.

What tormented him was the vision of her, lost in the pursuit of another’s heart. It was an inescapable truth: she was a princess, the cherished offspring of the heir to the throne, and the most enchanting woman across the seven kingdoms. 

His recent declaration had created an insurmountable chasm between them—a cruel expanse that not only severed their bond but also pushed her directly towards the waiting arms of the legion of eager admirers. These suitors, swarming like moths to a flame, would drape her in a garland of hollow praise and feigned affections with their glib tongues. 

And he could not bear the thought of her near someone who could only offer nothing but mediocrity, knowing that their fleeting admiration paled in comparison to the boundless true reverence he felt for her.

Across the table, Jacaerys’ broke through his spiraling despair. “They will be around her like vultures” he muttered, the disdain in his tone unmistakable.

He caught sight of a faint, enigmatic smile gracing her lips. This time, rather than offering solace, it seemed to seal the truth of his monumental failure—his efforts to win her back had been spectacularly thwarted.

“Perchance that is exactly what we need��� Baela interjected, raising her volume above the others.

He wondered whether Baela had already collected the necessary knowledge to and plotted the course to ensure a husband was found for his beloved princess, considering her animosity toward him. Their eyes briefly met, a short encounter filled with such hostility that he could almost feel her desire to strike him down on the spot.

Regrettably, the grand doors swung open, admitting families and courts from every corner. An anticipatory murmur surged through the assembly, filling the space. She, detached, regarded the spectacle with a resignation he found painfully familiar.

His mind meticulously cataloged the array of stares that had already fixed on her, even before crossing the threshold. It was no small number, indeed, it was far easier to count those who had not yet turned their attention her way. Men, women, elders, and youths alike all seemed to regard themselves as entitled to feast their gazes upon her.

The grim realization settled over him like a shroud: the coming week would be an unrelenting vigil, a ceaseless parade of watchful eyes. Aegon, with a look of pity, patted him on the shoulder.

Once the room was filled to capacity, the king set aside his staff, commanding the attention of all present. “Welcome,” he announced, “it is an honor for me to see so many of you here, united in this celebration. On this very day, thirty years past, I took on the great responsibility of ruling the realm. And, together, we have faced challenges, reaped victories, and preserved the peace we hold so dear.”

“Now, as we embark upon these seven days of festivity, I invite you to enjoy the tournaments, the dances, the hunts, and this modest feast” he added with an ironic tone that elicited mirthful laughter. The extravagance of the feast was anything but modest; excess was the order of the day. “May this time together be an opportunity to strengthen our bonds, remember our history, and look to the future with hope” he concluded, raising his goblet and triggering a wave of applause and jubilant cheers. Music soon began marking the official start.

He barely touched the food, unable to take his focus off the incessant attempts of the men around who kept trying to catch her eye.

Families of high renown approached their table, offering gifts and seeking to exchange words with the king. As each new party arrived, he watched her, trying to gauge her responses. Thankfully, she maintained a polite but aloof demeanor. She offered brief pleasantries that were merely acts of protocol before returning to her conversations with Jacaerys or Baela at her sides.

Yet one individual commanded a singular focus, drawing both her interest and that of the king. His arrival was marked by a northern accent so thick and pronounced that it evoked an involuntary roll of the eye from him. The man introduced himself, as though his identity was not already clear.

Beside him, his brother was eagerly recounting the most recent events with an enthusiasm he couldn’t muster. Daeron seemed to be trying to distract him, but his efforts were in vain; he was too caught up in his thoughts, his mind drifting like a vessel lost on a stormy sea.

The younger narrated the defeats and victories of the participants who had marked the preliminary contests the previous day—contests from which he had deliberately absented himself.

Instead of mingling with the throngs, he had paid a visit to the jeweler, retrieving what he had requested, before turning to the deserted training yard for a grueling session. However, the respite he had sought was elusive; the sword strikes proved no match for the frustration.

In truth, the solace he craved lay solely with her.

She, who perpetually eluded his reach, her avoidance growing more resolute with each passing hour. Despite the desperate pleas of his mind, body, and soul, he had restrained himself from seeking her out, dreading that such actions might only drive her further away.

From the elevated dais, the king’s encouraged the remaining competitors.

That afternoon, the very air seemed to hum with tension. From his vantage on the main balcony, he watched the jousting tourney approaching its climax. Since the first light of dawn, the field had been abuzz with frenetic activity—a ceaseless ballet of combatants and horses that had methodically whittled down the competitors. Now, four of the eight finalists would be selected.

His mother had insisted he attend, suggesting that, if only for a single day, he set aside his reservations about such spectacles. Despite the fact that the idea of facing the neighing of horses, the incessant clamor of the crowd, and the scorching heat of the sun did not appeal to him at all, let alone endure the sight of numerous men vying for the princess’s attention, he had promised to be present.

After a breakfast he could barely taste, he found himself there, weighed down by a favor that laid on her lap, its presence a bitter jest that seemed to mock him.

The first finalist to emerge was his uncle, Gwayne, carrying Helaena’s favor. As the representative of House Hightower, he faced a lord of House Tarly. The lengthy battle was one he scarcely managed to follow to its conclusion.

Following this, the white cloak faced a man of House Massey, and yet another victory was claimed by Cole.

Then came a lord of House Corbray, preparing for his bout against the champion of House Redford. Before taking his position, Corwyn Corbray approached, and to his relief, it was Baela who he called. His hands, which had been tightly clenched around the arms of his chair, could finally relax—though the calm was but momentary.

When the northern made his entrance, a tightening knot settled in his stomach. 

He rode forward with an unsettling air of assurance, each step of his steed echoing his unwarranted confidence. As he drew near, his imperious demeanor commanded the arena’s attention, and the balcony fell into a breathless, expectant hush.

“I was hoping, if it pleases you, to be honored with your favor, princess” Lord Stark intoned, his voice dripping with presumption that set his teeth on edge. The sheer audacity of his request struck a chord so deep that he felt a primal urge to unleash Vhagar’s wrath upon the starving wolf, reducing him to ash and rid the world of his unwelcome presence. 

The idea was intoxicating, yet, he remained tethered by the frail strands of his dwindling restraint.

He stood rooted, paralyzed by helplessness, as she gracefully got up from her seat and glided to the edge of the balcony. The sight of her giving that token to another man was a visceral blow, a dagger aimed directly at his heart with cruel precision. 

The sting of defeat was further compounded by the sound of her light, cheerful laughter. “I wish you success, Lord Stark” she said in a melody of condemnation. 

Though he had no right to complain, the agony of witnessing her favoring another while he languished in obscurity was a torment beyond bearing that made him yearn to sink into the shadows or vanish from existence entirely.

She turned back with a smile and settled once more into her seat, now perched at the edge as if seeking a better view, while clasping Jacaerys’s hand. 

And, as if the day could not grow more excruciating, Lord Stark proceeded to engage in a match against a representative of House Bolton. Despite his fervent hopes and to his deepest dismay, Stark emerged triumphant in the first round, thereby securing his place in the final stage of the tournament. 

In the shroud of nocturnal gloom, after a bath that had done little to soothe his frayed nerves, he sat there, the faint moonlight barely piercing through the darkness.

Despite the patience he believed he possessed, the inactivity became intolerable. The vision of her radiant smile directed at another—one he had helped to foster—replayed ceaselessly in his mind. It was as though he were trapped in a waking nightmare.

With a deep sigh, he closed the small wooden case he had been clutching.

He ventured out into the hallway once it was deserted, each step measured and deliberate, barely audible on the floor. He paused before her chamber, his heart pounding with the ferocity of a drum. He rapped softly upon the door, three times, each knock a quiet plea.

The world seemed to hold its breath in that suspended moment of silence. Then, he heard the distant sound of footsteps approaching, the noise quickening his pulse with a heady blend of hope and dread.

The door creaked open abruptly, and the small smile that had graced her lips vanished upon finding him. Her form, once inviting, was hardened with irritation. “Why is it that you are here?” 

“Because If I had knocked on the back door, you would have ignored me” he replied, awkwardly attempting to infuse a note of levity into the tense atmosphere.

“Perhaps that is because I would rather not see you at all” she retorted, sharply.

“But I must speak with you” he said, urgency reflected in his eyes. She made a determined attempt to close the door, but he swiftly interjected, placing his foot against it. The look of fury she gave him was intense, yet he continued to plead. “Please, do not shut me out. It is important.”

She looked at him for a minute that felt like an eternity, in conflict. Then, with a resigned sigh, she allowed him entry.

Once inside, she closed the door behind him and turned, crossing her arms defensively over her chest. The relief he had felt at managing to get in swiftly dissipated, replaced by a mounting anxiety with each passing second. 

He found himself immobilized by indecision, the right words eluding him.

“I have brought something for you” he murmured, as if the object might serve as a key to unlocking a more amicable dialogue.

“Do you truly believe a gift can make me forget?” She scoffed, glancing briefly at the case before turning her attention to the other side of the room, as if he was a trespasser in her sanctuary.

“Is he courting you?” The question burst forth, raw, more urgently than he had intended, driven by a need to know that bordered on desperation. Her response was a look of exasperation that deepened his sense of inadequacy.

Before he could gather his thoughts to frame a coherent response, she interrupted him with an impatient edge. “Speak quickly” she commanded, her tone brisk as she moved to the table to pour herself a drink. “It is ill-befitting a man to be found in a lady’s chamber at this late hour.” The coldness she exuded was as piercing and unyielding as the frost of the harshest winter.

The woman who had been the epitome of warmth now showed him an opposing face, a testament of how effectively pain could alter someone.

“I am at a loss for how to begin.” Each blink was a battle against the surge of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

She tilted her head slightly, her face inscrutable, but a spark of resolve soon crossed her features. “Perhaps,” she said softly, with a hint of purpose, “I may assist you. I shall ask you some questions.”

Before he could voice his hesitation, she had already begun. Her interrogations, delivered with a steely determination, sliced through the stillness of the room, leaving no space for evasion, deceit or half-truths. Her chambers now felt like a field in a war he hadn't prepared for. 

“Is she here now, in the castle?” she inquired. He silently pleaded for mercy, but she didn’t relent. “Answer me” she ordered, her tone growing more imperative. 

He struggled for a moment, the ache in his chest swelling as grim recollections emerged from the depths of his memory, rendering him smaller than he had felt in a long time.

“No” he uttered, and he observed a fleeting flicker of both relief and disappointment, as though a part of her had hoped for a different answer.

“Was it only once?” 

“Yes.”

“Was it… casual?” she asked, her vulnerability laid bare. “Or do your affections for her run deeper?”

“Of course not.” The assurance fell woefully short even to him. “I cannot even recall her name.”

“What?” Her voice rose with indignation, her brows arching in disbelief and he looked at her, powerless, his shoulders drooping. “How is it possible for you to have forgotten her name?”

“I was not in my right mind that night.” Each word he spoke seemed to dig him further into a pit of dishonor, his penance growing ever more profound.

“But you recall her, do you not?” she demanded. He inclined his head in the slightest of nods. “You remember her face, you remember her body” she pressed further, an unyielding assault on his fragile composure. If he could, he would willingly subject himself to the searing flames of dragonfire to erase those haunting memories. “Is she more beautiful than I?”

He met her gaze, his self-loathing deepened as he beheld the seeds of doubt he had sown in her. “No one could ever be” he asserted with conviction, hoping that his earnest words might mend the cracks in her heart.

Yet, his truthful response didn’t help. Her expression remained unmoved, dismissing his effort to soothe her. 

“Did you enjoy it?” Her eyes were bored into him, a search for any telltale sign. “Was it worth it, at least?”

“No” he breathed out.

“Have I ever seen her?” she asked, almost shaking with curiosity and desperation, needing to know every detail. “Is she a lady, a servant?”

A flush of mortification crept up his neck, scorching his cheeks as he grappled with the words. With a heavy sigh, fully aware that it would fortify the wall between them, he began. “No… she is…” he faltered, a relentless hammer pounding at his conscience. “She is a… whore.”

The silence that followed was deafening, and he averted his stare, unable to meet her judgment, as humiliation swallowed him whole.

A veneer of profound skepticism clouded her semblant, as though his assurances were mere fragments of an absurd fable rather than the truth. Her brows knitted together, and a sneer of disdain twisted her lips.

With revulsion, she decided that his words were not worthy of belief. Turning away, she faced the window, her posture as stiff as the cold night air. “My Aemond would never engage in such depravity” she proclaimed.

Her words spilled from her lips like an incantation cast to shield her cherished image of him from the harshness of reality—a vision she had clung to with all the fervor of her heart, and for which he would have sacrificed everything to achieve.

For him, witnessing her deny his sin was a cruel bittersweetness. On one hand, it was agonizing to realize the extent of his betrayal had wrought an irreparable wound in her perception of him.

On the other hand, there lay a strange solace. It spoke to a profound understanding of his true self—she could discern that his errors were entirely at odds with the essence of who he was. Her refusal to accept it was, in its own way, a declaration of faith, a hopeful cry.

“It was a moment of weakness” he insisted, unsteady with earnest desperation as he sought to appeal to her compassion.

“A moment of weakness?” she countered with a sharp edge of disillusionment. “Is this what you truly are—a weak man who cannot resist temptation?”

“It was a grievous mistake.”

“A mistake?” she echoed with rising ire, each word a stinging reprimand to his wounded pride. “Did you leave the castle by mistake? Did you venture to Street of Silk by mistake? Did you lavish her with coins by mistake? Do you take me for a fool?”

“I did not know…” he faltered, each utterance deepening his descent into the abyss of his guilt. “It was a… a gift.”

“A gift?” Her incredulous tone resonated with frustration. “What manner of excuse is that?”

“My brother” he explained. “Aegon wanted to help me, with you. As a gift.”

She scrutinized him, her mind attempting to unravel what his words hadn’t fully explained. The flickering light caught the pained shift in her expression before she asked, her voice tinged with trepidation. “When did this… happen?”

He was aware that the answer he was about to give would only worsen the wound and drive the final nail on his coffin. The thought that she would come to learn that the man who had basked in her devoted care had made such disastrous decisions while she stood by him was a suffering of his own crafting.

Especially on that night, when she had bestowed upon him the most beautiful gifts of her affection, when destiny itself seemed to be sealed with a kiss that marked a new journey for them. He recalled with vivid clarity how he left her waiting, how she had knocked on his door, how she had needed him, and he had just laid there, consumed by regrets.

“The last nameday you spent by my side” he finally confessed.

She fell silent, her face a canvas of disbelief as she struggled to process the information. Gradually, her expression contorted into one of pure horror and sorrow, a devastating amalgam that stole his breath away.

The look they shared was a taut cord, stretching painfully between their hearts. He knew with certainty that he shouldn’t draw closer, that she desired neither his closeness nor his touch.

“I am sorry” he murmured in a plea for redemption. “I am deeply sorry.”

Her tears fell in an unrestrained deluge, cascading as if released from a dam. Without warning, she moved hastily toward him. “Oh, Aemond.”

He stood paralyzed, caught at a crossroads, unsure whether to reach out for her or retreating, fearful of causing further harm. Before he could resolve it, she flung herself at him. But rather than seeking refuge on his chest, she enveloped him with a force that defied logic, as though she wished to meld into him entirely. His arms lay ensnared, trapped between their entwined forms.

She grasped his neck, forcing him to bend down so that his cheek rested upon her shoulder.

He remained in that position as she succumbed to her pain, the urgency of her embrace seeming more a desperate attempt to soothe him than a quest for comfort herself. For a moment, he allowed himself to savor this ephemeral return to the closeness he had so missed, even though the circumstances were heart-wrenching.

In a twist of the unexpected, she wept into his ear, her words barely audible through her cries. “Forgive me.”

When he drew away, her face was swollen, her cheeks streaked with the relentless streams that had left her weary. With shaking hands, she cradled his face. “I am sorry” she repeated, her breath erratic. 

“Why?” he asked, overwhelmed with confusion.

“For everything I asked, for all the words I spoke. I am so deeply sorry” she replied, breaking into a choked sob. Her lips quivered as she bit them, her eyes shining with heartache. “You do not understand, do you?”

“It was not your fault” she said, sadness wrapped around her every word. “You were just a child.”

Far from clarity, he looked at her, feeling how the lines of bewilderment etched deeper into his features. Words escaped him as a cry of desperation echoed within him.

A shiver of discomfort washed over him. “I was three and ten” he clarified. 

“I know” she answered, soft and broken, steeped in compassion. “My darling boy.”

“Old enough to know better” he countered, heavy with a devastating self-criticism and an unrelenting sense of shame.

She shook her head vehemently, filled with sadness, as if she could see further than he could and had reached the core. “And yet, so innocent to not expect the worst.” Her voice was a whisper, a lament.

Suddenly, an avalanche of thoughts began to assail him, a tumultuous storm of clarity crashing over him with an implacable force. The darkness he had long endured, the misery he had inflicted upon himself, was now shattered by a brutal illumination.

Yes, he was a child.

It wasn’t his fault for not being able to foresee it, stop it, overcome it. They were the ones who took from him what was his to have, to give.

The world began to spin with violence. The dizziness descended upon him brutally, turning the air thick and ungraspable, as if the walls were collapsing inward to crush him. Each breath became a monumental effort, a contest against the suffocation. His legs, once firm, could no longer bear the weight of his own existence, almost collapsing beneath him.

His palms and forehead began to pearl with cold sweat, his vision was blurred and a piercing pain began to carve his chest. 

With an instinctive sharpness that only the deepest bond can forge, she immediately perceived the gravity of his plight. Her eyes, before veiled in sadness, now blazed with resolute determination, focused to see him through that ordeal.

Gently, she sat him down, her movements imbued with a stable calm grace that seemed to defy the tumult around them, though the slight tremor in her hands betrayed her worry. Without hesitation, she procured a glass of water, holding it to his lips. “Drink” she urged, with authority and tenderness. 

As he drank, she stayed by his side, her hand softly stroking his back, an attempt to dispel the fog that clouded his senses.

“May I sleep with you tonight?” he ventured, emerging in a manifestation of vulnerability. 

“Would you prefer us to stay here, or go to your chambers?”

“The truth is” he murmured, admitting a deeper truth that made him feel even more exposed, “I do not like the view from my window.” She nodded softly, her understanding silent.

After a few minutes, she rose, her movements a dance of sadness and empathy, and went to the door, securing it with the latch. The sound was a promise of safety, a barrier against the outside. She then turned to the basin of water, dipping a linen cloth into its coolness. 

Unbeknownst to him, his own soul had overflowed, finding its escape through his eye. As she wiped his face with a tenderness that seemed to absorb not just his tears but the very pain that caused them. She dried her own as well, though her stare promised more.

“May I?” she asked gently, as if seeking permission to navigate his fragile state. He nodded, setting the small wooden case aside. 

With meticulous care, she removed his jackets and boots, her hands moving with a reverence of a healer tending to a sacred wound.

As he lay down, he was enveloped by the sweet fragrance of roses that lingered in the sheets. When she joined him, the bed became an oasis, where the burden of that long-festering night began to dissolve in the warmth of her proximity.

He had never confided that to another, for no one else could ever hold a candle to her. She, his sweet princess, who had defended to the hilt the child he once was, now gazed upon him with a love so profound it seemed to radiate from the very depths of her soul and cleared the darkest corners of his.

He cautiously lifted his hand to his face. She watched him in silence as he proceeded, slowly liberating him from the barrier that had shielded him from the world and himself, laying bare more than his wound.

Her breath caught in her throat as she beheld.

“You said I could think of it as a piece of sky, or sea, to remind me that I was destined for something greater” he whispered, referring to the sapphire that replaced his lost eye, “I chose to think of it as a part of you, for you are who I am destined to.”

In her, he discovered acceptance—an unwavering flame that had been there for him all along, waiting patiently to be stoked, to be his salvation.

@callsignwidow @purplegardenwhispers @helaenaluvr @scarletbedlam @fics-i-love-and-recommend @squidscottjeans @fossface @truly-abysmal @congenialcat @that-girl-named-alex @oh-you-mean-me @barnes70stark

[urhoneycombwitch]

living room lover’s rock

foreword: was in the mood for some domestic bitchy steddie x reader. that’s all

cw: no smut but sexual content (+18 as always), steddie established throuple/poly relationship, Steve’s kind of the sugar daddy, Reader with breasts, femme pet names used for R (princess, girl)

wc: 1.2k

___

It’s after six and Eddie’s got you pinned flat with his knee in your hip socket, hands dragging through each other’s hair, a proper couch spit-swapping session in full swing until the front door to the trailer slamming shut interrupts his rhythm.

“You two just couldn’t wait, huh?” Steve’s tone is husked with fatigue and admonishment as he hangs his jacket on the hall hook- must not be too upset, though, ‘cuz after toeing off his shoes he approaches the couch with head tilted in interest.

His fingers slip behind the knot of his tie, tugging it free from collared confines to hang loosely around his neck. His other hand plants itself on a hip as he stands over you and Eddie, watching, hunger brewing.

Eddie graciously attaches himself to the sweet spot behind your ear, freeing up your mouth to gasp and speak. “It- ah- it’s your boyfriend's fault. We were watching a movie and he stuck his tongue down my throat.”

Your accusation stands on grounds as shaky as your voice, and Eddie knows it, drawing back to nip at your collarbone before saying, “Didn’t hear you complaining, princess.”

“That’s because my mouth was occupied,” you snip, hands fisting tighter around the flannel of Eddie’s shirtsleeves.

In retaliation, Eddie pretends to eat your ear- chomping with loud and sloppy theatrics as you squeal and smack his ribs.

He’s still grinning like the devil when Steve sinks a knee to the carpet and gets a fistful of Eddie’s dark curls, pulling his head up and back by the roots, neck craned pale and lovely above you as Steve speaks. “Enough. You been torturing our girl, Eds?”

In response, you push up to your elbows, pressing fond kisses to either side of the Adam’s apple on display, held in place by Steve’s big hand as Eddie gulps around the sudden attention shift.

You almost feel bad for him, having been on the receiving end of the boys’ doubled focus many times before. But he did interrupt Sixteen Candles like, twenty minutes into the runtime- didn’t try very hard to wait for Steve at all, either- so you figure a bit of choice brown-nosing and light torment is called for.

“Been torturing me all day.” When your tone falls into that lilting, supplicating frequency that usually precedes something or someone coming, Eddie’s hands spasm around your hips (in warning, with pleading, anyone’s guess), a fruitless effort to get you to ease up.

Eddie’s chocolate eyes are half-lidded, not-quite panting but close to it as Steve leans closer, hints of the cologne you’d watched him tap delicately into his skin earlier this morning leftover and lingering in the shared air between the three of you as he purrs in Eddie’s ear- “Gonna say you’re sorry?”

Steve has introduced a fizzling swell of tension, growing as Eddie squirms against you and into the hold still tight in his hair; through the layers of denim, in the cradle of your hips, you can feel the stiff bulge of his cock growing stiffer by the second.

“Yeah, okay.” Remarkably well-behaved and compliant, Eddie rasps out his white flag, the grip in his hair loosed just enough so he can dip to press an appeasing kiss over your left breast (t-shirt sitting skewed and low from where he’d hastily pulled at it earlier). “Sorry ‘bout showing you a good time.”

It’s not even close to a well-rounded apology, but before you or Steve can catch him again Eddie’s sliding off and away, cool air flooding in as soon as he stands from where the warmth of his body was.

“She’s all yours, anyways, Harrington.” With kiss-bitten lips and wild hair, Eddie tugs at the front of his jeans before plunging into his pockets, feigning cool disinterest. “Gonna go out for a smoke.”

Steve settles into the couch cushion next to you, holding out an arm for you to tuck under. “Gonna wreck your lungs, Eddie.”

Adopting the same condescending tone, you add to the back retreating down the hall- “I won’t kiss you until you brush your teeth, Eddie.”

Eddie lifts a middle finger for each of you before the screen door slams shut behind him.

“Well he’s rude tonight,” Steve remarks, fondly, thumb working circles into the meat of your shoulder as he pulls you tighter to his side, arcing down for a kiss. “Good thing one of your boyfriends is a gentleman.”

Steve tastes like the sweet mint gum he always stows in his dash, with a hint of cherry chapstick. His cupid’s bow fits just right into the notch above your lips.

“Can’t really blame Eddie for his behavior,” you say, accusing again, this time with a softness that draws your nose into the curve of Steve’s neck. “Your stupid job kept you too late from us. Gonna make you quit soon.”

Steve huffs, irritated and amused- “If I don’t go to my stupid job then no more lights or water for our luxury palace.”

He stretches his legs towards the coffee table, hooking one ankle over the other, humming at the weight of you shifting further into his side.

You know he hates working for his dad, abhors the business-formal dress and the banality of numbers crunching; you also know that Steve likes providing. Needs to do it, an intrinsic part of his giving nature- he’ll work himself to the bone if it means you only have to work half shifts at the diner, if it allows Eddie to devote his free time to income-unrelated hobbies like D&D and the band.

“Gotta bring home the bacon,” Steve muses, rubbing absently at your upper arm, “God knows no one in this small-minded town will rent to our drug-dealing, delinquent, rumored-to-be satanist-”

“Hey.” The screen doors slams, Eddie drifting in on a cloud of cigarette smoke. “Watch it, pretty boy. Keep talkin’ and I’ll sic the devil on you.”

Steve sticks out his tongue, petulant. Eddie snaps menacingly at the air and flings himself down into the last spot on the couch, thigh pressed into Steve’s.

That simmering tension is back. You draw on your instigator tendencies, resting your elbow on Steve’s shoulder to wind a long lock of his chestnut hair around an index finger. “Aww. I think you two should kiss and make up.”

Lamplight glints off the silver hoops lining the shell of Eddie’s right ear, on his sharp canines as he grins, wolfish, leaning in to pucker at Steve.

With one last scathing eye roll, Steve gives in, guided by the push from your fingers at his temples- but the kiss doesn’t last more than two seconds before his head jerks away in disgust.

“Eugh. You forgot to brush!”

“Didn’t forget.” Smile turned shit-eating, Eddie jumps up from the couch “But I will for princess, here.”

He smacks a kiss to the crown of your head on his way to the bathroom. A moment later, the faucet spits on, and you turn to Steve, biting back a giggle at his less-than-enthused look.

“Asshole,” Steve mutters, but there’s a gentleness to it that makes you smile.

“Yeah,” you agree. “Ours, though.”

[vclko]

Allāhumma innī a`ūdhu biriḍāka min sakhaṭika, wa bimu`āfātika min `uqūbatika wa a`ūdhu bika minka lā uḥṣī thanā'an `alayka anta kamā athnayta `alā nafsika.

[midknighttalks]

could you imagine if some of the hive actually started worshipping eris morn and that was how we'd get actual hive allies instead of the situationship we have with savathûn.

could you imagi-

OR

instead of allies they just throw themselves at the last city's gates in relentless supplication to eris and meanwhile she's ardently refusing to associate with them

[revelboo]

what is your worst "hear me out" for transformers? mine is tarantulas like a spider in irl hell no… but a big robot spider thats hot

Probably Tarantulas (I love his Earthspark design) or IDW Waspinator.

I read Windblade for Metroplex lore and it reminded me of this messed up, fatally gullible mech that is everyone’s punching bag and just knows it.

Worker Bee

IDW Waspinator x Reader

• Dragging his broken body, his alt mode scrabbles for purchase in the leaf litter. It’s hard to focus on much besides the pain and finding somewhere safe to hide and heal. He’s not even sure what he did, only that Skywarp had pointed at him right before Megatron went ballistic on him and the two other Decepticons that had been close by. Maybe he had done something wrong. He must have. “Waspinator’s fault,” he rasps, antenna flicking because there’s light up ahead, a building where he’ll be out of the snow just beginning to fall. Leaving the tree line, he drags himself inside, legs scrabbling and knocking over a metal can that clatters as it goes rolling and he collapses on the straw inside. So tired, burrowing in.

• Looking up from your book at the noise, you groan because the raccoons are back and they’ve tipped over the trash can. It’s late and you just want to ignore it and deal with it in the morning, but there might be garbage strewn across the yard by then. Standing, you tug on a coat, grab a flashlight, and a rifle just in case it’s a bear, not cute little trash pandas raiding your garbage. You’d left the barn door open apparently and you find the can turned over, but its contents not scattered everywhere. Maybe the sound scared them off? Setting the gun down, you right the can and turn as something shifts within the hay, rising slowly to tower over you.

• There’s a human with a weapon. Here to hurt him, because everyone does. They always do. It hurts to transform and reach for the human, but his injuries throw him off balance and he crashes down, knocking the little organic sprawling with him. And you’re screaming at him, your fear jangling through him making him curl forward, servos over his head. Waiting for a blow that doesn’t come. “Not hurt Waspinator?”

• Hyperventilating as the monster lifts its big head slightly, you can’t even scream. Voice overlayed with slow buzz, the thing had spoken. It’s gigantic, seizing your ankle when you try to crawl away and dragging you back, looming over you. All you can do is hold up your hands in supplication as those awful mandibles work and those glowing optics stare. “Don’t hurt me.”

• This is new. Someone afraid of him? It should make him feel powerful to be the one feared for once, but it just makes him oddly ill. Sitting up and gingerly touching the wound in his torso sluggishly bleeding energon, he makes a buzzing click of his mandibles. “No hurt,” he says as you scramble to your hands and knees to put some distance between you. “Already hurt,” he adds tiredly, and you hesitate in your retreat. Staring at the energon welling through his servos. You take a hand through your hair, expression twisting.

• All you have to do is run like hell. That thing, Waspinator it had called itself, is hurt too badly to chase you. But there’s something about its defeated tone that makes you feel guilty. This isn’t your problem. Big and scary was already hurt when he crashed in your barn. So why do you go over to the workbench and retrieve a roll of duct tape? He hisses at you, rearing back when you try to touch him and you freeze. “Cut that out,” you snap and his antenna flatten back. Not hurt Waspinator? You’d guessed with the way he’d worded that question that maybe he’s used to being hurt. That he’d fold if you acted aggressive and you were right. It’s unsettling to see a giant, metal death bug cringe like a puppy being scolded. But he doesn’t make a peep as you find the hole in his metal side and gingerly tape the leaking lines, trying to not think too closely on what you’re touching or that your hands are inside him rooting around. “Waspinator, right?” The way he’s just staring down at you with those wide glowing optics just cements in your head that he’s a big, really ugly puppy.

Next

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

The Rift - Chapter Three

Pairing: Marcus Moreno x Marcus Acacius x Marcus Pike x f!Reader

Rating: Chapter is T, overall fic is E (18+ only, explicit smut)

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: Bad Latin, language barriers, lots of yearning, Marcus Acacius is Very Hot and no one knows what to do about it

Summary: Marcus Pike shows up at your door in the middle of the night with a very broad man in Roman armor in tow. Armed with only your Classical studies education and a Latin-English dictionary, you do your best to help.

A/N: Okay, we've got three of the four members of this grammatically insane polycule in the same space! Only one more to go! I wonder how a certain Leader of the Heroics is doing.... Just a reminder, to keep everyone sane, the POV character is called out by name at the beginning of each POV switch.

Masterlist | Chapter Two | Next chapter>>

(You)

At around the same time that the leader of the Heroics was impatiently waiting for his coffee maker to finish brewing, you’re startled awake by loud, forceful knocking on your door. 

Going from ‘asleep’ to ‘instant dread’ in the span of two seconds makes your body feel like it’s short-circuiting. You tumble out of bed, grabbing the nearest object to potentially use as a weapon. You examine your choice–Stephen King’s The Stand, and shrug internally. I mean, if any book could be a blunt weapon… 

With your fingers white-knuckled around the thick spine, you peer carefully through the peephole to find–

“Marcus!?”

You yank open the door to find the Special Agent of your dreams standing on your welcome mat. “What the hell? Do you have any idea what time–”

“It was an emergency,” the Agent says quickly, holding up his hands in supplication. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know who else to call.” The dread returns to the pit of your chest. “Marcus, oh God, are you okay? What happened? What’s wrong?”

“It’s not me, it’s um. Well, let me show you.” He grimaces, then pushes someone else out from behind the corner and into view. 

It’s a man–a very large man. A large, broad man wearing a dress. No, wait. That’s not a dress, that's…

“Marcus,” you say carefully. “Why is there a man dressed in Roman armor on my doorstep.

“Marcus,” the man repeats, and slaps his chest. 

“Yes, that’s right,” the Agent says tiredly, as though he’s gone through this several times in the past hour. “This is Marcus. He’s from the Rift. I... kind of almost hit him with my car.”

“Car,” the Roman says, nodding seriously. He looks you up and down in a way that makes heat creep to your cheeks, and says something in a language that you don’t understand, but seems oddly familiar.

“Oh my God,” you murmur to yourself. “He speaks Latin.”

“I’m kind of at a loss,” Marcus, your Marcus says with a tired sigh. “I don’t know whether to call someone at Heroics, HQ, or… I dunno. I mean, who the fuck do you call when you have… a Roman?”

“Hang on.” You hold up a finger and dash over to your office, which is really just a tiny room off of the living room filled to the brim with shelves and shelves of books, with a tiny desk squeezed in between.

“You should get rid of your old college textbooks,” you say to yourself in a mocking tone. “How many times are you going to move house, and you still have all these books taking up space? Well, the joke’s on you, Linda, because I’ve got a Roman Centurion in my kitchen and the man of my dreams showed up at my door at three in the morning because he needs my help and this is my moment, dammit.” Your finger finally lands on the text you were looking for–a dog-eared copy of Oxford’s Latin-English Dictionary with a broken spine and part of the front matter missing. On a whim, you grab the first book next to it, Ovid’s Metamorphoses in the original Latin, and race back to Marcus and… other Marcus. 

“Salve,” you begin, and the Roman’s eyes snap to yours. 

Marcus Pike grins as though you’ve hung the stars.

Flipping through the pages frantically, you manage to string together your first sentence.

“You… are… safe… with… us.”

You hope you conjugated the verb correctly. 

The Roman murmurs something back, speaking slowly and deliberately, understanding that this is very much not your native tongue. He repeats it twice, until your face dawns with understanding. 

“Where am I?”

“Jesus, can we start with an easier one?” you chuckle to yourself. After some quick thinking, you manage to explain to Roman Marcus that he is in a different country, very far away from the world he knows.

The man shakes his head. “Quam?” he murmurs to no one in particular. 

That’s a tough one, too. You have no idea how to explain black holes and time rifts in Latin. 

You make a face, putting your hands up and shrugging your shoulders in an exaggerated pantomime of, “I don’t know.”

The man nods slowly. You feel awful for him, really. Stranger in a strange land. He must be terrified.

“Famelicus,” he says. 

You don’t know that one. You flip through the pages to find the F’s. 

“Famelicus,” he repeats, pointing to his stomach. “Panis?”

“Oh shit, yeah,” you whisper. “Of course you’re hungry.” You turn to the cupboard that serves as your pantry and search for something he’d recognize. You pull out half of a baguette and hold it up hesitantly. The man rips it from your grasp almost comically and begins to tear pieces off of it with his teeth, devouring the bread with gusto. 

“This is surreal,” Pike murmurs under his breath. 

When the Roman finishes eating, he seems almost as interested in the clear plastic wrapping than in the bread itself. He stares at it, brow furrowed with a deep frown of concentration as he crinkles the plastic over and over again in his fist. 

“I hate to ask, but can we… can we crash here until morning when I can think straight and figure out what the hell to do with this guy?” Marcus asks, looking pained. 

“Yeah, ‘course,” you reassure him. “I’ll help you. We’ll get him back to where he needs to go, or... find the person who can. In the morning.”

“In the morning,” Marcus nods, smiling gratefully. 

Turning to the Roman again, you say haltingly, “Somnus. Nox. Somnus?” Sleep. Night. 

The Roman also looks relieved at the prospect of sleep. 

“Uh, cubile,” you say, gesturing at the couch and indicating he can use it as a bed. You’re about to go rummage in your linen closet for a spare blanket and maybe a pillow, but Marcus the Roman strides confidently over to the couch, lies down, and is snoring within seconds. 

“Woah,” you remark, laughing to yourself. “Shit, Marcus, I only have the one couch…”

“I’ll take the recliner,” he says quickly, pointing to the battered, second-hand Lazy Boy in the corner of your living room. “Listen,” he swallows thickly, looking up at you with those deep brown eyes that make you melt in any situation, much less in the middle of the night in your dark living room. “Thank you. I didn’t know where else to go, and you–Well, if anyone can speak a dead language conversationally, it would be you.” His voice is soft and earnest, and you want to tell him anything at all, Marcus, anything for you but you force yourself to bite your tongue.

“It���s no problem,” you assure him. “Honestly. I mean, talk about a Classicists dream, right? When do you ever get to use the stuff you learned in graduate school in the real world?”

Marcus chuckles softly. “Go get some sleep. We’ll tackle Mount Olympus in the morning, yeah?”

“That’s Greek, not Roman,” you snort.

He winks at you, and you will your knees not to buckle. “Whatever,” he teases playfully. 

“‘Night,” you say, hoping you don’t sound too breathless. Without waiting for a reply, you retreat to your bedroom before you can make a fool of yourself even further.

“‘Night,” Marcus returns softly, and when you turn to close the door, he’s still looking at you. 

(Pike)

Marcus awakens to the comforting sound of someone puttering quietly around the kitchen. He opens his eyes to see you–what a beautiful sight–reaching up on your tiptoes to take three mugs from the cupboard. The other Marcus is awake too, sitting at the kitchen table and watching your task with curiosity.

When he stirs from the recliner, you smile in greeting. “I made coffee,” you offer brightly. 

“Sainted being,” Marcus groans tiredly as he gets up from the chair, his joints creaking and protesting as he stands. 

“Cah-fee,” the Roman repeats as you pour the steaming liquid into three cups. 

“I don’t think you’re gonna like it,” you say with a chuckle as he reaches for one of the mugs. “It’s hot. Calidus. Be careful.”

“Care-fool,” the man nods seriously, and Marcus can’t help but smile at the bizarre domesticity of the scene. 

He sips cautiously, makes a face, and lets out a string of Latin that Marcus takes to understand that he didn’t like the coffee.

You snort. “I told you. How about, ah, milk?” You flip through your dictionary. “Lac? Lacte?” You take the quart out of your fridge and hold it up.

“Lac. Mil-k?” 

“Yes!” you squeal excitedly, spinning around to grab another cup. Before you can turn around, however, the Roman has managed to open the carton of milk himself and begins chugging from it. 

At your shocked expression when you turn back around, Marcus can’t help but let out a loud laugh. The other man stares at him questioningly, and he gestures to the cup. “The cup.”

“Cup,” the man repeats, and laughs too. 

“I’m gonna make some eggs,” you announce. “He should like that, you think?”

Marcus shrugs. “I don’t see why not.”

You hold up an egg for the man’s inspection. “Uh, ovum?” you ask.

His face brightens. “Sic, ovum,” he agrees. He stands and inspects the carton thoughtfully. “Quid est?” 

“Ovum,” you answer again, not understanding the question. 

“No.” The Roman picks one up carefully and points to himself. “Ovum,” he says patiently, then points to you.

Oh. Marcus grins. “I think he wants to know the word in English.”

“Egg,” you tell him. 

“Egg,” he repeats. The word seems to strike him as funny, because he repeats it several times, chuckling as he does. 

Now that understanding has been made, ‘Quid est?’ seems to be the man’s new favorite question. He repeats it over and over as you make breakfast, getting in your way in the process and generally causing chaos throughout the small apartment. Marcus tries his best to run interference, answering all of his questions to the best of his ability. Thankfully, he seems to stick to objects that are familiar to him–a pillow, chair, fork–rather than ask Marcus about the microwave, or, god forbid, his cell phone. He repeats every English word thoughtfully, in a thick accent and rumbling voice that he can’t help but find attractive. 

“Hey, you don’t think anyone else saw our friend here last night and said anything?” you say suddenly while the three of you sit around your kitchen table eating the eggs. 

Somehow, the thought hadn’t even crossed Marcus’s mind. “Shit, I dunno,” he admits.

“I’m gonna check the news.” you grab the remote off of the coffee table and switch on the TV. 

The noise and pictures emanating from the screen immediately cause Marcus to spit curses in Latin. He tries to rise from his chair in alarm, but you place your hand on his forearm and repeat several words in Latin softly and reassuringly, and the man calms. 

The local news is, as it has been since its arrival, fixated on the Rift. Everything seems as expected–normal seems to be the wrong word–until Marcus realizes what the anchor is saying. 

“ –was successfully closed around six am this morning. Joining us now is Marcus Moreno, leader of the Heroics, to give us an update on the situation.”

“What do they mean, ‘Closed?’” you ask with a frown. 

“Shh,” Marcus says. 

“Mr. Moreno, representatives from your team are saying that the portal is now closed, is this correct?” the anchor asks. 

“That’s right. The um… the security risk was too great, and we don’t really know what that kind of rip in the fabric of uh, you know, space and time, is capable of. Our team of physicists have been working on a solution day and night and I’m happy to announce that the Rift has disappeared completely and Pennsylvania Avenue should be reopening in the next few days as cleanup begins.”

“Is there any chance of it opening again?” the anchor asks. 

Marcus Moreno looks uncomfortable. “Listen, the… the math around this isn’t my strong suit, but my understanding is that these kinds of things–rifts in space and time–can only happen when an exponential amount of energy is released, so barring another supervillain somewhere out there with the same Black Hole bomb, there shouldn’t be any more Rifts opening in the nation’s capital anytime soon. Uh, thanks.”

“He’s always so stiff in interviews,” you comment. “You think he’s uncomfortable with the limelight, or what?”

“Are you being serious right now?” Marcus shakes his head in disbelief. “The portal is closed. The Rift is gone. And our friend here is trapped on the wrong side.”

“Oh, shit,” you breathe. “Oh, fuck. Marcus… what do we do?”

“I’m gonna go to Heroics HQ,” Marcus announces. “To talk to Moreno one-on-one and try to keep this situation quiet. He’s a good guy, he’ll use discretion.” “You know Marcus Moreno?”

“How is that your takeaw–nevermind. I mean, I don’t know him, but I’ve definitely come across him in professional settings in the past. Why?”

“He’s–” you laugh nervously. “It’s silly. I always kind of had a crush on him. Childhood celebrity crush, you know how it is.”

“Oh. Right.” Is it hot in here? Did someone raise the temperature in this room? Marcus can’t explain why the prospect of you finding the leader of the Heroics attractive eats at him so much, but the next thing that you say nearly makes him swallow his tongue.

“Actually, you resemble him a lot,” you comment nonchalantly. “You’ve got the same pretty brown eyes.”

The other Marcus chooses this moment to hold up his empty plate and ask, earnestly, “Egg?”

[greenbergwrites]

oh wait wait wait hang on one more

temple attendant steve, dressed in wispy white tunics, quietly cleaning and caring for the temple and the supplicants by day, always so sweet and tender for the people coming to beg the god for children or whatever other things they are praying for

and by night getting thoroughly railed by his hungry god

I wrote like 1500 words to this and my computer decided it did not want to work properly anymore. I managed to rewrite what I’d lost and then get to this point before my computer decided to stop working completely. I had to wait to post this at work XD

So. Like. I meant to change the way it ends or at least write more but I don’t know when I’ll get the home computer situation fixed so I figured I’d just throw it up here for your enjoyment.

It is weirdly angsty, Bucky is hardly in it, and it's minor character focused for something that was supposed to be a porn prompt. But I still like it.

Warnings for a famine situation and all that goes with it and mentions of fertility issues.

Also, if anyone can’t tell, I’ve been scouring my inbox all week for goodies. This one’s from 2022 based on this post and then this story.

Alpha Fertility God Bucky, Take #2

–

Steve was born an Omega runt and we’re not going to enlighten this ‘verse, either, so that’s bad. His birth pack gives him to the temple as a babe and that’s where he grows up.

He could grow up bitter and angry, but he doesn’t. Somehow, he turns out kind.

Each morning, he is the first to greet his Alpha Lord in the temple. The sun’s rays have barely peeked over the horizon when he slips through the columns of the great hall, heading toward a smaller back chamber.

In his teens, the birth rate in the village rose for several years. During that time, the temple saw a boom. The priests received enough money to enlarge the temple and build a new statue of their god, one seated on a huge dais, glittering gold and taking up most of the wall.

Steve does not approach this statue, though he takes the time to pause and bow to it as he walks.

No, the statue he greets every morning is the one that had been there when he’d been given to the temple. It’s in a small chamber now facing the eastern horizon.

Some of the younger attendants call it the morning god for the way its bathed in light each sunrise. 

Steve carries with him a tray, which he sets at the statue’s feet.

The first step in his morning ritual is to kiss the statue on each cheek.

“Good morning, my Lord Alpha,” he murmurs, bending to light the incense. “Did you sleep well?”

Statues do not sleep, of course, but Steve always asks. He hopes that perhaps, somewhere in the great universe, his lord hears a whisper on the wind and knows that someone cares.

The incense burning, Steve picks up a small, decorative bowl filled with perfumed water. Dipping two fingers into it, Steve sets about spread the perfume upon the statue.

When he was a child, he watched the High Priests perform this ceremony to this very statue each morning. Now, they do it to the new statue, but they wait until the doors are open and the village people can witness their dedication.

It is a show performed for the peace of mind of the villagers. This is not a show. It is worship.

“The drought continues,” he says as he works. “Three weeks since the last rain. The farmers worry too much of the food will rot in the fields and we won’t have enough for winter.”

The statue perfumed, he sets down the bowl and opens the last item on the tray: a small cloth tied into a knot. Inside is a small chunk of bread and cheese, the two of items together no bigger than his fist.

“We’re asked to reduce our offerings,” he continues. “I understand. Babes need food and I think you would rather see them eat. But I cannot let you go hungry, so I brought you this. It’s from my breakfast, so no one will will suffer.”

With everything set out, Steve kneels once more, closing his eyes as he leans his cheek against the statue’s knee. He stays there, allowing himself this peace, until the sun warms his back and he hears others in the great hall. Only then does he begin his day.

He began temple life as a cleaner. It is the easiest job for children and the attendants were always good about keeping them away from the statues when they were too young to comprehend. 

He did that job well, but the problem with cleaning is it is a mindless task. It was so easy to listen in on what was being said around him and through that, he heard the pain of the people in the village. What was he to do but offer comfort?

Too many times being caught by the priests and finally, they made it his job. He now helped the villagers with their offerings, listened to their stories, offered whatever comfort he could. 

It was not much in the grand scheme of things, but it mattered. It was a job he could be proud of.

When the great doors opened, the first thing Steve hears is the familiar sound of a wooden cane striking hard earth.

Old Man Erskine is the oldest Omega in the village. Every morning, he makes the trek from his little hut to the temple and leaves a modest offering of dried fruit seeds. They are never for himself; always, he offers in the same of someone he thinks can use an extra prayer.

For the past decade, he’s had trouble with his hip. The walk hurts him but he refused the notion of giving it up or asking another to make the offering in his stead. His only concession seems to be allowing Steve to help him from the great doors to the altar across the room.

“Who is it for today?” Steve asks as they make the trek.

“My granddaughter,” Erskine says, his breathing hard and labored with the effort. “The eldest one. Her sisters have all born children, but she and her mate are still without. She’s a good girl and I know she’d make a good mother. She deserves this.”

Steve smiles, squeezing Erskine’s hand. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a trio of seeds.

“To add to your offering,” he murmurs, tipping the seeds into the Omega’s open palm. “It isn’t much, just from yesterday’s snack. Perhaps with these, my lord will hear your prayer and grant her a blessing.”

Erskine’s own offering is meager, a scant few seeds, but it must be. They are all struggling in these times.

His eyes shine as he lifts his gaze to Steve. With his free hand, he touches his palm to Steve’s cheek.

“Bless you, boy,” he says. “What a joy you are.”

He bends his head, kissing the seeds and whispering a prayer before he flings them at the statue’s feet. As they fly through the air, Steve closes his eyes and adds his own prayer.

When the old man leaves, another takes his place and then another, and another. 

At some point in the morning–and he doesn’t know when–Steve becomes aware of a lurking presence in the shadows of the great hall.

He’s a tall, broad Alpha male dressed all in black, a sword at his hip and his hood pulled low. There is an air of power and confidence surrounding him that Steve has never seen before–not even in the richest of men.

The scent trail he leaves behind is intoxicating, heavy and dominating. It holds an undercurrent of arousal, as if the Alpha is on the cusp of his rut. It might explain why he’s in the temple at all, though he never goes to the altar.

Steve means to talk to him–to ask if he can offer guidance–but he is waylaid at every turn. 

First a new mother coming to thank the god for her easy birth and then a string of new brides hoping to be blessed on their wedding night.

The latest is a young boy, perhaps only eight. He’s too young to present yet, but Steve sees the Alpha in him already. The poor boy worries too much for his family, a weight of responsibility on him that should not be on one so young. The boy’s mother is set to give birth within the month and someone’s filled his head with the horrors of labor. 

Steve doesn’t ask who; he’s afraid that if he knew, he would hunt them down for hurting this innocent.

He kneels with the boy at the statue's feet, stroking his hair.

“I don’t have anything to give,” the boy whispers, watching others lay down their offerings. He turns to Steve, staring up at him with big brown eyes. “I didn’t…I didn’t know I needed anything.”

Steve smiles and kisses his forehead, reaching into his robes to pull out a silver coin.

“Here,” he says. “Give him this and tell him your fears.”

He would’ve used the coin to buy material for a new tunic. Some would call it a sacrifice, giving the coin away, but Steve doesn't see it that way. Alleviating this boy's fears is far more important. 

“It will be a wasted blessing, though, I think,” he muses. “The mother of a boy so strong and good could not fall to the labors of bringing his sister into the world. I’m sure of it.”

“Sister?” The boy looks up at him in surprise. “Do you think?”

Steve hums, carding fingers through his curls.

“Yes,” he says decisively. “Only the most worthy big brothers are given little sisters, and I can’t think of a big brother more worthy than you. In a month, your mother will be fine and you’ll have a sister to look after. You’ll bring them to the temple so I can meet them, won’t you?”

The boy beams. “Yes,” he vows.

Throughout it all, the stranger in black is an ever lingering presence in his periphery. The Alpha walks the edge of the room, a silent, intimidating presence. Watching.

It’s curious that no one has asked him to leave yet, given the fact that he has offered no prayer or trinket or even supplication to the god. This is a sacred space, it isn’t for gawkers. 

Steve has only just decided that if no one else will do it, he will ask the stranger to leave, when he sees the woman.

She’s another of the villagers, though not one that he ever remembers seeing. Her clothes are threadbare and worn, dark bags under her eyes and her hair neglected and unkempt. She’s far too thin, especially for someone with a growing babe in her arms and two small children trailing behind.

It takes such energy to care for the young, but this woman looks like she has nothing left to give. She’s exhausted, on the verge of tears, defeat showing in every line of her body.

Steve, the stranger in black forgotten, approaches her with open hands and an encouraging, sweet smile.

“What blessings do you ask for today?” He asks by way of greeting.

The woman hesitates, looking from the child in her arms to the two hiding behind her skirts. She looks back up at Steve, a little lost.

He understands. Whatever she’s here for, she doesn’t want the children to hear. He beckons another attendant over, bidding them to watch the children while he takes the mother across the room.

They kneel together at the altar, the mother staring at her lap unseeing. Her eyes brim with tears, her knuckles bloodless where she clutches her dress.

“It’s not right,” she murmurs, her voice coarse. “It’s not right to ask what I’ve got to ask.”

Steve touches her hand. “That’s not for us to decide. Go on. He will understand.”

She takes in a ragged breath, shaking her head just once as a tear slips down her cheek. She sighs the sigh of someone too burdened.

“The little one,” she says, “he’s six months next week. His Daddy’s already talking of another. He comes from a big family, you see, and he wants one of his own. I wanted to give him that, once upon a time. I did. But it’s too many mouths, my lord. The field’s aren’t yieldin’ what we need. One of us’ll be dead before winter’s through if we keep going like this.”

She closes her eyes, rocking against her hands.

“It’ll be me,” she whispers. “It’ll be me, ‘cause I won’t see my children starve. I won’t. But if I’m gone, who’ll care for them?”

Steve’s stomach drops. Suddenly, her thin frame makes too much sense.

“When’s the last time you’ve eaten?” He asks softly.

“Doesn’t matter,” she says, cutting him a hard look. “I won’t see my children starve.”

The fire in her dies as quickly as it came. She reaches into her skirts with shaking hands and brings out a tattered cloth. When she unfolds it, it holds only a single slice of apple.

“It’s all I have to give,” she murmurs. She looks to Steve again, but this time, she’s uncertain. “I’ve never offered before. Never needed to–the babes came quickly, one after another. What do I do? Just leave it here?”

Steve swallows roughly.

“What is it, exactly, that you ask for?”

She trembles, her fingers spasming around the cloth. She has the look of a woman who knows that if she speaks the words out loud, she can never take them back. But she knows she has to.

“Make me barren,” she whispers. “I’ve had three, let me have no more. I don’t care if it makes him hate me, I can’t watch them waste away.”

She hesitates, her breathing ragged, before breathing out, “And I don’t want to die.”

Steve gathers her to his chest, squeezing as tightly as he can.

“You won’t,” he whispers. “You won’t, I won’t let you. Wait here, I’ll help.”

He lets go, thrusting himself to his feet and taking off toward the back rooms of the temple. Underneath the main chamber, the kitchens are situated. He runs through the halls until he reaches them, taking up a basket and filling it with anything he can find.

There must be something in his expression because none of the kitchen workers try to stop him, though many give him hard looks that say they will be telling the high priests. He doesn’t care. He will take whatever punishment they dole out, but he will not let a mother or her children starve. 

They have plenty, what is it for if not to help those that serve his lord?

He comes to a halt when he enters the great hall again. The woman still kneels at the altar, but the stranger in black is with her now. He squats in front of her, smoothing down her unkempt hair as she drinks from his waterskin.

Her burden is gone. Life had weighed her down only minutes before, but it’s seemingly disappeared. She stares at the stranger with a dazed expression.

The stranger stands, helping her to her feet. He kisses her knuckles and then her forehead before bidding her back toward her children. 

A shaft of light catches her face and to Steve’s utter bafflement, she no longer looks haggard and worn. Her once sallow skin glows with health, the bruises gone from her eyes and with it, her palpable exhaustion.

Steve starts to go after her, but the stranger intercepts.

“What have you done to her?” He demands, trying and failing to look over the stranger’s shoulder. “Move at once! She needs food before she keels over.”

“Be still, little one,” the stranger soothes, taking Steve by the shoulders. “She is well. She will not starve, I give you my word. I have seen to it.”

Steve looks up at him, confused and a little dazed himself. The stranger’s hood has been removed, the lines of a strikingly handsome face revealed. His scent is overwhelming, crackling like the atmosphere before a lightning strike.

“What did you do to her?” Steve asks again, softer this time.

“I did nothing but take her burden,” the stranger promises, touching his cheek. “She will have nothing more to fear.”

Steve frowns, looking down at the basket in his hands. He tries to peek around the stranger again, but he cannot find the woman.

“Truly, she will be alright?” He asks, scanning the crowds. “She will not starve?”

When he looks back to the stranger, it’s to see a sweet smile spreading across his full lips.

“You care very much, don’t you, little one?” The stranger asks gently.

“Of course,” Steve says, affronted. “These people trust me. They trust my Alpha Lord. What would I be if I took that so lightly?”

“Unremarkable,” the stranger answers, as if the question were not rhetorical. “And unfortunately common. Not many take their service to the gods so seriously.”

Yes, Steve thinks sourly. He knows too well.

He has seen it too often in his short lifetime, not just from other attendants but from the priests as well. His fingers tighten around the basket.

He will need to return it to the kitchens if the mother will not need it, but he can’t seem to find it in him to do it now.

“What brings you to the temple?” He asks instead. “You have been here a long time, but have made no offering. Do you have nothing to give?”

The stranger smiles at him again, strong fingers brushing along Steve’s jaw.

“If I said that I did not,” he murmurs, “would you give to me the way you have given to all the others?”

Oh. Steve blushes, the heat rising in his cheeks quickly.

The stranger has been watching him.

“Yes,” he answers truthfully. “If you tell me what you’d ask of my lord, and if it is not blasphemy, I would help in whatever way I can."

The stranger leans forward, his lips brushing the shell of Steve’s ear.

“That's good,” he murmurs, “because what I desire, little one, is a mate."

[leiascully]

Fic: adoration, contrition, thanksgiving, supplication (R, MSR)

2050 words; M for intimate situations; sex is easy (sometimes); trigger warnings for mentions of canon-typical violence, trauma, and guns

She is drawn up slowly from the caliginous depths of sleep by sensation. It speaks to years of therapy and her body’s subliminal connection to Mulder’s that she doesn’t reach for her gun. It is her instinct now, trained into her bones. The textured handle of her pistol is as familiar as a teddy bear. It wasn’t her dream to go from somnolent to armed in less than two seconds, but she’s made the acquaintance of too many nightmares.

Tonight, or this morning - she has woken into ambiguous, crepuscular light - she recognizes Mulder’s specific bulk behind her, the particular texture of his fingertips as they skim up her thigh. They have rules: the first touches are firm, reassuring, familiar. They begin with less vulnerable areas. She flinched from his hands, once or twice, involuntarily. He hissed between his teeth when she touched his head from behind. Fight or flight, fawn or freeze: they are both a little feral these days, peering out from the underbrush of their memories. There are hollow places inside them where an echo sounds like a scream.

This moment is very nearly normal, or what she can remember of normal. She doesn’t have to consciously unclench each muscle. She doesn’t count her quickening breaths. When he kisses the back of her neck, she leans into him. His fingers trace the lean line of her thigh, dipping teasingly between them before his palm flattens over her hip, her belly, her ribs. He cups her breast, thumbing the tight bud of her nipple. His lips are warm against the curve of her shoulder.

Sex is easy for them, after all the years of lofty intellectual foreplay. He was inside her psyche long before he was inside her body. She’d explored every coiled passage of his thoughts. There was a shocking intimacy about it, their minds meeting like an open-mouthed kiss. Each conversation stroked along her nerves. Each argument was a shared breath. The devoutly wished consummation, when it happened, had a rhythm so familiar she wondered for a moment if it wasn’t the first time, if she’d forgotten somehow, but it was just the push and pull that had always been between them, translated from air to flesh.

Sex is difficult for them, too. Arousal and fear walk the same paths: adrenaline spikes, hearts race. Gooseflesh ripples her skin and she forgets to breathe, and it feels like love, and it feels like terror. They both have their too-tender places where the nerves are laid bare. There are times he starts to move against her and then shies like a skittish horse. They are gentle with each other even when they abandon civility. Each time is a first time, still, strangers exploring strange lands, even though she’s mapped him on her own skin.

In this liminal moment, she craves him like salt. She turns her face to his, captures his mouth. He squeezes her breast and she groans into the space between his teeth. She likes to feel him swallow the sound, hungry for her. Mulder consumes her like a forest fire. There’s a heat between them that’s necessary for her survival. They go up together, sparks against the night sky, and find themselves unharmed, renewed.

She slides her tongue into his mouth, tasting his need. She tugs at his lower lip, plush as a carnival prize. Her back is still pressed to his belly. She spreads her legs, hooking her foot behind his calf, and reaches between her legs to find his cock. Now he’s groaning as she licks the sound out of his mouth. She reaches down again, pushes two fingers deliberately between her folds. She’s so, so wet for him, and so grateful that her body can do this, after everything. Whatever she’s lost, she still has this: the slickness of her against the unyielding heat of him. His cock rests in the groove of her like they were made for each other. When she moves, just a little, his head grazes her clit and she gasps.

“Fuck,” he says into her mouth, and she swallows that too, unwitting inarticulate ejaculation. This is what she does to him: she’s a bull in the china shop of his mind, rendering his fine thoughts into shards. But he does the same to her. She can name the bones of the wrist until he’s wrist-deep inside her; the only insertions she remembers are the way he pushes into her. College and grad school and med school and the Academy and all of it gone. She takes God’s name in vain. She forgets her own.

He growls, just a little, and slides his other hand under her, caressing her other breast and urging her over at the same time. She straddles him, leaving a wet spot on his belly. They like it when she’s on top. She’s in control when she wants to be, along for the ride when she doesn’t, and she knows he likes the view. He pulls her down to suck at her breasts. She leans in, guiding his hand to the nipple that isn’t in his mouth. Together they roll it between their fingers. She doesn’t stifle her cries. She feels them spike through him like electricity. His hips jolt behind hers.

His free hand is on her back, caressing the long muscles. It’s sweet, soothing; it doesn’t satisfy her. She guides his hand between her hips and his belly instead. His fingers find her clit unerringly. X marks the spot, she thinks. She sits up, gazes down at him with half-lidded eyes. He loves to see her like this. Scully, victorious, he calls her sometimes. She touches her own tits and lets him watch. He’s so fucking beautiful like this. She is cognizant, every time, of the gift of himself that he offers her.

His fingers underneath her slide further, the tips dipping inside her. She lets him see how it feels, how she loves it, how warmth blooms inside her. He watches her parted lips with ravenous avidity. She reaches behind her and wraps her fingers around his cock. If he can’t have her mouth at the moment, at least he can have the cup of her palm. His fingers sink deeper into her until she’s riding his palm. His cock throbs in her hand.

“Please,” she whispers. He smiles at her, dazed but wry. They’re both pleasure-drunk, dizzy with needy delight. She pushes up on her knees until his fingers slip out of her. It’s simple to angle her hips to take his cock instead, just the tip straining against her entrance. She dips her head to tease his nipples with her teeth. His chest hair tickles her face. She rubs the tip of her nose over his pecs, enthralled by the texture and the scent of him. And then she eases back onto him, inch by agonizingly slow inch until he’s panting.

There’s always an exquisite triumph in this moment of joining. They’ve conquered Everest; they’ve saved the world. Closer to say they’ve discovered the truth, she thinks. All along, the alchemical reaction was simple physics, or biology, or chemistry. All along, they had the pieces of the alembic, if they’d thought to assemble them.

Her hips ache but she sinks down further. She can never take him deep enough to satisfy her, though he’s buried to the hilt, her mound flush against his curls. She rises, sinks, grinds. He heaves up into her and she rides him like a rough sea. She rakes her nails lightly over his chest. He reaches up for her tits. Every place he touches her is illuminated, she’d swear. Light dances across her vision and through her body.

She’s close, God, she’s so fucking close to losing herself, but he’s so far away down there on the mattress. She needs to see him, to know him, to feel his arms around her. There have been other Mulders, imposters and replicas. She needs to recalibrate, reassuring herself that he’s the genuine article. Besides, she loves the drowsy glint of his dilated eyes, the sharp edge of his desire striking sparks off her own.

She tugs at him, her words lost in the maelstrom of pleasure, and he manages to sit up without dislodging her. Their frantic movements slow as they gaze into each other’s eyes. She slides slowly down from the precipitous edge of pleasure into something softer but no less rapturous. They rock together, equal partners. She shifts again to take him deeper and he tilts his hips to give her what she needs. She kisses him and he opens his mouth to her. There’s a profound reciprocity in the way his tongue yields under hers.

Each movement is mutual. Each sigh and moan is echoed, amplified. Their hands skim over each other. They hold each other close. She loves the urgency when they fuck, but this is something achingly sweeter. His eyes gleam in the dim. She thinks she might cry - maybe out of relief, maybe just a release.

“I love you,” she tells him. She’s never said it out loud before, somehow.

“Scully,” he says in a voice of infinite tenderness. She thought she’d mind that he doesn’t use her first name, even now, but it’s a shibboleth between them. He has passed her checkpoints; he can enter at her gates.

“Mulder?” She might be crying now. She might be laughing. But he’s there with her: half a gasp, half a chuckle.

“I’ve always loved you,” he says. “Since the rain and the mud in Oregon. Since you stripped out of that bathrobe. I would have done this then if I’d thought you wanted to.”

“You should have asked,” she says, though she knows that’s in flagrant disregard of their history. They weren’t ready for each other then, not like this. They might have had sex, but it wouldn’t have been this discursive inception: her moving in him moving in her, souls grafted together, blooming, fruiting.

She can tell by the crinkle of his eyes that he knows it. There were moments in Oregon in the rain and the forest and the hotel that every possibility felt open to them. She feels it still: wistful for what might have been if they had touched each other before the world had reshaped them, grateful for the relative safety and joy they’ve found in the life they’re living now. Sex is almost the least of their intimacies now. Still, when she touches him, when he touches her, she feels transformed.

After all they’ve endured, she is poignantly aware of the precious fragility of this peace, this pleasure. Whatever price they have paid, they have redeemed the investment. The rising light of dawn brings out gold flecks in his eyes. Under his hands, she feels the steel of her own spine. She kisses him, murmuring his name like a benediction. Blessed is she among women. She wouldn’t take back any step on the path that has brought them here.

There are no words after that. They don’t need them. Their bodies talk the way their bodies have always talked, a communication beyond language. She moves over him and he moves in her until they’re both quivering. They have sanctified this space. She is washed clean in the waters of his love. And she’s rising, rising, rising on the crest of a wave of pleasure. She whispers his name into his neck and he holds her close and there’s a moment of apogee that stretches out and then the wave crashes and she’s submerged in sensation, gasping for breath. And Mulder’s coming too, crying out as he shivers into her. She clenches her inner muscles around him as his cock throbs, relishing the feeling.

Sometimes after he comes, he’ll lick her clean, his arm braced over her shaking hips as she comes and comes and comes. She loves it, but it’s not the kind of night where he leaves her too weak to walk. Instead, they slide slowly onto the bed together. He wraps her in his arms. They’ll get up in a minute, clean up, find a washcloth for the wet spot. For now, she melts into him and whispers a prayer of gratitude. When she opens her eyes, he is haloed in light: holy, holy, whole.