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strang3lov3 · 3 days ago

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The First Taste

Roman offers you money if you just let him put the tip in. Just the tip, that's all (it's not all).

Tags - smut, loss of virginity, virgin!reader, virginity kink, big dick roman roy, dare i call that cock gargantuan, ludicrously capacious, even? Unprotected piv, fingering, blow jobs, cunnilingus, hand jobs, nipple stim, just the tip (it’s never just the tip) dubcon, manipulation, deception, coercion, betrayal, Roman solicits sex from reader and is also insensitive about stds, pay him no mind. I made myself soaking wet every day while writing this so. Do what you will with that information. 5.8k words. A/N - This is just...smut. Beginning to end. I’m gonna be working on stepdaddy after this, probably write a stepdaddy sick fic cuz I feel kinda like shit. Kisses to all yall sluts 😘

Finally, some fucking quiet. For now.

The couple in the hotel room next to yours has been going at it all night, a marathon of fucking. Endless moans, rhythmic squeaking of the bed becoming louder and faster, then quieter and slower. This couple makes you wonder if their room is the honeymoon suite or something, the way they’re fucking like a couple of newly-wed bunnies. You rest against the plush headboard, closing your stinging eyes momentarily.

You dipped from the wedding an hour or so ago, maybe closer to two hours at this point. It’s about midnight now. You’re alone in your room, crinkling the once neatly made bedding as you play a dumb little game on your phone. Your mind wanders as you mindlessly tap the screen, thinking about what the couple next door is doing. What he’s doing to her, what she’s doing to him. How good it all feels, probably. You wonder what it’s like.

Knock. Knock knock. Knock knock. Knock knock–

Roman. You don’t even have to look through the peephole to know it’s him. Nobody else knocks like that, and nobody else would show up at your door at this particular hour. You sigh as you get out of bed, taking heavy steps toward the door before opening it.

“Evening, sexpot. You have something of mine and I’d like it back, please and thank you.”

Roman’s still wearing the outfit he wore during the wedding, though missing his suit jacket and tie. The sleeves of his white button down shirt are rolled above his elbows, there’s an extra button undone. Once neatly slicked back, his hair is now disheveled, a few loose strands falling over his eyebrows. His eyes are half-lidded, lips curled into that smug, casual, infuriatingly handsome smirk he always wears. He looks gorgeous.

“I do?” you ask, thinking before remembering quickly. “Oh, shit. Yeah, I do.” You open the door wider and make space to allow him to follow behind you, Roman first closing the door. You unplug his charger from the wall outlet and wrap the cord in a figure-eight around your fingers, some habit you’re not sure where or when you picked up. Roman holds out his hand and you place the charger in his palm. “So is the wedding finally over?”

“Mhm. You vanished on me, though, Cinderella. I thought I’d get at least a dance out of you but you stood me up, you heartbreaker, you. Felt like a virgin on prom night,” Roman laments with a dramatic flair, no real hurt in his tone. “But I’ll live. Me and some bridesmaid-chick totally dry humped on the dance floor, so it all worked out.”

You know he’s teasing, probably lying. Embellishing the truth. But it makes you squirm just the same, and you’re not totally sure why. You could be a little jealous, maybe. But there’s another reason, too.

“Anyway, uh. Thanks. I’ll leave you to it,” Roman says, toying with the charger cord.

“No, thank you. Came in hand–”

“Oh, fuck, like that. Just like that, harder, harder, fuck, ohhhh!”

You’re interrupted by the sounds of your temporary neighbor’s moans that you’ve become very well-acquainted with. “Oh my god,” you mumble, rolling your eyes.

Roman’s lips curl into an even wider smile, his eyes lighting up as he raises his eyebrows. “Oh, nice!” he says, giggling, “Man. That’s awesome. Lucky you, with your front row seat to the show. Maybe there’s a hole in the wall behind this mirror or something. You should see if you can watch.”

“They’ve been going at it for hours,” you deadpan.

Roman nods in approval, that big, stupid smile still on his lips. “Awh, fuck yeah. Good for them. You should ask to join. We both could, actually. Let’s go knock.”

Your cheeks heat up at the idea, even knowing Roman’s not serious. Probably not serious, at least. Roman notices this, takes mental notes of your flustered expression, how you look anywhere but at him. The shifting of your feet, the unnecessary movements your body makes as you squirm. “Ahh, too shy. I get it,” Roman says. “So you’re just - you’re…what, jerking off to it in here, all by your lonesome? Fuck, did I interrupt? How rude, let me get out–”

“No!”

“No? You want me to stay?”

“No - you - I–” you huff, closing your eyes as you inhale and exhale a deep breath. “I meant that I’m not…you know. Doing that.”

Roman’s eyes sparkle. “It’s okay, you can admit it. I know you ladies are more, you know - audio than visual.” He wiggles his fingers by his ears as he paces slowly around the room, inspecting the slice of cake you brought back with you from the wedding, swiping a bit of frosting off the plate with his finger before sucking on it.

“Stop it, Roman.”

“I think I’m gonna stay a while, if you don’t mind. Listen to the music.”

“Whatever, knock yourself out. I’m not sleeping as long as they’re still doing it.”

True to his word, Roman listens intently to the sounds of the couple fucking. You wouldn’t expect anything else from him. He makes little faces of intrigue or surprise at the noises, the extra loud moans or the occasional smack. You regret allowing him to stay. This is so fucking awkward, so you distract yourself by tidying up your already-pristine hotel room. Rearranging some glasses that haven’t been touched, then pouring yourself another glass of water even though you’re not actually thirsty. Roman notices all of this, too. At some point his attention shifts from the muffled noises coming from the other side of the wall to you, how you nervously flit around the room. He decides to up the tension, to make it all worse for you.

“We should fuck,” he says plainly. “You know, louder than them. Establish our dominance. There’s a bed right there.”

It takes you a second to reply. “Funny,” is all you say, your voice coming out quietly and not very confident. Fuck.

“You’re very shy about it, you know that?”

“Shy about what?”

“Oh, fucking - c’mon. You know what,” he deadpans. “Sex! Coitus. Fornicating. Love mak–”

“No, yeah. I got it–”

“Fucking,” Roman interrupts. “So why are you all shy about it?”

“I’m not - I’m not shy,” you stutter.

“But you are. Because you don’t talk about it, ever. You like, clam up, get all fuckin’ weird and quiet,” Roman says, gesturing to you. “And like right now, you won’t even look at me. It’s almost like you’re nervous or something. Are you?” he pauses, “Nervous, that is?”

You’re feeling defensive now, cornered, as Roman’s wedged himself deep under your skin. “No, I just - what does it matter, Roman?” you snap. Sighing, you sit on the edge of the bed and cross your arms.

“I just wanna know, that’s all. Just curious,” he replies, tempering his tone to be much less pointed, less mocking. “You know me. No judgement here.”

“I just…don’t feel the need to talk about it, I guess.”

“You can’t even say it,” Roman digs, crossing his arms. “Are you a prude? Is that it?”

“No, Roman, I’m not a prude. It’s just a very personal thing for some people.”

“Naturally.”

“Not that you’d understand,” you bite.

Roman presses a hand against his chest, pretending you’ve just shot him. “Ouch. But yeah, no, I get it.” Roman pauses, then joins you on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. “Is it herpes?” he whispers. “It’s herpes, isn’t it? You know, there’s no shame in it. I’ve actually created new strains of STDs myself in the course of all of my sexcapades. And look at me, I’m not ashamed,” he smiles, stifling a giggle at his own joke.

“If that’s true, Roman, you really should be. And don’t be facetious. That’s not something to laugh about.”

“No, you’re right, I’m sorry,” he concedes, the apology devoid of any sincerity at all. “So are you saving it for marriage, then? Gonna give Mr. Right your most precious gift?”

You freeze then. Roman’s getting warmer, burning hot. It’s not the truth, but it’s not…not…the truth. An inch away from uncovering your big secret, that you’re a virgin. Never had sex, not once.

It must be written all over your face in big, bolded letters or something, because Roman’s face twists in realization. His eyes are sparkling, jaw dropped in an open, wry smile. “Holy fuck,” he scoffs. “You’re shitting me. Virgin?! You’re a virgin? Oh my god, gross. Ew,” he laughs, turning your cheek to force you to look at him.

It makes you feel bad inside. Insecure. Your bottom lip quivers a little as tears well up in your eyes, that awful feeling of embarrassment taking over every one of your senses. Face hot, ears pounding, the walls closing in. “Roman,” you whisper, tilting your chin down to hide yourself.

“Hey - heyyy. Don’t fuckin’...don’t be like that,” he says, tilting your face back up. Roman laughs, then makes a sympathetic expression as he pulls you close, wrapping his strong arms around you in a tight hug. Some of your tears soak the collar of his shirt as he presses your face into his shoulder. “I’m very sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I took it too far, that’s on me. I’m sorry. Hey–” Roman nuzzles your hair, “I mean it. I’m sorry.”

You don’t say anything. You’re too pissed to speak but even if you weren’t, you’re not sure that you could conjure up any sort of response to…whatever the fuck just happened.

“It’s not so terrible, being a virgin.” Roman offers, rubbing your back soothingly as he kisses the top of your head. “There’s worse things to be.”

“Yeah? Like what?” you ask, voice muffled as you mumble into his shirt.

“Like…fuckin’ dead, I guess.” Roman thinks for a second, “Or ugly. And you’re not that, so…”

“Thanks, Rome,” you reply flatly.

“And guys like virgins,” he adds. “Like, do you know how much some creeps would pay to fuck virgin pussy?”

“Uhh…”

“Millions. They’d pay millions,” Roman says, taking note of how your ears perk up at the statement, the incredulous look you give him. “Yeah, now that’s interesting to you, isn’t it? Shit, I’d pay you for it. Let’s skip the middleman, huh?”

“What? No.” You pull away from Roman’s arms.

“Yes. Why not?”

Why not? Just the littlest amount of pushback from Roman and you’re already questioning the lines you’ve drawn in the sand for yourself. For a moment, you contemplate the idea of having sex with Roman, and you’re tempted - his naked body on yours, pleasuring you in a way you’ve never felt at the hands of someone else before, his attention all on you. His perfect, soft lips on yours as he swallows your moans, loving you the way you deserve. But ultimately you decide no, it’s not happening. It can’t happen. Not like how he’s suggesting. He doesn’t have the capacity to handle something like this with any amount of respect or tact.

“I don’t know, Roman. I guess that I always envisioned my first time having sex being with someone that I love. Or trust, at the very least.”

“And you don’t trust me?”

You scoff “Fuck, no.”

“Yeah, that’s smart,” Roman nods. “Okay, fine. I won’t pressure you. You save that special little gift of yours for someone who deserves it.”

You nod as you look down at the floor, tracing the pattern in the carpet with your eyes, gasping when you feel Roman touch your bare knee. “Or…” he murmurs.

“Or?”

Roman’s had the idea of screwing you in his head for a while now, and by his own admission, is especially turned on at the prospect of being the first one to fuck you. It fills him with a primal sort of feeling, knowing that at least for a moment, you’d be his. Your first lover’s name you’d moan would be his, your first orgasm at the hands of another will belong to him only, forever. There’s something about taking your virginity that fills him with a sickening, all-consuming sort of need. He’ll do it, too. By any means necessary.

“Just the tip,” he whispers, his warm hand sliding up your thigh to toy with the edge of your pajama shorts. He wriggles them even higher, not stopping even when you hold your breath and grab his wrist to keep him from traveling further. “Chill. I’m not doing anything,” Roman mumbles, sliding his hand out from under yours to take your hand and put it flat on the bed. He holds your thigh again and speaks slowly, quietly, “You just let me put the tip in and I’ll pay you the same. Whatever - whatever fuckin’ number you want, alright? Put however many zeroes at the end, and it’s yours…if you just let me put the tip in. Sounds easy enough, right?”

“Just the tip,” you repeat quietly, thinking…thinking that it sounds like bullshit, and yet, you’re kind of falling for it anyway. He makes you feel stupid, even when he’s not insulting you.

Roman speaks again before you can talk yourself out of it. “Just the tip,” he lies. “So long as I don’t - you know, fully penetrate you - technically, you’d still be a virgin by the end of our little thing.”

“You’re saying it wouldn’t count?”

Roman nods his head. “Wouldn’t count at all. It’s…a loophole of sorts,” he says, tracing his fingertips up and down your thigh, inching closer and closer to where he wants to feel you the most. “Virginity stays intact. C’mon,” he urges.

You’re fighting yourself. Roman can see the temptation and the self-preservation fighting each other in your mind, and he can’t let the smarter, safer side of you win this.

“You’ve got nothing to lose,” he adds. And he’d get to satisfy a curiosity, but that’s not something he needs to tell you.

“I don’t know, Rome. It - something about it makes me nervous.”

“I know. But I’ll be gentle with you, alright? I’ll take it nice and fuckin’ slow, walk you through the whole thing. No surprises.” Roman shifts a little and reaches into his pocket for his wallet, then pulls out a stack of bills, all hundreds, and places them on your nightstand. “There. Call it a fuckin’...deposit or whatever, I don’t know. Now do we have a deal or not, virgin?”

You bite your lip as you think - or do something resembling thinking, rather. You can’t think clearly, not with Roman’s hands now on your waist. He doesn’t have to touch you anywhere private or sensitive - just his hands on your body is enough to make your brain fucking melt, you poor thing. Don’t even know how badly you need it, need him. Roman will make it all better. Fix you.

“C’mon, baby,” he whispers, his hot breath tickling your ear. He presses a couple of kisses against the side of your neck, feeling your pulse beneath his tongue as he licks you there. You let out a broken moan in response, nodding urgently. Roman smiles against your skin in satisfaction. “Attagirl,” he murmurs, then pulls away from you. Your pupils are blown wide, lips parted. Perfect.

He dims the lamps around the room and turns off the overhead lights, casting the room in a warm, orange glow before joining you on the bed again. “Let’s fuckin’ do this thing. You ready?”

“I don’t - I don’t -”

Roman calms you down before you spiral. “Shh, relax. Relax. We’re going slow, like I said,” he reminds you. “God, you’re so fuckin’...c’mere.”

Roman puts both of his strong hands on your face, thumbs on your jaw, the rest of his fingers firmly pressing into your neck. He pulls you close and kisses you, and his lips feel even better than they look. You let out a little noise that Roman doesn’t acknowledge; he only continues to move his lips tenderly against yours, deepening the kiss when you begin to reciprocate.

He’s an excellent kisser. The way he uses his tongue makes you feel dizzy and sets your whole body on fire, and you feel his hands everywhere. Your face, your neck, your waist, digging his fingers into you and squeezing you like he loves you. “Gimme these.” Roman takes your hands in his own and puts them on his own shoulders, his silent way of showing you how it all should be done as he inches closer to you.

He’s warm, warmer than you imagined. Warm in a comforting way. He smells so…him. Slightly sweaty, but not in a bad way, with his cologne worn down to its base notes. He tastes good, but you couldn’t even begin to describe. You’d be content with just this tonight, really.

Roman deepens the kiss and lays you down gently, caging you in with his body. You’re still feeling out of your depth, unsure of where or how or if you should even touch him, though Roman doesn’t seem to mind. Of course he doesn’t mind. He’s got only one thing on his brain, and that’s ruining you. Touch him however you like or don’t touch him, he doesn’t give a fuck.

His fingers crawl beneath your shirt, climbing up your body until he’s squeezing gently at the flesh of your breasts. You gasp when he rubs his thumb in circles over your nipple, feeling it harden with his touch. “Rome-” you breathe, clutching his bicep.

“It’s okay,” he tells you, repeating the action with your other nipple, causing you to writhe beneath him. “I gotta get you ready for it, sweetheart.”

Roman pushes your shirt up as high as it’ll go, and kisses your neck, dragging his tongue down your skin. He uses the muscle to tease one of your nipples, putting to use his lips and teeth as well. His hands travel down your body, fingers passing over the neat little bow at the front of your pajama bottoms as they slide down towards your center.

You gasp when you feel him touch you there, just over the fabric. Roman groans as he rubs his fingers, feeling how you’ve soaked yourself. “Yeah, you weren’t fuckin’ lying, were you? Made a goddamn mess down here,” he mumbles, pressing little kisses against your neck.

“Lying about what?” you breathe.

Roman has to stifle his laugh so as not to embarrass you, but you are such a cliche, absolutely drenched from a bit of kissing. Too easy. “Shh, nothing,” he says. “Nothing. You’re fine.” Roman pulls your panties and shorts to the side, exposing your cunt to himself. “Has anyone ever touched you here before?”

You shake your head. “Mm-mm.”

Roman only nods as pulls your thighs apart, and your heart pounds hard. He traces your lips only momentarily before diving between your folds, feeling the pool of arousal he’s caused.

“Fuck,” you moan, eyes squeezing shut as you arch into his touch. “R-Roman, Roman…”

“Ohh, man, you’re sensitive,” Roman laughs quietly, rubbing lazy circles over your clit. “Holy fuck. That feel good? Huh, virgin?”

“Yeah,” you whimper, squeezing his forearm and bicep with your hands as if to anchor yourself or something. You feel like you’re gonna break. Everything feels heightened, but sort of sharp and fuzzy at the same time. Your head spins, and you can’t keep track of your thoughts.

You whine when Roman pushes his middle and ring fingers into your pussy, pumping them in and out slowly. “How does that feel?” he asks.

“Good, kinda - uh…kind - kind of hurts.”

“You gotta relax,” he tells you, “ It’s okay.”

Roman shifts a little and smiles at you before curling his fingers, stroking that special, sensitive little place deep inside your cunt you’ve probably never found on your own before. By the way your eyes roll back into your head and how you squeeze your legs shut around his arm, Roman guesses he’s right. “Oh my - fuck, Rome, that - you–” Your voice comes out in broken, breathy moans and you don’t bother finishing your sentence. All you can do is bury your face into his neck and try not to shatter into a million pieces.

Roman fingers you like that for a minute or two longer, listening to those wet noises your cunt makes for him, then slows down his movements before pulling away. “You’re ready for it,” he tells you.

“I am?”

“Absolutely.”

Roman leans back and sits you up, then pulls off your shirt without saying so much as a single word. He does the same to your shorts and panties, tossing them into a crumpled pile on the carpet. The way you squirm and hide yourself makes Roman smile. “Don’t be shy. I need to be able to see what I’m working with, right?”

“Yeah, no. That makes sense.”

“Hold on.” Roman unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off, pulling off his undershirt too. His bulge is sizable in his black slacks, and when he unbuckles his belt and pulls the rest of his clothes off, his hard cock slapping against his tummy, your eyes widen. His dick is massive. The tip reaches his belly button, and it’s curved beautifully, slightly to the right. Roman wraps his fingers around it and squeezes, knuckles whitening a little.

“Y-you’re fucking huge,” you stutter.

“I know, right? It’s Roman Roy’s best kept secret.” He smiles wide, pleased with himself as he winks at you. “Alright. Spread those legs and let’s fuckin’ party.” Roman reaches for your ankles and pulls them apart, eyebrows raising when you fight to keep them closed.

“No! No, don’t.”

“...No?” Roman drops your ankles and sits back, eyeing you. “Scared?”

“Very.”

He chuckles. “You’ve never even felt a cock before, have you?” Roman asks, stroking his cock slowly. You shake your head and he nods in understanding. “Wow, it really is all new to you. That’s my bad, sweetheart.”

Roman lays down next to you again, this time flat on his back. He shifts a little and grabs your wrist, guiding your hand to his cock. “Get to know it a little. Just touch it, however you want,” he instructs. Roman waits for you to touch him, but you’re frozen. He raises an eyebrow, “It’s not gonna bite you.”

“I know, I just don’t know…don’t know what to do.”

Roman says nothing, only presses your fingertips against the large, blunt head of his cock. “Like this,” he says, dragging your fingers down his shaft. He wraps your fingers around his length, then lets you go. Your turn.

You slide your palm up and down his dick, just…taking it all in. His cock feels heavy in your hand which doesn’t surprise you, but you’re struck by his warmth, the heat radiating from him. You trace his veins, then squeeze him slightly in your fist, feeling him throb a little.

Roman patiently lets you explore, despite it being an excruciating tease, groaning softly as he tilts his head back. “Now when you do this for real, with your Mr. Right or whoever,” Roman says, “Don’t just tease him like this. You’ll piss him off,” he warns.

“I will?”

“Oh yeah. No, you’re even pissing me off a little bit. Like, if this weren’t a teaching moment, I’d fuck you in two for this shit.” Roman words scare you a bit, and you stop touching him. “Relax, will you? It’s not gonna happen. You’re in good hands.”

“Okay.”

“Let me show you what to do instead.” Roman takes your hand again, this time spitting in it. “You grab it like you mean it,” he says, wrapping your fingers tightly around his cock, tighter than you would have done yourself. “And–” Roman slides your palm up and down his length, helping you to maintain that firm pressure, “You go all the way up, all the way down. Like - fuck - yeah, like that. You’re a fuckin’ natural, virgin, look at you.”

Roman lets you work him on your own, simply enjoying the feel of your hand on his cock. He thinks it’s cute when you circle his tip with your fingers - it’s not something he taught you to do, but he doesn’t mind it.

“Does this feel like, good?”

“Feels awesome. But,” Roman purrs, “You know what’d feel even better?”

“What?”

“You gotta be brave, sweetheart. Do you want to be brave for me?”

You’re not feeling very brave or adventurous but you nod a little anyway, and Roman jumps at the opportunity. He moves you down the bed, sitting you down between his thighs that are spread wide. “You’re gonna suck my dick,” he tells you, grabbing your face with one of his hands. “Don’t freak out, okay? You’re gonna be fine. Open your mouth.”

Roman holds his thick cock between his thumb, middle, and forefingers. He taps the head against your bottom lip, encouraging you to open wider. When you open your mouth more, Roman lowers your head and fits himself between your lips, simply letting you get used to the feeling of him there. It takes a lot of patience on his part, to not fuck your mouth here and now.

You’re not sure what to do, and Roman knows this. Tangling his fingers in your hair, he bounces your head just a little on his cock, your tongue sliding over his weeping slit. The taste of his precome surprises you - it’s a salty, warm, masculine sort of flavor that you don’t really mind. You’re pleased by how soft his skin feels, how he smells. Gaining confidence, you take him deeper into your mouth.

If Roman were a better man, he’d stop you - he’d warn you that you’re going to choke on his cock, that it’s gonna be too much too quickly. But that’s not Roman, not by a long shot. He inches you further down his cock with each bob of your head, grinning at the way you gurgle and sputter a little. “Little more,” he says. “Keep going.”

Cock in mouth, drool dripping down your chin, you look at Roman, searching for some sort of approval or encouragement. “You got it. And use your tongue, sweetheart. You can make a mess on me. You should, actually.”

You move your tongue in inconsistent patterns, swirling it around his length as Roman moves your head. “Breathe through your nose,” he instructs. “You’re doing so well.”

He lets out soft little groans and his eyes shut for a moment, lips parted. Saliva is running down his cock and your jaw is beginning to ache from his girth, but Roman ignores your noises of discomfort and the tears in your eyes. He fucks himself deeply into your mouth, pushing you far past the point he should. Then suddenly, you gag and cough harshly, pulling yourself off of him. “Oh, fuck. Fuck,” you spit.

Roman rubs your back and stretches across the bed, reaching for your glass of water. “You’re good, you’re alright,” he says, pressing the glass against your lips. “Have some water. You’re not supposed to take me all at once, virgin. That’s how you choke,” he taunts.

After finishing the water, Roman takes your glass and sets it back on the nightstand. “Alright. Back to you, sweetheart. Lie back and spread your legs for me.”

You tremble a little as you lie down, parting your legs only a little. You feel the bed shift with Roman’s moving weight and close your eyes, nervously anticipating the inevitable.

Roman pushes your knees toward your chest and lowers himself, smirking at how tense you look with your short breaths, your fingers fidgeting with the comforter. He could warn you of what’s to come with a couple of kisses pressed against your inner thighs, but it’ll be more fun to surprise you.

He licks your sex from bottom to top with a flat tongue, dragging it slowly through your folds. “Roman,” you gasp, hands darting for his head. You tangle your fingers in the sleek strands of his hair, tugging on them tightly. “You - you’re–”

“Shh,” he interrupts. His stubble scratches your inner thighs as he teases you, tongue circling your clit. Roman buries himself in that softest and most private place on your body, rubbing the tip of his perfect nose against your clit as he tastes you. He circles your entrance a couple of times before dipping inside, tasting your arousal right from the hole it trickles from.

You’re babbling incoherently, whimpering his name as he then drags his tongue up and down your folds. He circles your clit once, then twice, then pulls the hood back and laves over the sensitive bud repeatedly, forcing you to lie still with a strong hand holding you down. He savors you like this, how you shudder and shake, muscles tensing as you fight to close your legs, not used to a feeling so intense. Roman fucks you with his tongue, guiding you through the first orgasm you’ve ever shared with another as you gush into his mouth, clit throbbing under his tongue.

When Roman pulls away, you feel like you could cry. You bite your bottom lip to keep it from wobbling and try to will away that pressure building behind your eyes, but it’s hard. You wonder if Roman notices.

“Now you’re really fuckin’ ready,” he tells you.

“Okay,” you breathe, voice shaking. “Just the tip?”

“Mhm. Just the tip,” Roman confirms. He hovers over you and reaches between your legs to gather your arousal on his fingertips, then coats his cock in your slick. When he presses the thick head of his dick against your pussy, your heart races. You can’t conjure the words to tell him what you need, and urgently take his free hand in yours.

“You wanna hold my hand?” Roman smirks and laces his fingers between yours, pinning your hand against the bed. “We can hold hands, sweetheart.” And then, in one swift, brutal motion, Roman fully buries his cock fully inside you.

It sends you reeling. He’s so huge, it feels like he’s splitting you in two. You feel betrayed and try to squirm away, but Roman forces you to stay down with a hand on your ribcage. Forces you to take it, to feel it all. “Shhh, shh. You’re - hey - you’re fine.” Roman catches the free hand you use to try and shove him backwards and pins it to the bed with the other.

“Y-you–” you sob, unable to form a sentence.

“Ohhh, I know, I know, I know,” Roman coos mockingly. “I played a dirty trick on you, huh? Wasn’t very nice of me, was it?”

You look at Roman and cry, tears falling down your temples and into your hair. With his hand still clutching yours, he uses your own knuckles to wipe some tears away. “Poor thing. You’ll get used to it.”

“But you said–”

“I know what I said,” Roman interrupts. “It’s never just the tip, baby, you know that. Or–” Roman pauses, thrusting into you deeply, “Maybe you really don’t know that. But this is real life, sweetheart. It’s a cruel fuckin’ world out there.”

Roman sets a pace then, drawing in and out of you. Not particularly harshly or quickly, because the penetration alone hurts enough. He rocks his hips, pulling out of you and filling you up all the way with every stroke.

“Roman, stop–”

“No. Fucking take it.”

Roman ignores your sounds of discomfort, going so far as to cover your mouth instead. Your sobs are muffled under his palm, skin dampening with tears and saliva. Roman builds the tempo, lips curled into that awful, lopsided smile. “Listen to yourself. You’re fuckin’ soaked, do you hear that?” he taunts through a strained breath.

The pain is utterly blinding, until it isn’t. You almost resent the way the hurt is replaced with pleasure now, because the betrayal is still there. Betrayal by Roman, and now by your own body. This…this isn’t what you were promised. You trusted Roman and he exploited that, but you’re fucking enjoying it.

Roman’s palm tastes salty over your mouth. When he removes it, a moan slips past your lips, and Roman grins. “Yeah, there it is. Not so terrible, huh, baby?”

You free your hands from his grip and wrap your arms around his shoulders, which is the only thing that feels right. You don’t entirely know why, you just know that you need him close. Roman pulls back a little to watch you, his greenish, hazel eyes darkened with something primal as he pulls out of you and pushes into you, again and again and again. You bury your face in his neck as he fucks you, and one of his hands slide up your torso to grope your breast and tease your nipple.

“Your pussy feels so fuckin’ good,” Roman grunts, rutting his hips into you. He’s in love with all of this, in truth. Addicted. How soft your body is for him, for his hands to squeeze and his fingers to dig into. He could fucking eat you.

He fits his hand between your bodies, the heel of his palm pressing into your pubic bone. He rubs your clit in circles, thrusting into you harder, faster, deeper. “Look at me. Right here” he pants, using his free hand to hold your face. “Come on my cock. Come for me, sweetheart.”

He pulls your orgasm from you effortlessly. Roman’s name spills from your lips in choking sobs as you come on his cock, feeling impossibly full as your cunt pulses around him. It’s the heaviest, most overwhelming feeling, washing over you in waves, muscles spasming and twitching. Roman’s thrusts turn frenzied and frantic, and there it is - he’s coming too. Milking himself inside you, spurting thick, hot ropes of his come, and you take all of it.

Roman pulls out of you then, and uses two fingers to push his escaped spend back inside your poor, raw, throbbing cunt. This time, you do cry. “Ohh, come here,” Roman says softly. He scoops you up into his arms and holds you tightly, stroking your hair. “You okay?”

“No,” you sniffle.

“No?” Roman repeats, momentarily moving you to lean over the bed. He reaches for his pants and grabs his phone out of the pocket, then takes his place next to you again, pulling you into his side tightly. “You’ll get over it. Watch,” he murmurs, unlocking his phone and opening Venmo. He pulls up your profile and shows you the screen, the little blue cursor blinking. You type in a number, then give the phone back to Roman, who adds an extra zero before tapping Pay.

If you enjoyed, please lmk ♡ i love when you reblog and send me asks. It means the world to me ♡

romey tags

@goldenispunk @littlevenicebitch69 @gaeela-6 @bean-is-reading @slutsoutgutsout

@galarian-weezing-on-prep @cum-a-calla @pastelpinkflowerlife @kolsmikaelson @moth-maam56

@kothku @cult-of-escapism @swiftiegirliepop @bluecookies-and-ink @romanarose

@kappasbbgirl @magpiepills @highinmiamiii @verstappensrealwife @thesummerpetrichor

@lilipads @luiscarrutherss @baronessvonglitter @myromeow

@ovaryacted @doll-0f-flesh @always-andromeda @causesimmer @pedropascalbabygirl

@baloobalee @slimybeth69 @pearlstiare @romanisbrat @callsignwidow @ziggymars

@/perpetuallymanic @/111melo @/veryverycoolgirl @/marisemonteiroo

#roman roy x reader #Roman Roy x reader smut #Roman Roy smut #roman roy x you #Roman Roy/reader #Roman Roy/you #roman roy #Kieran Culkin #succession #succession fic

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corroded-hellfire · 10 hours ago

Note

I just need pre-relationship AYW!Eddie all pent up and feral for Reader. I need him whimpering when he touches himself after Reader leaves for the evening. I need him trying to picture anyone else besides his kids’ babysitter but he keeps picturing Reader.

Your wish is my command! 😘

Warnings: male masturbation, smut, p in v, unprotected (wrap it up), older!eddie, babysitter!reader, the longing is real

Words: 2.4k

[As You Wish masterlist]

“Go to sleep now,” you grumble playfully, ruffling Luke’s curls as he smiles up at you from his bed.

“One more story?” Luke asks, though his voice betrays how sleepy he already is.

“Come on, buddy,” Eddie says from the doorway. “She’s been nice enough to stay for dinner and read you two bedtime stories already.”

A smile that steals Eddie’s breath grows on your lips as you turn to look at your boss.

“You make it sound like such a hardship,” you quip.

“I don’t think your union allows for overtime,” Eddie replies.

You let out a soft giggle and Eddie feels his insides begin to melt. It’s catastrophically unfair, the effect you have on him. Not in his whole life has Eddie met someone who so effortlessly turns him on and makes his heart race. As impossible as it is to ignore the feelings, Eddie tries not to linger on them for a few reasons. One, you’re a complete pipe dream. There is no way you, beautiful, intelligent, compassionate, and hilarious you would ever see a man over a decade older than you in the same light that he sees you. Two, and which he admits is arguably the bigger reason, is that he’s married. Sure, it hasn’t been a real marriage in…God knows how long. But it’s still a legally binding marriage that he hasn’t even attempted to separate from. Not for lack of want, though. It’s hard to see a point when it would cause the breakup of his boys’ family, and for what? So Eddie could be all alone in some smaller unfamiliar home that he struggles to afford on his own while caring for his sons, only getting to see them half the time he does now? No. He basically is doing it all alone right now, with the lack of input from Brittany, but at least Luke and Ryan are in the home they know and the two combined household incomes can give them a pretty good life.

Unfortunately, all the logic in the world can’t cure Eddie’s addiction to you.

“Close your eyes, sleepyhead.” You stand up from the edge of the four-year-old’s bed and lean over to press a kiss to his forehead.

The way you bend down towards the boy gives Eddie a spectacular view of your ass. He’s forced to dig his nails into the palms of his hands to suppress the groan that so desperately wants to escape. As much as he internally chides himself, Eddie can’t tear his eyes away either. He gets so few chances to just look at you, that he can’t bring himself to cut this precious time short.

“Night night,” Luke says through a yawn.

“Night, pal,” Eddie says.

You boop your index finger against the little boy’s nose before standing up straight and heading in Eddie’s direction. The two of you exit into the hallway and Eddie closes the door almost all the way–leaving it open just a crack to allow some of the hallway light in.

The two of you are silent as you walk to the living room, both silently dreading that it’s time to part for the evening. You swipe your bag up from the couch and slip it onto your shoulder.

“I guess I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow,” you say, reluctantly taking steps toward the front door.

“Thanks for staying longer than you had to,” Eddie says, walking you to the door like always. He feels like he should add the words “for the boys” to the end of his sentence, but he can’t bring himself to. As much as the boys adore you, Eddie knows he is without a doubt the happiest one that you stayed for dinner and until bedtime.

“It was fun,” you tell him. “I always have fun here.”

“Always?” Eddie teases, raising his eyebrows. “Can I remind you that you said that the next time Luke has a meltdown?”

“Sure,” you reply with a chuckle.

The electricity in the air threatens to spark at any moment as Eddie reaches around you to open the front door.

“Drive careful, sweetheart,” he says.

“No,” you tease with a playful smirk. “I’m going to drive recklessly. Run all the red lights.”

“Don’t give me reason to worry,” Eddie mumbles, knocking his shoulder against yours.

“Aww,” you coo. “You worry about me?”

Heat rises to Eddie’s cheeks and he desperately wills it to move back down his body.

“Alright, smart ass.” Eddie wrinkles his nose up and pretends to shove you out the door.

With a laugh, you playfully stumble down the walkway a few steps, acting as if his push was that strong.

“Oh, fine!” you lament over-dramatically. “I’ll be a good girl! Bye, Eddie.”

A good girl. Suddenly, Eddie wishes that heat and blood would stay in his face instead of rushing to his groin like it currently is.

“Bye, sweetheart.”

The moment you’re safely in your car and Eddie hears the engine start, he closes the front door and groans in time with the locking mechanism clicking into place.

“This just feels cruel,” he mumbles to himself as he rests his forehead against the cool wood of the door. He lets himself stand there until he hears your car rumble down the road and off into the night.

It takes a Herculean effort to push himself up and head deeper into the house. Out of habit, Eddie glances at the clock on the wall to see if Brittany will be home soon or not. It’s useless though—there’s never a set time she comes home. Who knows where she is or what she’s doing? Or who she’s doing. The pseudo-schedule the household used to follow has fallen by the wayside, so Eddie mentally tells himself to ignore it altogether. Easier said than done, of course.

When Eddie steps into the hallway it’s silent. No sounds of Luke sneaking out of bed to play with his toys or Ryan fumbling for his flashlight to read beneath his covers. Heaving a sigh, Eddie decides he might as well take care of the situation in his pants.

Despite Brittany not being home, Eddie locks the bedroom door behind him. Luke has also started the bad habit of opening any and every door without knocking first. So, better to be safe than sorry.

“Okay, think of someone else,” Eddie says to himself as he rids himself of his clothes. “Anyone else. Not her.”

It shouldn’t be hard to think of another woman to get himself off. Hell, for the entirety of Eddie’s teenage years, he could’ve jacked it to almost any woman and it would be great. Now he can’t seem to get this one specific, unattainable woman out of his mind.

He shucks the last of his clothes off and lays down on his bed, wracking his brain for someone who can get the job done. Julia Roberts? Nah. Jennifer Aniston? No. Cindy Crawford? Nope. Nicole Kidman? Maybe….no. Aunt Viv from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air? The first, not the second one. Still no.

“Fuck,” Eddie groans, letting his eyes fall closed as he wraps his hand around his semi-hard shaft. He licks over his lips and tries to let himself relax. The only way Eddie is going to be able to take care of this problem is to think about you and he knows it. He also knows he needs to hurry up if he wants to finish before Brittany comes home.

The mere thought of the woman who sleeps next to him at night has him softening slightly in his hand. A snort of laughter comes out, Eddie finding that humorous. Objectively, Brittany is beautiful, but knowing the rot and decay that lays just beneath the surface ruins any attractiveness Eddie could ever find in her anymore. Even though he already knows what will happen, Eddie immediately switches his thoughts over to you to see the effect. It’s instant. His cock comes to life at the very thought of your name.

No shit, Eddie thinks to himself as he opens his legs a little wider. Because she’s literally a fucking goddess. God, those eyes. Eddie’s hand grips himself a little tighter and moves down towards the base.

“Say you’re a good girl again, baby,” Eddie mumbles under his breath. Fuck, he can’t believe he was lucky enough to hear those words come from your lips. Jesus, he can hardly imagine being lucky enough to come home to you at the end of the day. Walking in the door after work and seeing you is already what he looks forward to all day, he can’t fathom how he would feel if you greeted him with a kiss and stayed there with him and the boys all night. And once the boys go to bed it’s time for some fun.

“Please.”

The word tumbles from Eddie’s lips but he’s not entirely sure what he’s asking for. You to be there with him? You to be by his side always? You to be here, naked, with your hand around him instead of his own?

Okay, Eddie thinks, shifting to make himself more comfortable. There we go, think about coming home to her.

He begins to slowly stroke his cock up and down.

Eddie imagines walking through the front door and kicking his boots off. Your voice hums sweetly from the kitchen and it brings a smile to his face.

“What smells so good, huh?” he asks as he strolls into the room.

The sight he’s greeted by is almost enough to bring him to his knees. You stand at the counter, facing him, an apron on and a bowl full of cake batter held in your hands.

“Welcome home,” you say.

Dark brown eyes follow your every move as you slowly dip your forefinger into the batter and pop it into your mouth. Eddie finds himself holding his breath as you slide your finger out from between your plush pink lips at a torturous pace.

As if the first time wasn’t enough, you dip your finger back in, but instead of putting it in your mouth this time, you point your finger up and stick your tongue out to lick every speck of vanilla batter off of it.

“Oh, fuck me,” Eddie moans.

With a soft laugh, you set the bowl down and look up at Eddie through your thick eyelashes.

“Funny. I was going to say that to you.”

A rough growl reverberates from Eddie’s chest as he moves forward to grab you by the hips. It’s only once he has his hands on you that he realizes not only are you wearing the apron—you’re wearing only the apron.

“God damn, baby,” he mutters. Calloused hands slide back just slightly and come into contact with your bare ass. He drops his head forward to rest against yours with a helpless whine.

You giggle, tilting your head up to brush your nose against his.

“I like the sounds you make,” you tell him, voice thick with lust.

Before he responds, Eddie presses a few gentle kisses along your bare shoulder and up the side of your throat.

“I want to hear your noises, too.”

“Hmm,” you hum. “I don’t think that’ll be very hard to manage.” You reach up with your left hand and tug on the tied apron string resting on the nape of your neck. The front of the apron falls down, leaving your entire torso exposed to Eddie.

A guttural groan meets your ears as strong hands grab you by the waist and help you up onto the counter. Immediately, you spread your legs and Eddie stands between them, the two of you fighting with the apron to get it all the way off you.

Eddie tosses it over his shoulder as you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling the two of your bodies as close as possible.

“Eddie,” you whine, reaching up to bury your fingers in his unruly curls.

“What baby?” His breath brushes against your lips, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine.

“Need you.” Using your grip on his hair, you pull Eddie’s face down to crash against yours.

Mouths meet, lips dancing, tongues exploring, and teeth clashing. Strong yet gentle fingertips dig into your skin, yearning to hold you as tight as humanly possible. Nothing is close enough.

Eddie pulls back just enough to playfully nip at your bottom lip.

“Being such a good girl for me,” he rasps.

A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you run your nose along the edge of Eddie’s jawline.

“Wanna be so good for you. Wanna feel you, Eddie. Pretty please?”

A smug smirk grows on Eddie’s face as he reaches between your two bodies to unzip his navy blue coveralls. You shove the material down his hips as Eddie whips his white undershirt off over his head.

“Ready for me, princess?”

Eddie lines himself up with your entrance, glancing up at your face as he waits for your approval.

“God, yes!” You nod emphatically, wiggling your hips in an attempt to get him inside of you faster.

Eddie grins at your eagerness, putting both of you out of your misery as he pushes inside.

“Fuck,” he groans.

“Oh!” You whimper, clinging to Eddie’s shoulders.

The sweet little noises spilling from your lips only encourage Eddie. He pulls almost all the way out before thrusting back into your tight wet heat. It feels as close to euphoria as Eddie’s ever felt. He wants to spend forever between your legs, but it feels far too good to last long.

“Feels so good,” you whine.

“Yeah, baby?” Eddie asks. “Like when I…oh, fuck.”

Eddie doesn’t have time to imagine what he’d say next before hot cum starts to pour over his fist.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mumbles as his orgasm works its way through his body. His hand keeps going, milking his cock for everything that it’s worth.

Once he’s well and truly spent, Eddie lets his boneless body sink into the mattress. His arm flings over the side of the bed and his fingertips brush against his t-shirt laying on the floor. Blindly, he picks it up and wipes his coated hand off before wiping the cum off his abdomen, legs, and anywhere else it went.

“Holy shit,” Eddie sighs. His head falls to the side and his eyes slip closed. A goofy smile comes to his face as his mind returns to you. “Fuck, I’m so gone for her.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #older!eddie #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fan fiction #Eddie Munson fanfiction #Eddie Munson fan fic #eddie munson imagine #dad!eddie #AYW #AYWS #request

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agirlnamedelia · 2 days ago

Text

Hate Sex || Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

cw: cussing, begging, forced kiss at first, office sex, teasing plot: Y/n and the character are co-workers who can't keep bickering with one another. What happens when they are left at work--alone--with intense feelings of hatred(?) with each other.

The battlefield was chaos, smoke and debris clouding the air as you and Bakugou exchanged heated barbs while simultaneously dodging the villain's relentless attacks. Kirishima and Mina flanked the enemy, their movements precise and coordinated as they tried to subdue the hulking figure with glowing gauntlets.

"Watch your left, dumbass!" Bakugou barked, launching a fiery explosion at the villain to divert their attention.

"I don't need you telling me what to do!" you shot back, leaping to dodge a stray blast and firing your own attack in retaliation. The force sent the villain stumbling, but they quickly regained their footing.

"Could've fooled me with how sloppy you're moving!" he snarled, his voice cutting through the din of battle.

"Sloppy? At least I'm not blowing up half the city trying to show off!" you snapped, landing beside him just as another shockwave rippled through the area.

Kirishima's voice cut in, strained but still upbeat. "Guys, can we save the bickering for later? Focus on the giant dude trying to kill us!"

Mina slid into view, her acid sizzling as it hit the villain's armor. "Seriously, you two are like an old married couple! Can we please just work together for five minutes?"

"Tell that to Mr. Ego over here!" you said, pointing at Bakugou.

"Mr. Ego? I'm the only reason this fight isn't a total disaster!" he shot back, his palms sparking with another explosion.

The villain roared, cutting off your argument as they lunged forward. Kirishima hardened his body to block the attack, gritting his teeth as the impact sent him skidding back.

"Little help here!" he called out.

"On it!" you and Bakugou said in unison, momentarily setting aside your feud. You launched a coordinated attack, your combined power finally breaking through the villain's defenses. With a final, earth-shaking blow, the enemy collapsed, unconscious.

The dust settled, and the four of you stood there, catching your breath. Kirishima clapped a hand on your shoulder, grinning despite the exhaustion. "Nice teamwork, guys. Even with all the yelling."

Mina smirked, wiping sweat from her brow. "Yeah, you two might actually make a good duo if you stopped trying to kill each other."

"Not happening," you and Bakugou said at the same time, glaring at each other.

As emergency crews arrived to secure the area, Kirishima and Mina exchanged knowing looks. By the time you piled into the cramped SUV for the ride back to Bakugou's agency, the tension had shifted back to its usual, volatile state.

The engine rumbled softly beneath you, the faint hum filling the awkward silence that Kirishima and Mina desperately tried to maintain. You sat across from Bakugou in the cramped SUV, arms crossed, glaring daggers at the blond like it was a sport.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" you muttered under your breath.

Bakugou scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Coming from the person who tripped over their own feet mid-fight. Real rich, Y/n."

Kirishima groaned from the driver's seat. "Guys, can we not? It's been a long day."

Mina twisted in her seat to face both of you, a tired smile on her face. "Seriously, just five minutes of peace. Please."

You opened your mouth to fire back, but her pointed glare shut you up. You huffed, leaning back in your seat. Bakugou mimicked your pose, but not before shooting you a smug grin. You resisted the urge to stick your tongue out like a child. Barely.

The rest of the drive to Bakugou's agency was mercifully quiet. Kirishima pulled into the lot, and Mina clapped her hands together, an exaggerated cheerfulness in her tone.

"Alright! We're here. Time to split up duties," she said, hopping out of the car.

Bakugou raised an eyebrow, suspicious. "Split up duties? What the hell does that mean?"

Kirishima grinned sheepishly. "Uh, well, Mina and I have some... stuff to do."

"Stuff," Bakugou repeated, his tone flat.

Mina waved a dismissive hand. "You two can handle the paperwork, right? It's not like you're doing anything important."

You narrowed your eyes at her. "Paperwork? You're ditching us to do paperwork?"

"Think of it as bonding time," Kirishima said, already backing away toward the exit.

"You little—" Bakugou started, but the door slammed shut behind them. You both stood there, dumbfounded.

"Unbelievable," you muttered.

"Those assholes," Bakugou growled.

The fluorescent lights in the agency's office buzzed faintly as you sat at the desk, a stack of reports taunting you. Bakugou sat across from you, furiously scribbling notes on a file. His pen scratched loudly against the paper, grating on your nerves.

"Can you not?" you snapped.

"Can I not what?" he shot back, not looking up.

"Write like you're trying to murder the paper."

"Maybe if you did your part faster, I wouldn't have to pick up your slack," he said, finally meeting your glare.

"My slack? I've done more than you in half the time!"

He leaned back in his chair, smirking. "You call that chicken scratch 'work'? Pretty sure my two-year-old niece could do better."

"You don't have a niece."

"You don't know my life."

You groaned, slamming your pen down. "I can't believe I'm stuck here with you."

"Oh, trust me, the feeling's mutual," he said, leaning forward on his elbows. His crimson eyes locked onto yours, and for a second, the tension shifted. It wasn't the usual exasperation or anger—it was something heavier, more charged.

"If you stopped yapping for five seconds, maybe I'd actually get some peace," he added, standing up and walking around the desk toward you.

"Peace? You're the one who keeps starting shit!" you fired back, rising to meet him halfway. The distance between you closed rapidly as the argument escalated.

"You're impossible!" he snarled, his voice raising to match yours.

"Impossible? You're the one who can't go two seconds without throwing a tantrum!" you shot back, your voice now echoing through the quiet office.

"Tantrum? The hell do you think you're doing with all this whining? Just shut up and do the damn paperwork!" he snapped, slamming a hand on the desk for emphasis.

You stood abruptly, knocking your chair back. "I wouldn't have to whine if you weren't such a self-absorbed jerk who thinks everything revolves around him!"

Bakugou scoffed, stalking around the desk toward you. "Self-absorbed? At least I get shit done instead of sitting around crying about how hard everything is."

Your hands balled into fists at your sides, your face heating up. "You are so full of yourself it's a miracle you haven't floated away like a balloon!"

"Yeah? Well, you're so damn annoying it's a wonder anyone can stand to be around you!" he yelled, stepping closer.

"Oh, like you're a ray of sunshine to work with? Newsflash, Bakugou: your personality is toxic enough to melt steel!"

"Better toxic than useless!" he snarled, the gap between you now almost nonexistent. His crimson eyes blazed, and you could feel the heat radiating off him.

"Useless? I'll show you useless, you oversized firecracker—"

Before you could finish your sentence, Bakugou's lips crashed onto yours, cutting off your tirade mid-word. The kiss was fiery and demanding, just like him. His hands gripped the edge of the desk behind you, caging you in as his lips moved with a fervor that left you breathless.

Your mind short-circuited, the words you'd been ready to yell dying in your throat. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights and the pounding of your heart.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was heavy, his eyes searching yours. "You talk too much," he muttered, his voice low and rough.

You blinked at him, still processing what had just happened. "You... you kissed me."

"Do you want me to stop?" he asked, his usual cockiness returning, though his flushed cheeks betrayed him.

You stared at him for a beat, your chest heaving as the tension hung thick in the air. "Don't you dare stop," you said, your voice barely above a whisper but full of conviction. Without giving him time to respond, you grabbed his collar and pulled him back down, crashing your lips onto his in another deep, searing kiss.

The kiss quickly turned desperate, both of you clinging to each other as though the world was slipping away. Bakugou's hands slid down to grip your waist, pulling you flush against him. You stood up, leaning into him to deepen the kiss, your fingers threading through his wild blond hair. The motion tipped over the chair you'd been sitting on, but neither of you paid it any mind.

The edge of the desk dug into your back as Bakugou's lips moved feverishly against yours. Without breaking the kiss, he maneuvered you away from the desk, his hands never leaving your body. The two of you stumbled through the office, nearly knocking over a filing cabinet as you went. A muffled laugh escaped you as his lips left yours momentarily to nip at your jawline, the sound quickly replaced by a sharp intake of breath when he found a particularly sensitive spot on your neck.

"Bakugou..." you murmured, your voice half a plea, half a challenge.

"What? Can't keep up?" he teased, though the roughness in his voice betrayed his own impatience.

You didn't dignify him with a response, instead pulling him back down into another heated kiss. His hands fumbled briefly behind you before finding the doorknob to his office. He shoved the door open with more force than necessary, practically dragging you inside.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the urgency escalated. Bakugou's hands moved to the hem of your shirt, tugging it up and over your head in one swift motion. You followed suit, your fingers working hastily to unfasten the straps of his hero gear and toss it aside. His shirt followed quickly after, revealing the taut muscles of his chest, gleaming faintly under the dim office light.

Your hands roamed over his skin, tracing the scars and lines that told the story of his battles. He groaned at your touch, his lips finding yours again as his fingers hooked into the waistband of your pants. Every movement was hurried, each article of clothing discarded with reckless abandon, leaving a trail across the floor of his office.

By the time you were both standing bare before each other, the air between you crackled with tension and raw desire. His crimson eyes met yours, a mix of hunger and something deeper flashing in his gaze.

"You're sure about this?" he asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft as his hands cupped your face.

You leaned into his touch, a small smile playing on your lips. "Shut up and fuck me, Bakugou."

His lips curled into a smirk as he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. "Not so fast," he murmured, his tone laced with mischief. His hand slid down your side, gripping your hip as he pressed you back against the desk.

The heat between you grew unbearable as he positioned himself, the tip of his cock teasing your entrance. His touch was deliberate, agonizingly slow as he moved just enough to drive you insane. Your breath hitched, and you gripped his arms, your nails digging into his skin.

"Katsuki," you gasped, your voice breaking with frustration.

He chuckled darkly, his crimson eyes locking onto yours with a mix of hunger and amusement. "Not gonna happen unless you ask nicely," he said, his voice a low growl.

You clenched your jaw, refusing to give in to his taunts, but the way he continued to tease you—just barely pushing, then pulling back—left you trembling. Your pride waged war with your desire, but the ache in your body was too much to bear.

"Please," you finally whispered, your voice cracking.

He tilted his head, pretending not to hear. "What was that? Didn't catch it."

Your grip tightened on his arms, your face flushed. "Please, Katsuki. I need you," you said, louder this time, the desperation evident in your tone.

His smirk widened, and he leaned in to kiss you, the motion firm and possessive. "That's better," he murmured against your lips, finally pushing into you with a slow, deliberate thrust.

His smirk only deepened as he leaned down, capturing your lips again in a searing kiss. The way his hips moved, slow and unrelenting, made you arch into him, desperate for more of the friction that he was so cruelly controlling.

"You're so needy," he teased, his voice rough against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "Thought you were tougher than this, Y/n. Can't even handle a little waiting, huh?"

You let out a frustrated groan, the sound muffled against his shoulder as your nails raked down his back. He hissed at the sensation, his muscles tensing beneath your touch, but the devilish grin on his face never faltered.

"Katsuki," you whimpered, your voice trembling. "Stop... teasing me."

He chuckled, low and almost predatory, the vibration of it making your breath hitch. "Where's the fun in that?" he asked, his tone mockingly sweet as his teeth grazed along the curve of your neck. "You like it. Don't even try to deny it."

Your hands slid up to tangle in his hair, pulling slightly in retaliation, earning a sharp inhale from him. The smug look on his face faltered for just a second, and you seized the opportunity to push your hips up against his, drawing a strained groan from his lips.

"Oh, you wanna play like that?" he growled, his voice dripping with challenge. His grip on your hips tightened, and before you could reply, he rolled his hips with enough force to knock the air from your lungs. Your head fell back against the desk, a moan escaping your lips as he finally gave you what you'd been craving.

"That's more like it," he murmured, his tone laced with approval as he set a rhythm that had your head spinning. His movements were calculated, hitting all the right spots with precision that made your toes curl.

Your nails dug into his shoulders again, and you struggled to keep your voice steady as you said, "You... drive me crazy."

He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours in a taunting kiss. "Good," he replied, his breath hot against your mouth. "I'd be disappointed if I didn't."

The heat between you grew more intense with every thrust, his name falling from your lips in breathless gasps. His hands roamed your body, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, and the smug look on his face only grew as he watched you unravel beneath him.

"Look at you," he said, his voice rough with barely contained hunger. "Completely mine."

The possessiveness in his tone sent a jolt of electricity through you, and you met his gaze, your eyes half-lidded with desire. "Always," you whispered, the word barely audible over the sound of your ragged breathing.

His pace quickened, and the room filled with the sound of skin against skin, your moans mingling with his low groans. The pressure building inside you was almost unbearable, and you clung to him as if he were the only thing keeping you grounded.

"Katsuki," you gasped, your voice trembling with urgency. "I'm..."

"I know you're close," he said, his voice dropping into a cruel, teasing purr. "But you're not gonna get there until you beg for it."

Your breath hitched, frustration and need coiling tight in your chest. "Katsuki, please," you whimpered, but he shook his head, his grin all sharp edges.

"That's not good enough," he murmured, his hips still moving torturously slow. "I wanna hear you say it properly. Beg me, baby. Tell me exactly what you want."

The tension in your body was unbearable, and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. "Please, Katsuki," you said, your voice breaking. "I need you. Please let me... please let me come."

For a moment, he only stared at you, his crimson eyes dark with something possessive and raw. Then his smirk softened, and he leaned down, brushing his lips against yours in a fleeting kiss. "That's my girl," he murmured.

Without warning, his pace quickened, and the sudden intensity made your head spin. The coil in your stomach snapped, and you cried out, your entire body shaking as pleasure tore through you. Katsuki followed seconds later, his growl low and guttural as he buried himself in you, his hold on your hips bruising.

The two of you stayed locked together, your heavy breaths mingling in the aftermath. His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing away a stray tear as he pressed his forehead to yours. "Was that so hard?" he asked, his tone still teasing but softer now.

You huffed, weakly swatting at his chest. "You're the worst."

He chuckled, leaning closer with a cocky smirk that made your blood boil. "Yeah, but admit it," he said, his voice low and teasing. "You love the way I make you beg."

Your mouth opened to retort, but the intensity in his gaze froze the words on your tongue. Instead, you scoffed, looking away to mask the heat rising to your face. "You're insufferable," you muttered, though your voice lacked its usual bite.

He tilted your chin back to meet his eyes, the smugness in his expression softening just slightly. "Maybe," he murmured, his thumb brushing over your cheek in an uncharacteristically tender gesture. "But you can't deny the way you clenched so hard for me when I made you beg for it."

And as much as you wanted to argue, the truth lingered unspoken in the silence between you.

Hi hello! I hope you all enjoy this lil' smut of mine. If you want more of this, I actually have a Youtube channel where I create stories like this too.

CLICK HERE to check out my Youtube channel. (Also your sub will help a lot! Thank you. <3)

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psychoticbipolarbear · 2 days ago

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Unprofessional innuendos

pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader

summary: You keep teasing Hotch jokingly, a habit that stems from your feelings for him, but when you want to make a move he doesn't approve of, he thinks it's time to tell you he secretly likes it.

tags: daddy kink implied, age gap, pre-season 1, fem!bau!reader, Haley isn't with Hotch

word count: 0.9k

“Boys, we all know that Daddy loves me best,” you say with a laugh as you lean back in the chair with a smug smile on your face.

Derek laughs with you as he shakes his head, knowing full well you are right, while Spencer looks like you just shot his dog. “What about me?” he asks hesitantly, pointing at himself.

“You’re Gideon’s favorite, I won’t give you Hotch too.”

“And I’m the oldest child both parents forget about,” Derek notes as he stands up and stretches his arms above his head. You throw a pen at him, but he catches it with ease and walks over to put it on your desk. “Come on, I’m paying for the drinks tonight. You’re coming too, Reid,” he adds, giving a pointed look to the youngest member of your team.

You don’t move, instead you turn to the hallway where Hotch and Gideon’s offices are, wondering if you should at least offer them the chance to join you. Gideon barely came with you, but Hotch agreed every so often, and when you could convince him to drink more than two glasses, things always got interesting. He could be fun when he let his walls down, when he joined the playful banters, or when he played along with you when you were back on your usual bullshit after one too many drinks.

So, despite the others’ protests, you jump up and run into Hotch’s office to convince him to join you. He’s playing hard to get, but you know you could easily get under his skin with a few sweet words, and sure enough, he rolls his eyes and closes the folder he was working with. “Fine,” he says, then stands up to follow you.

Fast forward to one in the morning, when he’s standing at your door, holding you up while you try to open your front door. Derek offered to take you home, but he wasn’t that sober either, so Hotch took it upon himself to get you home in one piece. Despite being aware of your intoxicated state, he gives you a lecture in the car about how you should try to behave, toning down the innuendos that are usually flowing out of you more often than not. And it only happened around him, which made him wonder if there are real feelings behind them.

One day is enough to put the pieces together, and when the team goes to their respective rooms after a long day of traveling and getting up to speed with a new case, you can’t help but linger around your boss’ room, debating whether or not you should talk to him. You know he was right that night, that you were taking things too far, that you were overstepping boundaries that existed for a reason. But you didn’t know what to do, your crush on him made it impossible to be around him and act normal.

And tonight you had a moment of enlightenment and figured out what route you can take to solve this. So, you knock, impatiently waiting for him to open the door for you. When it creaks open, you see that he’s already dressed for bed, wearing a white shirt and black track pants, and his hair is a mess already. “Did something happen?” he asks.

“I know it’s late, I’m sorry. There’s something I want to tell you, but I don’t want to wait until the morning,” you admit, glancing past him into the room as a sign that maybe you shouldn’t discuss it there. He gets the message and steps aside to let you in. “I’m leaving the team,” you announce when he leans against the wall.

Hotch freezes, but his brown eyes tell you that his brain is in overdrive. “What?” You nod, not feeling like responding with words. “No.”

“That’s not up to you.”

“It should be. Is it because of what we talked about in the car?” he asks as he steps closer, slowly closing the distance between you. You nod again. “Okay, listen to me very, very carefully. I said what I said because I don’t want a scandal. I swear to God, one day the way our team members communicate will trigger a sexual harassment training. Garcia and Morgan? You and me? That’s completely unprofessional, no matter how natural it feels to us,” he says.

You think about what he said, then you note, “But you never join in when I say those things. It’s not mutual.”

To your surprise, he lets out a laugh, then reaches out to cup your face. “Don’t think I don’t want to,” he admits, leaning so close you can feel his hot breath on your skin. “I love the way you’re teasing me, surprisingly, I even find your stupid daddy and sir kinks endearing, but I need to draw the line at work. I’m your boss, there are rules against relationships like that.” He thinks about this, then lets his hands slide down from your cheek, moving along your neck, down over your collarbone, exploring your sides as he leans in to kiss you. “Stay here tonight. Let me show you how badly I want you,” he breaths against your lips.

Your brain doesn’t work properly anymore, you can’t think of a reason why you should say no to him. So, you stay, giving in to the sexual tension that’s been building up ever since you joined the team. From that night on, you don’t even think about leaving the team again. You just tone down the comments to play by his rules.

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x reader #spencer reid #derek morgan

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ylangelegy · 2 days ago

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my lovely !!!! congrats on 1 million followers 💝🎉✨ although u deserve a billion 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ i’m here to submit a📱 bc i’m dying to hear some more about ‘blindsided’ pls 🤲

char, my light! u make this godforsaken site worth it and i love u oh so dearly ୨ৎ i am forever a u/pochaccoups fan 🙂‍↕️

📱 office worker!wonwoo x reader, based on blindsided (fic + text imagines). part of my follower milestone celebration. mdni, 18+ content. word count: 700.

Wonwoo has fucked you in every imaginable corner of your office.

He knows he should probably be guilty. He’s a model employee, after all. Perfect performance evaluations and all that.

But he just can’t bring himself to care, not when he’s got you bent over the copy machine after hours. He doesn’t think of ethics or rules when he’s eating you out in one of the bathroom stalls or when the two of you steal away to the supply closet for a quickie.

He’s certainly not thinking of it now as the two of you christen his new office room.

Graduating from a cubicle was no small feat. At least that’s what you sweetly told him before sinking to your knees and unbuckling his belt. Wonwoo has a fistful of your hair in one hand while the other clutches the corner of his desk, white-knuckled in its grip.

He hasn’t had this room for more than two days and he’s already risking it all for some head. Maybe he should—

The tip of his cock hits the back of your throat, and whatever he was thinking of doing is as good as gone.

“Fuck,” he huffs, his fingers tightening around the strands of your hair. “You’re— ah— going to get me in trouble.”

You hum in response, unrepentant in your debauchery. You merely continue to suck him off like your life depends on it. The only thing Wonwoo can do is keep an eye on the door and hope, pray, that nobody needs him for the next ten minutes or so.

When Wonwoo’s gaze flicks to you underneath his desk, he’s done for.

Maybe it’s the tears edging at your lashes, the way you’re trying so hard to take in every inch of him in your mouth. Maybe it’s how you look underneath his grasp, how you’re pliant and perfect and on your goddamn knees.

Maybe he’s always just been weak for you. There’s that, too.

Either way, Wonwoo finishes with a strangled groan. His hand that had been clutching the desk goes to cover his mouth in a futile attempt to bite back the sound. You lap up every drop of his seed in the way that drives him absolutely crazy, the way that makes him want to shoot his cum down your throat for days on end.

His chest heaves as you shuffle out from underneath the desk, a coy grin tugging at your lips. You throw a quick glance at the door before draping yourself across Wonwoo’s lap, your skirt riding up as you bracket yourself across his thighs.

Wonwoo’s hands instinctively find purchase at your waist. He lets out a low hiss when he feels just how wet you are, the evidence of your arousal seeping through your underwear and on to his pant leg.

“Can’t do this,” he breathes out, his denial weak in the way his fingers slide up your blouse. “We have to stop.”

He’s given you this bullshit excuse enough times that you know he doesn’t really mean it. A part of him does this time, he likes to think, and you must know that, too, because you lean forward until your chests are pressed together.

“Don’t worry.” You give a playful nip at his earlobe. “I’ll be gone in two weeks.”

“What?” he sputters, his eyes widening behind his glasses.

He tries to gently pull you away from him, but you don’t budge. Your head instead falls into the crook of his neck as you giggle breathlessly.

“Got poached. Same position as yours,” you inform him. “Our company’s non-compete clause is pretty shitty, so I think I’m going to get away with it.”

On one hand, Wonwoo is grateful. Your move would solve a number of issues, from conflict of interest to his never-ending war with morality. And— maybe, just maybe— he could graduate from friends with benefits to something more. Something real.

But it also meant—

Your teeth scraping his pulse point drags him out of his thoughts. Wonwoo’s grip on you tightens. You and your stupid habit of leaving marks right before ruining him.

“What do you say, Jeon?” you tease. “One more for the road, yeah?”

#📰 ylangelegy hits 1k #pochaccoups #wonwoo smut #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo imagines #svt smut #seventeen smut #svt imagines #seventeen imagines #୨ৎ penned by ylangelegy #୨ৎ muse .ᐟ svt #( i am not a smut writer. blindsided is like ?? one of two on my blog me thinks.. )#( char on the other hand . MY GOD !! )#( some of the best smut on this platform.. i do not know how u do it )#( anyway. i remember u once said u weren't one for office aus so this made me giggle <3 )#( ily char i will read everything u put out forever n ever!! )

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drowning-rabbit · 2 days ago

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fuck it, i love you

spencer reid x celebrity!reader

chapter one: i like to see everything in neon

word count: 1.6k

plot summary

chapter summary: the calm before the storm - you meet spencer reid at an art gallery and he makes you question your view on life in less than twenty minutes.

Pretending is easy. At least that’s what you’ve been telling yourself the majority of adulthood. At 25, you had been cruising through milestones in a convertible, with the top down and the wind blowing. Making it as a public figure never seemed attainable until it was in front of your eyes. Poor kids don’t get famous, and your situation was inopportune at best. Childhood wasn’t easy, but lo and behold: here was a thriving career in your mid-20s, launched by a recurring role in a dramatic romance series.

Except it wasn’t all that easy. The series wasn’t perfect, and it required a lot more intense scenes than you had hoped. But it had kickstarted your fame, and Michael said it was too early to leave. You had worked relentlessly to get here with no one close to your side. Parker was nice, and had been a great friend since college. He was always busy curating, though. Pinky was… there. Mags had been around constantly but was a bit clingy, and Michael, your manager, was a delight. That was it. Hollywood was lonely, and you had given up the concept of real friends entirely. Although every single available person threw themselves at your feet, no one had treated you as an equal. There were no friends in business; only colleagues. Most anyone would stab a knife into your back for an opportunity at more money and fame. Some pretended to be nice, while others were outright rude. Pinky was one of the rude ones. Although interesting to be around, she was a narcissist and constantly brought you down. She also had a thing for older men - which was odd considering her preference for dating women.

Parker had asked you to attend his latest exhibit, accompanied by Pinky. She was a featured artist. You arrived before the crowd in order to avoid most of the paparazzi, and now walked with him and Pinky through the exhibit. Cameras were not allowed inside, so you were safe from prying eyes. He explained some of the featured pieces to you, but was quickly distracted by someone he recognized.

“Spencer! Spencer Reid! Dude! Look at you!” He yelled over to two men in corporate clothing. One was older, middle-aged. His hair was greying and his expression was solemn. He looked like he had seen a lifetime of sadness. Pinky would latch on quickly. The other was possibly the most beautiful man currently in the state of California. He had the sweetest brown eyes, slightly overgrown hair, and an apprehensive smile. He looked hesitant, like he didn’t want to see Parker. That must be Spencer Reid. The name bounced around in your head like the DVD-idle screen that played during late nights in your apartment. He stood awkwardly with his hands nestled into his dress pants, his polka dot button up covered by a grey vest and a sleek black tie.

“You look just the same. Look at you, dude. Nothing’s changed. Spencer was the only 12 year old in our graduating class. Just the same.” Parker smiled genuinely at the pretty man. His name hit the corner of your brain’s TV screen and it clicked. Spencer Reid, graduated high school at twelve years old. A man that looked like a modern Adonis but walked with the air of a childhood prodigy. Clearly intelligent, equally awkward. Beautiful. Pretending was easy - you remembered to feign disinterest. After staring at him for a few minutes, you gave up on enjoying peace of mind and walked around the gallery with Pinky. It seemed like everything out of her mouth was contemporary, which explained the nature of her pieces. You pretended to pay attention, but Spencer still lingered in your thoughts until you heard Parker call your name.

“Guys, come on.” He motioned to Spencer and the other man as they approached you. “Spencer, you ever meet a real movie star?” He asked as Spencer eyed you up and down. When he met your gaze, he realized what he was doing and quickly looked away. You kept your eyes on him.

“Movie star? Please, she's got one role on a television series about weird kinky romance. Totally blue collar,” Pinky added from beside you. You chuckled a bit and introduced yourself, refusing to let eye contact break when Spencer looked back at you.

“Hi, I'm... I'm doctor Spencer... Reid. I'm Spencer. You don't have to... call me doctor.” He stuttered through his introduction and squinted like he offended himself.

“I won't.. Spencer.” You grinned widely to convince him to lighten up a little. You were interrupted by several flashes of a camera, so Parker excused himself.

“Hey you! I told you! No photos in the gallery! All right? Out!” You sighed deeply before reaching out to grab a glass of champagne off of a tray. Paparazzi always got in the way of everything. It was hard to say acting was worth it when privacy was never an option. Sure, you loved your job, but at what cost? When was it all enough? Pretending is easy, so you pretended not to care.

“So... you're not from around here, are you?” You asked Spencer, giving him another award-winning smile. He wasn’t used to it all, and despite the awkward facade, he was shockingly easy to talk to. His hesitance to be in the limelight gave you a sense of camaraderie. It was fun to be the center of attention, but easier to blend in to the crowd. Talking to him made you feel normal, like you could have a real friend.

“Me? No.” He shook his head firmly. “No, I'm... We're running a training service about profiling for the Los Angeles police department.”

“Profiling?” You questioned. So much for a friend. He was a narc.

“Yeah, I'm with the behavioral analysis unit of the FBI. We psychoanalyze crime scenes in order to gain a better understanding of the criminal’s thought process,” He explained, crossing his arms over his chest. Oh, so maybe not as bad. He wasn’t any harm to you, anyway. It couldn’t hurt to entertain the possibility of connection. Pretending was easy, lying to yourself was a different story. And you couldn’t possibly lie about your attraction towards this man. You wondered if he could tell.

“Psychoanalyze, huh?” You watched his eyes as they averted your gaze, his cheeks still an endearing shade of pink. You wanted to see him turn red.

“Are you doing that to me right now?” You giggled as you watched his color turn. Bingo.

“What? no! I'm not psychoanalyzing you. I'm just…” He was so pretty.

“I'm kidding.” You said gently, unable to stop yourself from making sure he was comfortable. “Do you mind if I?” You reached out a hand and waited for him to take it.

He paused for an uncomfortably long period of time, staring at your well-manicured hand extended out towards his. He blinked once, twice, three times, as if trying to convince himself of something. He swallowed and closed his eyes, and you watched the trail of his Adam’s apple. When you looked up, he shook his head before opening his eyes and lacing his fingers through yours. You led him to one of the paintings on the wall while trying to hold his hand as gently as possibly. Physical contact seemed to be difficult for him, and it made you giddy that he was willing to trust you blindly. After a moment, you spoke again.

“Does it make you feel anything?” you gestured towards the painting in front of you. It was mostly dark, but splotches of neon light painted the canvas in an endearing way. It reminded you of Hollywood. When the lights were so bright, it was easy to forget the darkness lingering behind the scenes.

“Like what?” He tilted his head in curiosity, and you melted.

“I can't tell you how to feel. I can tell you I like to see everything in neon, and the lime green reminds me of partying. Fame is hard, but it’s easy to deal with. You just have to let go and live a little” You squeezed his hand a little, and he looked down before you heard a reply.

“Right now, I feel pretty good.” He squeezed your hand back. “You know, there’s other ways to cope. Maybe I can..”

“We're leaving.”

Spencer abruptly let go of you as the man from earlier tapped his back. He seemed to flinch as he realized what he was doing by touching you.

“We're still looking at the exhibit,” He protested, wiping the hand that held yours onto his pants. Was he trying to get rid of your germs? He could be a germaphobe, since you knew nothing about him. In fact, it was kind of odd to be holding the hand of someone you met twenty minutes ago. Then again, it was also odd for an FBI profiler and a television actress to meet in the middle of an art gallery. And it was odd that meeting this unusual man had been the most interesting event in your life in a long time.

“Now. Now, now.” The older man was in an urgent rush. He had left with Pinky earlier, which meant she was up to her antics again.

“Yeah, I guess we're leaving, so...” He looked you up and down, but made no move to leave.

“Reid, now.” At this, he started away from you. Fucking Pinky.

“Nice to meet you, Spencer Reid.”

“Bye!” He turned and smiled back at you, waving quickly. You only hoped you would see him again. Pretending was easy, so you pretended it didn’t matter.

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid x you #criminal minds imagine #dr spencer reid #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #spencer reid criminal minds

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ma1dita · 1 day ago

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love spells evol

wc: 1.7k summary: [sylus qin x reader based on nightplumes] there’s an ancient myth about seeing the first snow of the season with someone you (might) love; based on the crash landing on you k-drama plot a/n: here’s a gift after not being able to put any creative words to paper for months. fluff! kinda angst? title from evol by adrienne lenker

—

A myriad of colors reflect in your eyes as the night sky booms with color. Despite the noise, a peaceful silence occupies the space between you and Sylus at the Linkon riverwalk tonight, the wind swirling around you as if trying to push you closer.

But you resist.

You can barely call him a friend, after all.

You’re not sure if he’d let you even if you tried. The words roll around in your mouth— a confidant, perhaps? An ally, for sure at the very least. You’ve both come far from your initial faceoff with the big and bad Onychinus leader. Now, he’s just…. you still can’t find the right words. He’s not just anything to you—that, you’re sure of.

Right now though, he’s as still as a statue watching the fireworks display while you get knocked around by gusts of cold air. You bear down, grabbing onto his solid arm briefly, before realizing you’re tugging at the wool of his sleeve like a petulant child. So, you decide to hold onto the metal railing instead.

“Hmm?” he murmurs, still not looking at you. Sylus is almost picturesque under splashes of iridescent light as if an artist let loose to make a masterpiece of him. And you can’t do anything but watch, mesmerized by all of him, from the sweep of his silver hair, down the steep slope of his cheekbones, and the small smirk that always seems to surface when he’s about to taunt you.

“There she goes. Without even looking back. How ungrateful,” he jokes, lining up his pointer finger with your viewpoint so you can spot the feathered friend you imposed upon him days earlier. He’s gentle, you realize—- when he wants to be. Protective when it matters. Despite the chill that races up your spine, you feel warm huddled close to him, chin against his sleeve as you see your dove flap its wings in the sky, getting smaller as she flies away from Linkon.

“Bye-bye, my dove. Do you think she’ll remember me?”

He looks down at you with something softer now, as you wave at the white speck in the sky, realizing that you’re nestled against his body heat. No matter how cold-blooded you say he is, his cheeks admittedly warm at your proximity to him. He clears his throat, finding his nerve as he says, “Well who would want to forget you, kitten?”

A smile spreads across your face before you realize it, instead, glancing at the flicker of sincerity that crosses his gaze.

You catch him looking at you like this a lot when he thinks you don’t notice—like how someone tries to remember the melody of a song; subtly in broken parts and then intensely, all at once. Sylus’ stare is equal parts wistful and affectionate, if he would only let himself be caught by you—but at the last moment, right when your eyes catch a glimpse of garnet, he always looks away.

“We could’ve gotten Mephisto a girlfriend,” you bite back a smile, and now he’s chuckling, eyes shut and turning away from you. He would never admit it anyway. There’s a part of him that stays locked where your hands still cannot reach. Like a hidden treasure you have to scavenge for. Maybe one of these days he’ll let you in on the secret.

But you are nothing if not persistent.

“That’s impossible. You do know that Mephisto’s made of metal right? And your dove…is real. Down to the bone.”

“But he can feel, right? You programmed him to feel—I swear he laughs at me when I get lost at the base,” you reason. Your mitten prods at his side, wanting him to continue the banter. Only you can do this to him, and Sylus rolls his eyes almost grumpily because he knows it too.

“Dove,” he calls you, “They’re incompatible. It’s impossible for them to be together.”

Your brow furrows, “Can’t you pick already? Am I a dove or a kitten?”

He doesn’t answer.

You’re everything.

“Ugh. But they were happy together. Right, Sylus?” you prod again, wanting to pull him back from wherever his mind has escaped to. Whenever you’re together, his focus is always on you, except in tiny moments where his eyes get glassy and contemplative, like he can see something you don’t. And then even when he’s next to you, he’s not fully there. Sylus goes somewhere far away, somewhere you could only dream to be.

You wonder what he could be thinking of wherever he goes.

He blinks, coming back down to reality and seeing the hope in your eyes. It tethers him more than the linkage you both unwillingly share.

“Yes, they were. Even for a short moment.”

A beat of silence passes again. It’s not uncomfortable at all, and you find yourself leaning against his bicep before something catches your attention. A white speck. Could your dove have come back? But there’s more of them, dotting the sky, falling slowly towards the both of you.

You gasp then, quite dramatically.

It’s snowing.

“Oh no…” you sigh dreamily, cheek against his thick coat. Of course, this had to happen with Sylus here.

“What’s wrong? Are you cold, kitten?” Sylus pipes up, slinging an arm around to wrap your scarf around the base of your neck, up until it covers your head.

“Sylus!”

The sound of his laughter stokes the fire burning inside of you. It’s a nice, velvety tone. You think he should laugh more often, even if it’s usually at your expense. When you free yourself from the woolen trap, the softness hasn’t left his face.

“Is this the first snow? We’re in trouble…”

Your words confuse him a lot—sometimes he wonders if you do it on purpose, or if your words are intentionally reactionary.

He’s never met a girl like you, ever. And he’s been around for a while.

Sylus scoffs, poking at a puffed-up cheek, “Compared to everything we go through on the daily, Miss Hunter—I never thought you’d be scared of a little snow.”

“Am not! Just you know how the story goes…”

“Do tell,” he drones, remembering he shouldn’t be so… vulnerable in his actions towards you. His hand lowers back to his side like he’s burned himself.

Can’t get ahead of yourself, Qin. Just a while back, she was repulsed by you.

But your face inches as close as it can towards his, hands on his chest and tippy-toes in the snow as you speak as if it’s a big secret no one else can find out about. Despite the fact that there’s no one else out on the riverwalk, your voice is hushed, “Well, there’s a story…actually, I think it’s a myth, that whoever you watch the first snow of the year with will be destined for great love.” Your eyelashes are dusted with snowflakes, and Sylus has to restrain himself from brushing them away. And then your mitten extends upward and pats his hair clean like it’s nothing of the sort. Taking a step away and falling back to your natural height, you chuckle listlessly, “But well, it’s not supposed to work between us anyway,” you sniff, stating it like fact, “I mean, with what we both do for work and all.”

Eyes falling closed, you take a deep breath in of frozen air.

“Yeah. We would never work. It’d be a mess.”

One eye snaps open to stare up at Sylus nodding to himself, hand scratching his neck as he looks off into the distance again. His expression is unreadable, and the weight in his throat feels like lead.

“Wait a minute. I said we wouldn’t work, but why would YOU say we wouldn’t work?”

It feels like walking into a trap. Or better yet, a minefield with a blindfold on. Sylus blinks, trying to navigate through this conversation and he’s still unsure of how you feel.

“You’re one of the good ones. The best hunter in Linkon City. And I’m…”

Where should we begin? A convicted criminal, most wanted in all of Philos, actually. THE bad guy, head of Onychinus, and the list can go on…

“---My friend.”

Blood red eyes meet yours in surprise, but you show no fear. Not then, and not now. He looks at you like he doesn’t believe you, but you dust fresh snow off the lapels of his coat even as it continues to fall. Honestly, you just need something to do with your hands.

“Sylus, you know I trust you with my life right?”

It’s hard to read you sometimes. You chastise him on his way of life and criminal activity, and he can’t tell if it’s because you take your job seriously, or out of concern for his wellbeing. He doesn’t answer, letting you continue, “I wouldn’t have resonated with you if I didn’t.” And his signature smirk creeps back onto his face, any previous softness gone as you watch him build his walls up. He doesn’t take kindness very well, and some can say he even reacts badly to it. Sylus Qin is a man who loves to be in control, and that’s the truth. But two things can be true at the same time—the other is that when he’s with you, he can relinquish all of it so easily.

You set the pace.

You call the shots.

“Sure, kitten,” he drawls, “be honest. You’ve just been dying to get rid of me.” Your body vibrates underneath the coat you have pulled tight around your waist, and from where Sylus is standing, he’s unsure of if he’s said the wrong thing until you look up at him again and the sound of your laughter catches up with the rest of you. Sticking your tongue out, you say, “You wish! You can’t get rid of me that easily, you crow!” He grins now, shaking his head and turning away to start walking back to the car, because with everything in him he hopes that’s true.

“Hey! Sylus, wait up! Your legs are too long!”

No matter which way you choose to look at him— friend, or foe, you find yourself falling slowly, just like the snow that settles upon Linkon City.

—

“Deep in my enemy I find the lover.” -Pierre Corneille

#made by ma1dita ♥︎#sylus qin x reader #sylus x mc #lnds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader

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radiantmists · 1 day ago

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Haven't finished my day one fic but here's my entry for @charles-rowland-week Day 2: Chorb!

I see a lot of cute orb-ghost content and love it, but for some reason when I sat down to write my brain went: that experience must be terrifying on both ends. Especially if it happens when they're pushed to the brink, a circumstance that otherwise leads to ghosts just... dissolving. Especially the first time.

So here's the first time!

***

Charles can't remember how he got here; he hasn't really got any idea where here is, except that the ground he's lying on is too hard and the light is so bright it burns his eyes whenever he opens them.

Though that might actually be something wrong with his eyes, judging by how much the rest of him hurts. He must have pissed someone off real bad, to be in this much pain, but he can't remember who or why. He hopes it was worth it.

"Charles," says a voice, a voice he knows. Edwin's here, and he sounds upset, and like he's trying to hide it. Charles manages to pry his eyes open for half a moment before the searing pain forces them shut again, but in that brief second he gets a glimpse of Edwin-- just his neck and the bottom of his face, the harsh press of his mouth.

Charles has seen that expression before, knows it comes along with wide eyes that give away what might look like frustration otherwise; this is the face Edwin makes when he's terrified.

Edwin shouldn't be terrified. Charles tries to reach for where he thinks he was, to comfort him, but just the idea of moving his arm reminds him of how much his shoulders hurt, and he half-screams before he can swallow the sound.

"Charles, just-- just lie still a moment," Edwin says beyond the roaring of his ears, and it shouldn't be a hard request with how much moving hurts, but Charles doesn't think he can bear to lie here like this much longer, the ground digging into him and the pain burning through his bones.

There's something wrong about that. Charles shouldn't be able to feel the ground, however hard it is; he doesn't actually have bones to burn.

He's dead, but he's still hurting, somehow, and that doesn't seem fair, does it? He'd sort of thought he'd escaped it, for a while. Maybe a little pain was the cost of being alive, but now-- unable to feel any good thing-- it just feels cruel.

He's so tired of hurting.

"Charles," Edwin's voice breaks through again, only this time the tone is different, somewhere beyond fear. "Charles, please, don't-- please just stay--"

His voice breaks on the plea. Because he is pleading, which is all kinds of wrong. Edwin doesn't beg when he's terrified; he goes silent and still like a hunted rabbit, which Charles hates with all his being but he hates this too. Edwin shouldn't beg. He shouldn't have to, not with Charles, who has embarked on the afterlife-long project of making him as happy as possible.

Not going anywhere, he tries to say, but his mouth doesn't want to obey him and instead he just sort of groans. He can't move his fingers-- he's not sure he has fingers, right now. They don't hurt anymore, but he can't really feel them either.

He remembers that: losing his fingers first, then his toes, then more and more. Edwin had been there then, too, strange and funny and unbelievably kind, and Charles hadn't had the chance to worry about his toes. Edwin had given him that gift, the gift of not being scared, and then he'd tried to run off like it was nothing, like after all that he'd thought Charles would just leave Edwin to the lingering terror in his eyes when he spoke of Hell.

That terror has never left completely, despite Charles' best efforts. He's started to think it never will, and the thought hurts, but at least he'd thought it was getting better; except now Edwin is terrified, and he's the one begging Charles to stay. He's still talking, somewhere beyond the pain, and though Charles can't make out the words, that heartbreaking tone is still there.

Charles isn't leaving him. He refuses. But he can't bear this either, the pain making it so hard to think, to remember. Edwin's voice is a lifeline, but it's getting more and more difficult to hear it, and he's not sure it's just the ringing anymore.

He's a ghost. He doesn't have ears to ring, not really, or bones to ache or eyes to burn when he opens them. Piece by piece, half on purpose and half unable to hold on, he lets it all slip away, until all that's left is the conviction: whatever happens, he wants to stay.

It feels a little like changing his hair, the way Edwin had taught him, just holding on to what he wants until that's what he is.

Mostly, though, it feels like dying.

***

He knows less and more, like this. He doesn't know where he is, and there's no feeling to help him guess, no pain or light or voice in the ears he doesn't have anymore. He doesn't know how he got here, doesn't know how long he's been here, doesn't even know who he is, really.

But he's not confused, because what he knows is this: he's dead, and it's not fucking fair, because he had so much left to do. He knows he was going to do better, that he was going to fix things, and now he'll never have the chance. Part of him seethes at that, and part of him just wants to take the hint and stop trying.

Except he also knows, somehow, that he does have another chance. That he's still here, even if he can't feel or taste or smell-- or even see or hear. That he can move things, somehow, change them, sometimes even fix them. He can solve crimes and save lives and on very good days he can make Edwin laugh.

He remembers that, the last time he'd made Edwin laugh-- just a little chuckle, really, but helplessly sincere, and the smile had stayed on his lips when he'd said, really, Charles--

The world unfolds around that voice speaking his name, first just memory into sound and then the awareness of ears to hear it, of a head to turn toward it and arms to push himself up, of something soft and forgiving under his palms, and of eyes he can open to see Edwin's face, remarkably close and blinking with surprise that, as Charles watches, collapses into relief.

"You came back," Edwin breathes. From this close, Charles can see the tears well in his eyes. Edwin, who he's seen burn half his hand off without even noticing, is crying over Charles.

It's not really a choice, to reach out with hands that still look a little misty and pull Edwin close. Edwin clutches him back, curling his hands in the back of Charles' shirt and tucking his chin over Charles's shoulder like if he just holds Charles close enough, he can hold him together.

Maybe he can. Charles curls his own fingers into Edwin's coat, breathes deep just to feel his ribs expand into Edwin's grip, ghost-cool but firm and real, real, real.

"I was afraid you were gone," Edwin says.

I was too, Charles doesn't say.

"Told you," he murmurs instead, "you're stuck with me."

#dead boy detectives #charles rowland #dbda #edwin payne #dbda fanfic #charles rowland week #something is bugging me about the structure of this so i might edit a bit before putting it on ao3 #and im still learning the boys' character voices #but here it is! my first dbd fic #my writing #god how do people write short pieces this is so hard

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fleuryuns · 3 days ago

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presenting a fic by @FLEURYUNS

kiss me

IN WHICH trapped in a tower and controlled by your father your entire life, jay helps you come up with a plan to finally escape

PAIRING ⟡ guard!jay x heiress!femreader

UNIVERSE ⨯ tangled au (minus the long hair)

WARNINGS ⟡ depictions of a controlling parent (not in detail), fluff, kissing, inspired by anthony and johanna from sweeney todd

WORD COUNT ⨯ 1.8k

AUTHOR'S NOTE . . . wrote this after watching sweeney todd live and was inspired by the lovers’ storyline… so here’s this! title (and subtitles in the header) taken from kiss me from the musical

You wait until your father is out of sight, walking through the thick vines that separate you from the real world, before you rush to the main window and slide the key down. Leaning over the ledge, you watch the silver key shine with the sunlight all the way down, before it lands with a ting! onto the rocks below.

Without a word, the guard bends down to pick up what fell at his feet, not looking up, or making a face that tells what he’s thinking. Then, he turns and heads to the front door.

Hearing the door unlock and open downstairs, you decide to wait for him on the couch, anxiously fiddling with your hands as you listen to his footsteps coming up.

Your father delivered the news as soon as he came home from his overnight hunt. He’s found someone for you—You’ll be married off in two moons.

To be married off means to be taken away from the tower, only to be locked in a legally binding prison with a man you know nothing about. You’ve had enough and need to get out of here.

Jay has worked for your father since his own parents passed away. It’s his only way of making a living in these harsh times, he can’t even protest the grotesqueness of his position. As a guard, he stands post at the bottom of the tower to assure no one comes in and no one comes out. Nobody even knows of the tower’s existence, let alone of the heiress that lives in it, so it isn’t a difficult task. Though, it is daunting.

Within the first week, you tried to escape twice before accepting that this new guard will take his job just as seriously as the previous worker. You frowned. He did too.

After another week, you decided to start sending him letters through paper cranes you’d throw out the window. There’s no reason for you to try not to at least make a friend—He was much younger than any of the other guards, so this was your chance. It took him four days before he bent down and read one.

“What’s your name?” That was the first thing he asked you.

Looking over to make sure your father wasn’t around to hear the interaction go through, you leaned over the window’s edge and yelled a reply. “Y/N, I’m D/N’s daughter.”

He didn’t respond, simply nodded and went back to staring off at the big vines, waiting for his employer to come back from his hunts.

After a month of these exchanges, growing lengthier by the day, you pushed the key off the ledge for the first time.

“What’s this,” Jay had asked, examining it under the light.

You watched the light refracture off of it from the window. “The key to the front door. It only works from the outside.”

“I hope you’re not asking me to let you out.” His voice was stern. “That’s asking for both of our heads to end up on sticks, if not worse.”

You grimaced at the visual. “No… My father will be out for another few hours. That’s his spare key which only works from the outside. Do with it what you will.” Keeping it vague and leaving it at that, you stepped away from the window, hoping he received your unspoken message.

It took him two other days to figure it out.

From then on, while your father was away, Jay would come up the tower and spend a few hours with you. You’ve never done something so scandalous, but it felt so freeing.

You would do whatever you could in here. Although the space was limited, and there really wasn’t much to actually do, you managed to get creative, inspired by the new friend you’ve made.

Sometimes he would teach you to cook new meals.

(Your father would ask how you learned to cook like this, you would reply it was all from your head.)

Sometimes he’d teach you to play the guitar, using crafting strings you’d attach to the chairs to create faux-guitar strings.

Other times, you would teach him how to draw.

(”Did you make this?” your father asked one night. You simply hummed.)

Once, you even taught him about the constellations, the first time your father’s hunt went through the night. You were sitting by the ledge, pointing at the stars.

Your father came back to the tower unexpectedly that night. Jay had to cling down the tower from the outside. His employer was rushing up the steps below completely unaware of their visitor. When he found you leaning against the window, he grumbled something about you failing to escape it by jumping off. Coward, he called you. You told him you were going to bed early.

Even though you’ve still been bound to these achingly familiar walls, spending time with Jay felt like you were in a new world. His jokes made you laugh out loud like you were the only girl in the world, and you might’ve been. He’d look into your eyes as if they were brighter than every constellation in the sky, but you knew that couldn’t be true because his eyes held the brightest stars.

You know your father doesn’t even have a hunch of your friendship with the guard, not a single suspicion—He’s not the brightest man on the block, and that’s saying something considering, before Jay, he was the only man you’ve ever known. And yet, he marched in this morning to tell you to prepare for the wedding.

Two moons. In two days, you’ll be a married woman.

You can’t have that.

Jay comes bursting through the door with a smile. “Good morning, M’Lady,” he greets.

“Hello, Jay,” you respond solemnly. You can’t find the strength to hide your disappointment.

“What’s wrong?” Of course, he sees right through you.

So, you motion him to the couch and waste no time in telling him the horrible news. Not missing out any details. The glint in your father’s eyes, indicating that he must be getting a fair sum of money out of this. The drop in your stomach when the words left his mouth. Your fear of not only leaving Jay, but being trapped once more and never being able to leave.

He understands, you see. His eyes look into yours comfortingly. “You want to leave?”

You nod. “Tonight,” you specify. “I’ll pack my bags right now. My father won’t return until the sunset, that gives me plenty of time. We’ll make some food to bring, as well, in case I don’t find somewhere to stay. Blankets, too. I’m not sure how long I’ll be away, where I’ll be, but—”

“Kiss me.”

“I want you to come with me.”

“Kiss me.”

You smile up at him.

He takes your hands in his. He repeats, “Kiss me.”

“Kiss me?”

Bashfully, Jay turns away, still keeping your hands locked in his comfortably. His cheeks redden, you notice. You can’t hide your smile.

You reach up to his face, holding his cheek in your hand and turning his head to face yours again.

His smile shies, but not away. “I love you, Y/N. I want to keep you safe, I want to help you see the world you’re missing out on. It’s so beautiful, Y/N, you’ll love it.”

Tears well up in your eyes and you’re not sure why. You see Jay’s eyes get teary as well and you let a giggle escape. “I want to see it with you,” you tell him in a whisper. “Show it to me.”

You spend the day running from corner to corner, wall to wall, pulling apart the only place you’ve ever known and stuffing your memories into a bag. You only take your happiest memories with you, leaving the living nightmares behind, shoving them under the bed to never see again.

Jay is in the kitchen for the most part. He puts together meals that don’t require being kept in a fridge, first, then adding in the refrigerated foods into bags, last. He tells you that the two of you will need to prioritize these foods. “I’ll take care of it.”

“We’ll take care of it together,” you assure him, closing the tupperware for him.

In total, you have two bags of your things and one of food. It’s heavy, but worth it. “We can take Hemi,” you say. Your father didn’t take the horse today, you noticed. He only does when the hunts are far. “He’ll carry my things.”

The two of you come up with a game plan. If your father isn’t too far out, that means that the most difficult part would be getting out of the city, but once you’re out, you’ll be free from him. Jay knows enough of the city, so he’s to take the lead and guide you through the hidden streets to not draw too much attention—Last thing either of you need is being spotted by a commoner who’s nosy enough to spread gossip that’ll reach your father.

With the bag on your shoulders, you say goodbye to this life. This life of misery, of suffocation. You say goodbye to the younger version of yourself; The version of yourself who had hope. The version that lost it. You’re proud to be the version that gained it once more.

You take a hold of Jay’s hand as you make your way down the spiral staircase. He opens the door for you, while you stand in awe at the light shining through it.

“Woah,” you whisper, taking your first steps outside. “It’s…”

“Beautiful,” Jay finishes, though you don’t notice his eyes are on you, instead of the scenery.

There’s a rose bush growing from where the vines come down to. You never knew they could smell so fragrant. The grass hasn’t been cut in a while, it reaches above your shoes, tickling your calves. You almost wish you weren’t wearing shoes to really feel it. You want to roll around in it for hours.

You hum, closing your eyes. There’s a light breeze. You take a deep breath to take it all in. “All of this was underneath my nose all these years…”

You’ve always known your father was a cruel man, but knowing that he kept something, everything so heart wrenchingly beautiful just out of reach from you, taunting you without even knowing it. You frown.

“Let’s get out of here,” Jay suggests, feeling the shift in the air. He takes your hand once more and gestures toward the barn. Hemi snorts from the inside.

“Wait,” you say, pulling him back toward you. “Kiss me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Jay places his hands on your cheeks and leans down to meet your lips.

It’s magical, so much more than you expected. With your eyes shut, you feel a flush of something familiar running underneath your skin. You press your body against his through the kiss.

You realize, the worst thing your father kept from you has been in your hold this entire time.

Now you know to never let him go.

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bumblesimagines · 2 days ago

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The Pup and The Cub

Request: Yes or No

Summary: While (Y/N) is eager to spend time with and help an old friend, he can't stand to be around his adoptive daughter. Until one night changes things.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

CW/TW: Typical Witcher warnings, sexual content, added a little bit of ✨spice✨, mentions of blood, accidental blood kink?? OOPS, virginity loss on both sides

I would've finished days ago if the universe hadn't decided to say fuck you each time I tried working on it

~~~

Summer was at its peak and (Y/N) wished for nothing more than to lay in the soft grass like a snake eager to bask in the sun rays peering down at them from the vibrant and cloudless sky. The baby blue of daytime was fading into a familiar shade of orange that reminded him of flames, mixing and swirling with a soft pink as the blazing sun slowly descended behind the trees.

His nose tickled when he inhaled the fresh air, and the comforting floral scents wafting from the wildflowers scattered around the expanding fields surrounding them reached him. Their vibrant colors splashed against the green sea and he watched them dance with the gentle breezes that blew by, a sense of serenity settling on his chest.

It felt nice to take a break, he admitted to himself. His childhood and early teen years were spent cooped up in Kaer Morhen with Vesemir, and while the mountain blossomed with life during spring and summer, it was nothing compared to the beauty around him now. He felt as if he could sit and stare out into the wilderness for hours without the startling howling winds of the mountain or Vesemir's grumbling.

His father had been reluctant to let him go so far from Kaer Morhen, but Geralt needed him now more than ever, even if it meant dealing with his adoptive daughter, the vexing Cub of Cintra.

In all his years, (Y/N) had only ever seen Geralt smile and laugh so freely with his brethren, with his real family. Those rumbling laughs where he'd tilt his head back and find a fleeting moment of relaxation untypical of the usually guarded witcher were reserved for them, not for the girl.

Ciri was only around because of one stupid mistake Geralt had made years prior: taunting destiny and facing the consequences in the form of a spoilt little royal. He found victory in the knowledge Geralt had pointedly ignored her existence until she needed his protection.

He remembered the cold winter day he met her when he strode into Kaer Morhen with Eskel, eager to escape the chilling winds and reunite with his family, only to take note of the figure bundled up in furs giggling into her cup like the little girl she was (yes, (Y/N) only had two years on her, but that hardly mattered in his opinion) and flaunting her title of princess before them when questioned. Chin tilted up and brow arched challengingly, she made his skin prickle.

"Who brought the girl up here?" He'd asked in disbelief. It was against their code to reveal the secret location of the keep to anyone other than their brethren, so he naturally looked toward Lambert and Coen for an explanation, assuming it was all another prank from them that Vesemir was begrudgingly ignoring for the sake of their long-awaited reunion.

Instead, she answered, lips almost pulled into a scowl and speaking words that had him turning toward Geralt with furrowed brows. "The girl is Princess Cirilla of Cintra. And I'm with Geralt."

(Y/N) scoffed just thinking about it.

Yennefer, he could tolerate. Geralt loved her, that much he knew well, and he knew how much it ate at the older witcher with her betrayal still aching like a wound refusing to heal. She'd groveled for days and weeks, practically begging for his forgiveness in different ways, begging him to speak at least one word that wasn't related to their next destination, but Geralt was a notoriously stubborn man.

He was strong, stronger than (Y/N), at least. He wasn't sure how long he'd last if he were on the receiving end of her pretty violet eyes and velvety words.

Yennefer was humorous, too, with her snark and sharp wit that often left him grinning from ear to ear and Geralt quietly scoffing as if nobody saw the brief smirk that always flashed over his rough features before he remembered he was supposed to be mad at her. She was a spitfire with a kind heart, effortlessly dancing between aloofness and warmth. He gave it another week before Geralt's resolve vanished.

With Geralt and Yennefer watching over Ciri as if she were a precious little jewel and not a princess who by all means should've died when her kingdom had been sacked and lit ablaze by Nilfgaard, it was up to (Y/N) to watch their backs for them. And Ciri, too, he supposed. He'd still happily watch her slip off her horse and faceplant into the dirt, though. Hell, it'd probably make his day brighter.

Death followed her like a plague, she'd said so herself. It was better to keep his distance than risk being one of the many casualties left in her wake. Besides, he'd never forget how close she'd managed to get to killing both him and Vesemir while possessed by Voleth Meir.. nor the lives taken that day.

The sound of laughter drew his attention away from the scenery before him, his eyes immediately locking on Ciri and Geralt as they shared laughter, smiles, and words forgotten in the breeze. They were supposed to be feeding Roach and Desert to ensure the horses were ready in case they had to make a last-minute escape. (Y/N) huffed. She was such a distraction.

It irked him just how much she looked like Geralt too, how easily she could pass as his, and he despised all of it: from her ashen-gray hair verging on nearly being a pale blonde, her green eyes that sparkled like emeralds when the light directly hit them, her pale skin that easily flushed red when she grew embarrassed or frustrated to the way she bristled like an enraged kitten and never allowed herself to back down from his comments.

His stomach twisted just staring at her scrawny figure. Witchers weren't supposed to meddle in human business nor their stupid politics. It was part of their code to remain neutral, to remain free from the clutches of politics, and to avoid falling into loyalties with ruling governments. Geralt rarely, if ever, broke their code willingly, and now he did it without thinking twice for a measly human.

She was going to get him killed. She was going to get all of them killed. And for what? A kingdom that no longer belonged to her family?

"You could've saved yourself a lot of trouble by not coming." Yennefer's voice rang clear behind him and she entered his peripheral, her raven locks clashing with the greenery around them and naturally demanding attention. Everything about her demanded attention; that was simply the way of a mage like her. Deadly beautiful and with a bite stronger than her bark. "I've seen you pout more times than I've heard you speak."

(Y/N) felt his skin warm. "You know better than anyone how obnoxious nobles are. They love prancing around enacting their power over others. They're ungrateful and-"

"Ciri is but a girl and you are but a boy. You have both lived vastly different lives and been raised by vastly different people." Her brows lifted in a manner that reminded him of Vesemir, and he felt a lesson inbound. She placed her hand over his shoulder and brushed her fingernails over his cheek delicately, tittering on affectionately. "Ciri is a princess, yes, but she's not ungrateful, and you know it. She believes you are cruel and a bully, but I know you're more sensitive than you let on. Perhaps you will find more in common if you give her a chance."

"Unlikely."

"Don't be so sure." Yennefer squeezed him lightly, the hint of a smile on her face. "Come inside, supper is ready."

Despite the fact they were on the run, the past couple of weeks had been the best (Y/N) had ever eaten. He often settled for simple meals he could create from things he bought at the market or meat he caught cooked over a fire, but the food they ate now was made with much gentler care. Mixed with herbs and spices, he practically inhaled the rabbit stew, savoring it and listening to the idle chatter between Geralt and Ciri.

He thought about Vesemir and how he was doing. If he was well after the chaos that'd erupted in Kaer Morhen, after losing half the men he helped raise from boys and parting ways with the child he took in as a babe. They'd parted ways plenty of times before; it was simply how the life of a witcher went. But this time felt different, and they'd both sensed it in the air, as if something big was on its way.

"Well," Yennefer exhaled, dabbing her lips with a napkin and rising from the table. "I believe we should check the perimeters, ensure nothing is amiss."

Geralt grunted. "(Y/N)-"

"I will go with you, Geralt." Yennefer interrupted swiftly and his golden eyes cut to her, narrowing with confusion and then squinting with suspicion. She stared at him, seemingly communicating whatever was going on in her head with her eyes alone and leaving (Y/N) and Ciri to try and decipher what was going on.

Geralt took in a deep breath and stood up, his hand curling around the sheath of his sword. "Fine." He nodded, his silver strands bouncing off his cheeks where he'd begun growing stubble. His eyes darted to (Y/N) and the intensity in them softened, the corner of his lip lifting. "Be good to Ciri, Pup."

(Y/N) recalled a time he watched a mother usher her child to another boy, quietly insisting that the two needed to get along before she plastered on a smile and claimed it'd been her son's idea to share his toys despite the clear reluctance on his face. He concluded Yennefer was the mother, him the son, and Ciri the other child completely oblivious to the plan in action. (Y/N) would rather choke than play along.

Ciri lingered near the window, peering out of it as if she'd be able to see anything through the pitch darkness enveloping the cottage. The moon remained hidden by the towering trees, and he doubted the two wouldn't be back before it reached the top of the sky. They'd never leave Ciri for that long, no matter how much they trusted him to take care of her.

"Do you think they're going to make up?" She asked, her fingers busying themselves with undoing her braid.

The tableware clattered when he propped his feet up. "I don't know."

Surely she could hear the irritation in his voice, his lack of interest in speaking with her. He liked pretending as if she were just another noble with a head full of air, but he'd seen the different ways her brain worked, how quickly she managed to adapt to her surroundings.

She suckled her bottom lip into her mouth and dug her teeth into it. Was she nervous? He couldn't really tell, even if she almost constantly wore her emotions on her sleeve for the world to see. Her eyes always spoke before her mouth did.

"It's about time they do, don't you think?" She raked her hand through her hair and undid the small knots that'd formed before pushing her hair over her shoulder to rest along her back.

"I don't know."

Ciri scowled. "Do you have anything else to say other than 'I don't know'?"

He smirked and her eyes narrowed. "I don't know."

She made a noise in the back of her throat akin to a low, irritated groan and finally peeled herself away from the window to collect the plates on the table, taking them to the sink where she gave the sleeves of her tunic a hard tug and began scrubbing the plates. If she scrubbed them any harder, they'd probably crack and break into pieces.

He chuckled under his breath at her annoyance and reached down to his hips, unclasping his holster and setting it over the table before freeing his dagger from its sheath and inspecting the blade. His fingers ran along the cool metal, eyes tracking the distorted reflection staring back at him. He swore his eyes glimmered a different color and felt his chest tighten.

The loud sound of clattering brought his gaze upward at Ciri, catching her bracing herself against the counter while her wet hand rubbed against her pantleg hard enough to leave a streak of pink that slowly faded. "Why do you hate me so much?" She asked, voice nearing a frustrated hiss. "What have I done to you?"

"Exist, for starters." (Y/N) muttered immediately, uncaringly, his attention returning to the dagger as he pressed his thumb into the chestnut brown hilt. "You strolled into Kaer Morhen, my home, and proceeded to paint the fucking floors with the blood of my brothers. You damn near painted it with my blood, too, and my father's."

The frustration on her face faded and her nostrils flared with a deep inhale. The guilt was heavy in her eyes, her fingers curling and uncurling to hide the way they trembled. "I-I didn't-" Her voice cracked and she looked away, her lips pressing tightly together. "I didn't want to. I-I didn't even realize what I was doing. You know that. She had me trapped in a dream. I would have never done that-"

"But you did.. and half the men who helped raise me are dead, Princess." (Y/N) tossed his dagger aside and dragged his feet off the table, planting themselves on the floor with thumps. His arms moved to rest over his thighs, fingers lacing together as his mind conjured up the most venomous thing he could think of.

Years of harassment from ungrateful humans taught him plenty of where to aim where it truly hurt.

"If one can still call you that. To be a princess you need lands, a castle, a royal family. All those things turned to ashes while you were busy running from your kingdom like a coward."

A spark ignited in the green of her eyes and she darted forward with quick steps, snatching the dagger from the table and squeezing the hilt so hard her knuckles turned white. She pointed the blade at him, her jaw clenching and eyes bright with threat yet her hand trembled ever so slightly.

"Fuck you." She spat, inching the blade closer until it almost poked at his forehead. "Didn't your mother turn to ashes? I know that's what happens to bru-"

Ciri barely had the chance to gasp before he grabbed her wrists and shot up from his chair, the force causing it to topple backward onto the floor with a hard thud. He backed her up into the nearest wall, slamming her wrists into it and forcing her to drop the dagger at their feet with a wince. She blinked at him, soft breaths escaping her parted lips that he felt against his skin. He could see the different shades of green in her eyes more clearly, see the way her eyes flickered around different parts of his face.

"You're a real piece of work, Cirilla."

He released her wrists and leaned back, forcing himself to take a deep breath to calm the rapid beating of his heart. His eyes were drawn to the red around the skin of her wrists from his tightened hold and grimaced, a begrudged apology forming on his tongue because his job was to protect not hurt, but before he could get a single word out, Ciri lunged forward.

His nerves flared immediately with alert, only for his instincts to protect himself to short circuit when- instead of being shoved or slapped or even punched for touching her so roughly- he felt soft clumsy lips placed over his.

One of Ciri's arms curled around his shoulders as her chest pressed against his, holding onto him as he staggered backward from surprise. His hands grabbed onto her hips, his mind torn between the tantalizing urge to kiss her back and the possibility of Geralt walking in and seeing the sight of the girl he considered his daughter kissing someone.

He pressed his forehead against hers to break the kiss and sucked in a breath of air. "Ciri-"

"I don't care." She panted softly. "I've been thinking about this for weeks."

The revelation flicked something in him, something in his chest. The heated emotion that always spread through his body whenever he lied eyes on her, the constant need to poke at her until she diverted her attention to him with a scowl, the willingness to put himself between her and danger; he assumed it was complicated hate, his need to protect and his dislike for her constantly battling. Had it been something else? Something so foreign to him he'd mistaken it for loathing?

He watched the desperation swirl in her eyes before he squeezed his shut and pressed his lips against hers, swallowing the shaky exhale she released and darting his tongue past her parted lips. She shivered and wriggled in his grasp, her lack of experience surging in how intensely she reacted to him just grazing his hands over her thighs before he heaved her up fully into his arms. Her legs encircled his waist and the bottom of her boots pressed into the heels, pushing until they fell from her feet.

Twisting around toward the table, he set her down on it and crept his up toward her sleeveless leather vest where he worked on untying the laces until it grew loose enough to discard onto the floor. Her white tunic sagged without the vest and he slipped his hand underneath it, palms roaming over the smooth skin of her abdomen and hips free of any scars unlike his. Her breath quickened when his hand moved higher, and her hold on his tightened when he delicately ran his fingers over her breast.

(Y/N) pulled away, leaving butterfly kisses over her cheek and down to the side of her throat. She drew him in closer and dipped her own hands underneath his tunic to feel along the muscle and scars he'd obtained throughout the years, whispering soft pleas for more into his ear, but his mind focused on the warmth of her skin.

If he listened hard enough he could hear the blood flowing through her veins, the rapid beat of her heart dancing in her chest. His tongue darted out to lick a long line along her skin and she tilted her head to the side, exposing more of her neck.

An alarm blared in his head; his witcher upbringing clashing with the animalistic instinct embedded in his genes in a turbulent fight. Vesemir's voice echoed in his head and urged him to stop, to put an end to the heated moment before it could become gruesome and deadly for them both. He was always so careful but Ciri was such a distraction. If only Vesemir could see him, speak to him.

Vesemir was roughly shoved out of his head in favor of hooking his fingers into the belt buckles of Ciri's worn pants and tugging down roughly enough to drag them to her thighs without unbuttoning them. Her hands were clumsy as she pushed on them, legs kicking wildly until they slumped down onto the floor to be forgotten with the rest of the mess they left in their wake.

He hugged her close to his body and lifted her into his arms again, letting his feet lead him to the room he typically shared with Geralt so the girls could sleep separately from them.

She slipped from his arms and onto the bed, a laugh knocking out of her chest when she collided with the mattress. She curled her fingers around the hem of her tunic and tugged it downward as she pressed her thighs together, the flush on her face burning harder under his eyes and spreading when he took his own clothes off.

His arms curled around her thighs and she gave a light squeak when he pulled her closer to the edge of the bed, her eyes widening as his knees met the floorboard and his hands pried open her legs. His face buried in the mound and a long curse dragged out of her throat in response, her hips threatening to buck and quiver as he began lapping at her like a starved dog, the bridge of his nose occasionally brushing against half-curled hairs the same color as the hair on her head.

He hardly knew what he was doing; he'd never had the same urges as his fellow brothers, his mind focused on the monsters over the brothels whenever he visited towns. But, he'd heard plenty of tales and recountings told over food by drunken men (some likely more fabricated than the rest) to have some idea of what he was supposed to be doing, even though he barely paid any mind to precision and focus. He licked and suckled until her quivering thighs caged around his head.

"(Y/N)!" Ciri abruptly cried out, her ankles digging into his back and pushing his face further against her as she flooded his mouth with her juices.

"That was fast." He exhaled, the fleeting humanity managing to grasp onto the reins for a moment, and he wiped at his mouth and chin with his forearm. He dragged his arms from her thighs and traced the lingering imprints before carefully rising from the floor to hover over her and study her features.

Her chest heaved with deep inhales and exhales, her parted lips red and nearly raw from their kissing. He thumbed at the trickle of drool threatening to slide down her cheek and felt her lean into his touch, her trembling hands slowly dragging over his arms and shoulders and tugging him down. She pressed her cheek against his, almost nuzzling into him, and wrapped her legs around his waist.

There was a line in front of him, one he could cross and face multiple different consequences: they could risk the chance of Geralt's reaction, whether it was disapproving or angered, or risk the chance of a secret being exposed through an accidental pregnancy.

He was no true witcher. Unlike his brothers who lost their fertility upon becoming mutants, he had the chance of knocking someone up, a fact Vesemir consistently reminded him of. He was already a hybrid, a creature made up of the blood of human and monster. Could he inflict that on someone else?

But when she tightened her legs around him and purposefully grinded against him, he decided to cross the line regardless.

Ciri's gummy walls resisted the intrusion, and he still had enough clarity to remind himself she was still considered a princess, one who still had the chance of marrying some prickly noble who'd expect his bride to be a virgin pure. "Ciri, are you-"

"Yes." She whined with a tremble, sounding out of breath.

He pushed forward and nearly pressed his full weight down on her when the faint yet familiar scent of blood reached his nose. In most circumstances, it hardly ever phased him, but he usually never allowed the untamed monster side of him to rear its head for longer than a few seconds.

He pressed his face into the sheets and held on tighter to her, his mind escaping him and returning to the chilly mountain Kaer Morhen resided upon until the ringing in his ears ceased and he could move without Ciri wincing.

Part of him desired nothing more than to give in to the creature he kept buried but this was Ciri and he knew better than risking potentially hurting her. He dragged out of her slowly enough for her to whine, only to plunge back in with enough force to knock the wind out of her lungs.

The room quickly filled with the smell of sweat and sex and the subtle hint of blood that still urged him to fall into a state of delirium, choked words and moans filling his ears and keeping him grounded enough to keep his wits.

Ciri's nails raked down his back feverishly, clawing at him as if she were trying to cut him open. The long marks healed seconds after they were made, something Ciri barely noticed in her hazy state of pleasure.

His lips pressed into her collarbone and they parted with the overwhelming urge to bite, but he had half a mind to tilt his head to the side and dig the sharp row of teeth that'd grown into his bicep instead. Blood immediately spilled into his mouth, not the blood he wanted but good enough to sedate the urges.

Almost instantaneously, his hips stuttered and his body threatened to give out on him, his high crashing into him like a tidal wave. His hips continued to move, thrusting into Ciri until she cried out again, practically milking every last drop of his release with her squeezing around him like a vice. She panted into his ear, sounding as if she'd just ran miles upon miles, before her palms slapped against his shoulders and shoved him upward.

"You're bleeding- did you bite yourself?" She blinked wildly at him, eyes darting back and forth between the blood coating his lips and the blood smeared across his bicep.

The row of punctures wounds had healed the moment he'd taken his teeth out of the muscle but the sight still looked like he'd taken a chunk out of himself. Droplets of blood ran down his forearm, dripping onto the bed and turning frizzy strands of her hair into a crimson color.

"It was either you-" He gulped down a breath of air and swiped his tongue over his lips. "-or me."

Gently, Ciri ran her fingers over the blood on his face, her lips twisting into a frown. "I knew a bruxa once. She had a lover she fed on and- and they were fine for a while. Maybe if you-"

The sound of the front door slamming shut startled them both, and they were hardly given enough time to process what that meant before Yennefer and Geralt appeared in the doorway, their panicked and concerned faces plunging through several differing emotions at the sight of them tangled up together. Geralt quickly turned his back on them and Yennefer released a long, somewhat amused sigh.

"This is not what I meant when I said you should give her a chance. Get dressed. We obviously need to have a chat."

#x reader #x you #x y/n #x male reader #the witcher #the witcher x reader #the witcher x male reader #the witcher x you #the witcher x y/n #cirilla fiona elen riannon #cirilla of cintra #cirilla fiona elen riannon x reader #cirilla of cintra x reader #cirilla x reader #cirilla of cintra x male reader #crilla x male reader #x witcher!reader #geralt of rivia #yennefer of vengerberg

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gallusrostromegalus · 3 days ago

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I think there's two things going on in canon about Aizen:

Aizen doesn't kill captains in the first big battle of his betrayal because he can't.

1. The doylist explanation of his actions is so blatantly transparent (shonen jump scheduling hell) that it overwhelms the subtle watsonian clues that kubo gives us which are:

2. Aizen is a lying bitch. To absolutely everyone around him, but most of all, to himself.

He takes great pains to disguise it. He talks a big game and definitely tries his best to kill, but he doesn't. it makes tactical sense for him to kill at least SOMEONE before fucking off to hueco Mundo but even the fucking off belies the problem. He's a tough customer, but if he really were capable of killing another captain in a fight, he wouldn't have bothered with the whole fake corpse theater- he would have just picked them off one by one while quietly completing the hogyoku until Yamamoto had straight-up run out of strong enough shinigami to promote and Aizen had made himself a god while nobody was looking.

Instead, Aizen's plan relies on (and fails at) having the captains kill each other, and building an army of warm bodies to put between himself and the rest of the Court Guard until the Hogyoku is complete, which pretty much screams "I cannot win, even in a pitched fight".

EVEN WHEN THE HOGYOKU IS COMPLETE, Aizen doesn't stick around to actually finish off the captains- he bolts to the living world AGAIN and shuts the portal doors behind him.

Now that we know that Aizen is mostly smoke and mirrors who is desperately trying to stay alive until his godhood hax kick in, his pattern of avoidance of real threats reveals something interesting:

It's funny that you mention him being afraid of Yamamoto because I think he is afraid, but not of Yamamoto. Aizen doesn't want anyone to think he's scared of anything, but it's better you think it's Yamamoto than The Actual Problem. If you ignore everything Aizen says and just look at how close he's willing to even let other captains get to his person, there is one captain he's TERRIFIED of above all others.

He spends exactly one scene in the same room with them, and only when he knows the meeting is ending early.

He absolutely refuses to taunt them- in fact, they're the person he spends the most time trying to convince that he is actually dead.

When confronted by the various captains, he glaots a bit and then tries to kill them- except one, whole monologues at exactly long enough for Gin to cause a distraction, and then DIPS. He even cuts his big monologue at the execution grounds short because this Captain is incoming.

When the finale of the winter war begins, Aizen makes a point of not being in the same dimension as this captain, and when they're approaching, he leaves for the living world.

Again and again and again, there is one captain, one person, that Aizen stays far, far away from:

Unohana.

I don't think this is intentional on Kubo's part, (unless it's severely underplayed foreshadowing which is a shame) but given how kubo treats his female characters and how he doesn't really seem to understand what a doctor does, I think Aizen's pattern of staying the hell away from Unohana is accidental, but it's my fic and I can have it be on purpose because it reveals some truly delicious motivation and interaction.

1. AEIWAM!Aizen (and to a similar extent, canon!Aizen) regularly squanders perfectly good resources or chances to fix the inequities of soul society because he's too far up his own ass to see the forest for the trees. One of the cheif blindspots he has is his rampant misogyny. Aizen regards the relationship between Gin and Rangiku as that of child and toy. He treats Momo as a disposable tool instead of recognizing she was the one who got closest to actual killing any of the other captains. He seems to think the royal guard themselves will be easy to deal with- possibly because the only one he ever knew in person was Hikifune, and it is so, so easy for a man like him to wildly low all the power and competence of someone like her. He rambles about the hollows having no inner life, but notably it's Hallibel that triggers this rant. It NEVER occurs to him that Orihime herself could be a problem - she's just a toy to take from Ichigo.

Aizen, simply put, does not think of women as people. He disregards the interiority of everyone around him, really, but ESPECIALLY the women around him.

...but this kind of objectification cuts both ways. Like most bigots, his inability to think of certain humans as people means he is also prone to greatly inflate the damage they can do in his mind until they become supernatural entities. "The Enemy is both pathetic and omnipotent" is an important basis of victim complexes, and Aizen Loooooves being the victim, so it makes PERFECT SENSE that his personal Boogeyman is none other than the woman he knows entirely as the quiet and dutiful doctor who has never set foot in battle but that all the older shinigami seem strangely eager to placate. Unohana is pathetically weak, so far as Aizen can tell, yet seems to effortlessly command the respect he so desperately craves. No wonder she lives rent-free in his head.

2. ... Ironically, Aizen is right about her. In canon, Unohana's past as the first kenpachi is not a secret, just largely forgotten. In AEIWAM, it's an actual secret because the Gotei-13 is playing a much more fraught game with the C46. Aizen genuinely has no idea she used to be captain of the 11th, so the weird bloodthirsty edges that he sometimes sees to her reiatsu, and the respect she commands with the other (smarter) captains is baffling.

In truth, Unohana is every inch the monster she was as a kenpachi as she is a medic. Flesh is hers to command and her willingness to cut and sculpt it to her desires hasn't changed- she is just now also capable of healing and reviving it into shape as well, which is much, much worse.

I haven't decided exactly how much Aizen knows about her by the time of his betrayal, but at least on a subconscious level, I think Aizen knows that Unohana is punching in a league well above most of the captains, if not above the old man himself at this point, and his inability to think of her as human means he is unable to assign human motives to her like most of his victims, so she appears terrifyingly unpredictable.

3. Even if it's a secret, some of the captains know, or have guessed. She was still Kenpachi when Shunsui and Ukitake started at the academy. Soi Fon is responsible for handling some of soul society's most sensitive information. Zaraki got his ass handed to him by her and has been in love ever since. Rangiku looked into giving blood once and realized that the most of donors to transplants didn't add up and the meat had to be coming from SOMEWHERE and oh wait that would explain everything huh.

There's a fun bit of play, I think, between the captains who knows Unohana is more than she at first appears, and the ones who haven't gotten a clue yet.

I may have wandered off topic.

MY POINT IS: Aizen doesn't kill captains when it makes tactical sense for him to do so because he is not capable of doing so. His whole strategy relies on not getting killed before he gets his godhood and up until he does, he's running like a rat.

Poor bastard.

If only he knew what was in store for him when he got there.

I did not care at all for Aizen Sosuke when I first read bleach. I found him boring, and worst, unthreatening.

So it's pretty jarring for me that I have been OBSESSED with him in your AU. I'm rotating him at great speed

Walt Disney was a jackass who was flat-out wrong about a lot of very important things, but he employed a great many geniuses of storytelling, and there's a piece in Disney Animation: The Illusion of Life by Frank Thomas and Ollie Johnson that discusses a key feature of Disney Studios Character Design:

"Of all characters, villains are the most fun to develop because they make everything else happen. They are the instigators, and always more colorful than the Hero. They may be dramatic, awesome, insidious or semi-comic, but they MUST be appealing. Almost any story becomes innocuous if all the evil is eliminated, but we do not necessarily gain strength by being frightening. we want a character that will hold the audience and entertain them, even if it's a Chilling Type of Entertainment."

And I've found that to be an important principle of character design, especially the kind of canon restructuring I do.

Aizen had a LOT going for him in canon- for all of Bleach's other faults, Aizen's conspiracy and THE REVEAL are spectacularly constructed and executed. I legit screamed and threw my mug across my dorm room when I read it in the manga the first time. He's also conventionally attractive and the translations I was reading gave him the speech patterns of Every Douchebag In Your 101 Political Theory Who Thinks He's The Smartest Man In The Room, which made him a terrific combination of Unfortunately Charming, Menacingly Competent and Engagingly Obnoxious.

...But he falls flat in a few key places.

Aizen's reasoning could be MUCH more sympathetic- After all, he is RIGHT. Soul Sciety does suck ass and all the options kind of suck. Who designs a universe like that? An asshole who needs killing, that's who. The best kind of Unhinged Madmen are the kind who spell out their reasoning and you realize that there but for the grace of Not Having Super Powers Go I. Canon!Aizen makes a few Good Rhetorical Points, but seems to lack any personal connection to his all-consuming plan.

Another issue is that nearly every villain with A Plan has a clear end goal AND a lot of the menace is drawn from the fact that the plan *could* work. Aizen's plan for betraying the court guard and then killing them off before proceeding into the Royal Realm to Kill God sorta falls apart when it's clear he planned to use pretty much all his accumulated forces dealing with the court guard and doesn't seem to have a plan for the Even More Powerful Royal Guard, let alone God. For how meticulously planned the rest of the plot is, the last two VERY IMPORTANT steps are just handwaved.

So I sat down and started with the plot beats Aizen MUST hit, and tried to imagine what kind of guy would he have to be to get there? And I came up with this:

Sosuke Aizen is a fundamentally good man with genuinely good intentions who is really trying his best for the whole world.

Think about it- what lengths would you NOT go to if you think you found a genuine shot at Fixing Everything Wrong With The World Forever? We all talk about killing Hitler if we found an actual Time Machine- would you do it if your only chance was when he was a baby? Would you kill an infant if it meant you could stop World War II before it starts? Of course you would! One small life for over 75 million? You'd be insane not to! What if you found out that you could prevent the future extinction of Humanity by killing your best friend today? Ten Billion lives? For theirs? It's simple, really- Hell, it's your Moral Obligation to do that if you were SURE!

-And Aizen IS sure. He is absolutely, totally, completely sure that He Can Save Everyone if he just gets rid of that idiot sitting on the throne of heaven. He's seen the plans! He knows where the gate of heaven is! It's So SIMPLE he just has to get inside, and he knows EXACTLY how to do it, yes it'll be hard and there will be... unpleasant parts but. IT. WILL. WORK.

He is of course, insane.

Aizen didn't have One Bad Day that set him irrevocably on the path of madness. It was a succession of catastrophic disappointments and realizations that he was living in a fundamentally irrational world that made irrational thinking look sane. The Catastrophe that befell his family, working for the central 46 and later the court guard and seeing how the organizations were inept to the point of abuse or corrupt to the core, learning that The Actual House Of God is a place he can just? Go to? Anyone would start thinking you were just a handful of white lies and homicides away from Fixing Everything, Forever.

Not only is Aizen insane, he is nowhere near as smart as he thinks. He is smart- He does have a knack for being able to guess just what will spur someone to action or make them recoil in fear. But mostly he gets extremely lucky Many, Many, MANY times. On some level I think it gives him Confirmation Bias that this is what he's supposed to be doing. Aizen is also nowhere near as smart as (nearly) everyone else thinks he is. His bizarrely good luck makes him look like a hyper-competent genius when really it was really the catastrophic failure of Soul Society as a Society that let a merely mediocre conspirator to evade detection for so long.

Being that he is at most, mediocre, he had to have Outside Help, specifically Gin's emotional support and Tousen's Competence- and if there's a part of the fic that stays true to canon, it's this.

Gin is Aizen's emotional rock in Canon. He's the ONE guy that Aizen genuinely trusts, and considers his 'my only real partner' in his scheme. There's more than one occasion in the manga where Aizen more or less asks Gin "Is this actually a good idea?" and Gin backs him up every time.

...Which is more than a bit at odds with Gin's later stated goal of "I did all this to kill you at your most vulnerable to protect rangiku" . It never rang true to me. So I started thinking why on EARTH Gin would be backing Aizen up like that, and realized there was a hole in my world building that he slotted into nicely :)

On the other hand, the entire fic was started because I didn't like how Tousen's character arc ended, so you can imagine how much he's changed.

But in canon, TOUSEN DOES ALL THE FUCKING WORK.

Lab work? Tousen.

Supervising the arrancar directly? Tousen

Actually getting victims for the Hogyoku experiments? Tousen.

Altering all the archives to keep Aizen's plot hidden? Tousen.

Sending all the Orders allegedly from the central 46? Tousen.

Making sure Unohana believes Aizen's fake body is real? Tousen.

Managing all the day-to-day operations at Las Noches? Tousen.

There's even this little exchange, which is Tousen's first appearance in the Manga:

Aizen establishes this entire meeting is a little fake-out a few pages later with "now isn't that a convenieint time for the alarm to go off?"

which makes him look like he's investigating, but he's also going "Good job on disrupting everyone with the alarm Gin!" It's ballsy of Aizen to do a check-in on his plan with his main nemesis in the room, but also his style.

I think the same thing is happening here with Tousen. To make sure Ukitake wouldn't raise a huge fit about the proposed execution of his beloved lieutenant, which might fuck everything up for Aizen because Ukitake is one of like, three people Yamamoto will listen to (sort of).

...So he had Tousen poison Ukitake to keep him out of the way.

ALL. THE. FUCKING. WORK. It's even in his name! The characters for "Tousen" Refer to a legendary scholar the emperor of China sent out to discover the secret of immortality- only to kill the scholar when he returned with that secret. The character for "Kaname" means "Necessary/Vital/keystone" or "to organize/take account of". His name LITERALLY means "Scholar who is essential for the plan (that we're going to kill later)"

Another thing Kubo did well in Bleach: his name game is Off The Fucking Charts.

-but I digress.

In AEIWAM, it's much the same only this time Aizen sees this very dangerous witness who is immune to his illusions but also extremely snart and capable young man and instead of risking being caught out by the one damn guy who can see right through him, opts to Curse Kaname into doing as Aizen says, and doing all the fucking work of this conspiracy against his will.

It's Not Nice, but Aizen genuinely thinks he's doing Kaname a favor by subjecting him to this degrading and incredibly painful servitude- I mean, Aizen's only other option was to Kill him to keep his silence, and isn't it wonderful that you get to help fix the universe? You're the one always going on about Justice, I don't understand why you didn't jump at the chance to mete out some Divine Justice.

An Excerpt from the captain's meeting in between the Massacre that made the visored and Zaraki's arrival, when Kaname realizes Yamamoto is 100% serious about his promotion to captain of the 9th and goes to throw up in the garden. Aizen offers to go check on him while Unohana very politely reads the general the riot act:

---

"You broke your toy Aizen." Kaname coughs.

"…I really am sorry for running you ragged like this. I really shouldn't have gotten so mad about you hiding the the hogyoku- it was very petty of me." The bastard sighs, taking off his glasses and rubbing his face, entirely genuine.

Kaname stayed on his hands and knees, weaving slightly as another wave of nausea flowed through him, powered by disgust and rage.

"How about this- I've got a lot coming up with the new job, training Gin and disposing of Kiganjo- So how about I promise to not give you any orders for a while? You will have to keep our arrangement a secret and not interfere, of course, but other than that, you're free to do as you please for- a year and a day is traditional isn't it? No, that's not going to heal by then- Oh, would you look at that!"

Kaname didn't have the strength to offer his usual rebuttal that he won't look at anything, ever. The sides of his head tingle like his skul was being pressed between two enormous hands made of static electricity.

"It's 11:11! Alright, I won't give you any Orders until 11:11 am on November 11th, 1911. That's easy to remember! What do you think?" Aizen continued cheerfully, patting his back and the Curse nails.

"…I can't." Kaname groaned. He could scream if he had the energy, but due to Aizen's Illusions, nobody would hear him. "I actually physically can't think. Please…"

"Of course! You really are such a help to me, it would be a shame to lose you. I'll even amend our contract, so you don't get paranoid-" There was a sizzling sound and a new stroke of hot pain up Kaname's spine as Aizen did something to the wretched Bakudo. "There. No compulsions for eleven years and a day. What do you say?"

Kaname grimaced, but dropped his head. Save the energy to fight another day. "…thank you, Aizen-sama."

"Good man! Let's get you on your feet." Aizen beamed, putting his glasses back on and offering him an arm.

---

He genuinely thinks that he's doing everyone a huge favor and if they don't get it it's because they're just not smart enough, but it's alright, He's a Benevolent God and they'll appreciate all his hard work the next time around :)

Aizen is a man who is FULL of joy. He loves what he does! He actively takes pleasure in it! And I think that's something that REALLY delivers in terms of sympathy AND horror for him. Who *Wouldn't* have a great time actually fixing the universe? He's a good man who enjoys doing good works, and this is the greatest work of all!

It also Delivers on the Horror when I get to write the deliciously fun scenes where Aizen is Elbows-deep in a novel War Crime and waxing poetic about how GREAT this is, or being confused why the people around him are reacting with fear. Don't you want to make everything better too?

#aeiwam #an elephant is warm and mushy #bleach #bleach fanfic #sosuke aizen #unohana

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emjayewrites · 2 days ago

Text

Private Landing (Lewis Hamilton) (14.3/15) - Part III

SUMMARY: In the high-speed world of Formula One, Lewis Hamilton subtly introduces a mysterious partner via Instagram after a slight mishap during an interview. Sparking media intrigue, everyone wants to know: who is the enigmatic figure that calls herself Mrs. Hamilton?

INSPO: this post

PAIRINGS: Sir Lewis Hamilton x Aurora "Rorie" Phillips-Hamilton (faceclaim is Justine Skye)

WARNINGS: drama, angst, sexual content, formula one b.s., pre-established relationship (with flashbacks). RATED M (18+)

TAGLIST: @a-moment-captured, @boujiestpoet, @avngrsfangirl, @cocobutterqwueen @yeea-nah @alika-4466 @scorpiobleue @certifiedlesbianbaddie @motheroffae @perfecttrashface @saturnville @weetjy @lewlewlemon44 @cranberryjulce @chaoticcoffeequeen @periodjosh @melanin-queen369 @niahxo @purplelewlew @f1-football-fiend @imjustheretomanifest @gg-trini @kinggbl @iamryanl @mitruscity @nichmeddar @xoscar03 @eugene-emt-roe @cherry2stems @louvrepool @tremendousstarlighttragedy @ggaslyp1 @lewisroscoelove

A/N: Please let me know if you want to be added/removed from the taglist.

CHAPTER 14.3: Waiting Game

A month and a half later...

Since the end of summer break, the season had gone from promising to frustrating. The Mercedes was temperamental at best, leaving Lewis fighting for points rather than podiums. Azerbaijan and Singapore had been particularly shaky - a P9 and P6 that had him questioning if his decision to leave Mercedes was premature. But watching George struggle with the same issues confirmed what he already knew: it was time for a change.

At least things at home were peaceful. With Rorie entering her eighth month, they'd decided to base themselves in LA until after the baby came. Their daughter was active as ever, especially during Lewis's races, leading Rorie to joke that she was already a motorsport fan. Marian had practically moved in, bringing that particular brand of Black mother energy that meant Rorie was never allowed to lift a finger, while Aaliyah kept Lyric entertained with endless art projects and dance parties.

The sibling situation had evolved too. Athena was a constant presence in the paddock now, her F1 journalism career flourishing. Aaron had made genuine efforts to make amends, even flying to Singapore just to have dinner with him after the race. And Azariah... well, Azariah had proven to be exactly the kind of big brother Rorie deserved - protective, wise, and unfailingly kind.

Martin, on the other hand, had faded into the background. His attempts to control the narrative had backfired, leaving him on the periphery of his children's lives. It was his loss, really.

The upscale vegan restaurant in Austin was quiet as Lewis made his way to where Azariah and Aaron sat at a corner table. Both men stood to greet him, the handshakes and hugs feeling natural now.

"How's our sister?" Azariah asked as they settled in.

"Ready to not be pregnant anymore," Lewis chuckled. "Your niece is giving her a workout."

"Still not telling us the name?" Aaron raised an eyebrow, signaling for drinks.

"You know what? I'm gonna tell y'all something, but it stays between us," Lewis leaned forward. "We're announcing it soon anyway, with some maternity shots we took." Both brothers perked up. "Her name is Larke Atlas Hamilton."

"Meaning?" Azariah asked, intrigued.

"Larke means 'song bird' - for music, obviously. Atlas is for carrying the weight of the world, being strong. Plus I love mythology."

"Wait, you named her?" Aaron asked.

"Yeah, named both of them actually. Lyric and Larke."

"The L name legacy, huh?" Azariah grinned.

"Just something small, you know how it is," teased Lewis as he took a sip of his water.

"For real though, what if y'all had another one?" Azariah asked. "Just hypothetically. I'm curious now."

Lewis thought for a moment, looking thoughtful. "Lennon, after my favorite Beatle."

"Nigga, what?" Aaron laughed. "You really got it all picked out?"

Lewis shrugged. "I got names for at least ten kids."

"And all their names begin with an L?" Azariah asked, flabbergasted.

"Yeah, check this out - Lyric, Larke, Lennon, Lyanna, Locklyn, Ledger, Landen, Luca, Loyal, and Liberty."

They all burst out laughing.

"By the way, that investment opportunity we discussed for Mission 44? The numbers are looking good," Aaron shifted topics, and Lewis appreciated how his brother-in-law had grown into more than just Martin's angry son.

The conversation flowed easily between racing, business, the announcement of him being a co-chair for next year's MET Gala, and family. Lewis found himself studying these two men who'd become such an unexpected but welcome part of his life. He'd been ready to throw down with Aaron in Barcelona. Now here they were, sharing meals and making plans.

When a nearby diner's phone rang with Martin's signature ringtone, Lewis noticed how both brothers tensed slightly. Some wounds were still fresh, some patterns hard to break. He understood that better than most - the complicated dance of fathers and sons.

"You know," Azariah said thoughtfully, pushing around his quinoa bowl, "it's weird how life works out. A year ago, we didn't even know Rorie existed. Now I can't imagine our family without her."

"Speaking of family," Aaron added, his voice careful, "Mom's been asking about meeting her. For real this time."

Lewis studied both men carefully, thinking of Rorie at home, their daughter kicking away while Marian fussed over her. His protective instincts kicked in - they'd been through so much in the last year with Deja's betrayal, the court case, all of it.

"I'll talk to Rorie about it. But no pressure, yeah? She's got enough on her plate right now."

They nodded in understanding, and Lewis felt grateful for how far they'd all come. From that tense first meeting to now sharing their unborn daughter's name, planning investments together, building something real. Sometimes family wasn't what you were born into, but what you chose to build together.

And watching these brothers who'd chosen to build bridges rather than walls, Lewis knew they'd made the right choice in letting them in. Larke Atlas Hamilton would be born into a family that had learned the hard way what really mattered - and was stronger for it.

_______________________________________________

Qualifying had been a disaster.

P8. Fucking P8.

Lewis sat in his driver's room, still in his race suit, the urge to put his fist through something growing stronger by the minute. The car was a mess - unpredictable, temperamental, like trying to tame a wild animal that had no interest in cooperating.

He wanted to break something. Specifically, he wanted to break this fucking car that had been giving him hell all season. Five world championships together and this was how it would end? With a car that couldn't decide if it wanted to understeer or oversteer, that ate through tires like they were snacks, that…

His phone buzzed - a video call from Rorie. He took a deep breath, centering himself before answering.

But before he could say anything, Lyric's face filled the screen. "Dada fast!"

Despite his mood, Lewis felt a smile tug at his lips. "Not fast enough today, big man."

"You did great," Rorie's voice came through, the camera shifting to show her lounging on their LA couch, bump prominent under one of his hoodies. "That last sector was intense."

"The car's fucked," he said bluntly, then quickly added, "Sorry, Lyric, don't repeat that word."

"I know you're frustrated," Rorie said softly. "But tomorrow's another day. And your daughter's been doing somersaults all through qualifying, so at least someone enjoyed the show."

Lewis laughed despite himself. "Already my biggest critic, huh?"

"More like biggest fan. She goes crazy whenever Bono comes on the radio."

The rage that had been building started to dissipate. Yes, the car was a nightmare. Yes, P8 was nowhere near where he wanted to be. But watching his pregnant wife trying to make him feel better while their son made race car noises in the background… some things were more important than qualifying position.

Still, as he ended the call with promises to FaceTime later, Lewis couldn't help but glare at his reflection in the mirror. Nine races left in this chapter of his career, and right now, the ending wasn't looking like what he'd imagined.

His phone buzzed - this time a text from Toto: "My office when you're ready."

Lewis closed his eyes, leaning back against the cool wall. These conversations were getting harder. Years of championships, victories, making history together... and now they couldn't even get the fucking car to behave for one qualifying session.

Another buzz - Aaron this time: "That car looking rough bro. But tomorrow's another day. Athena's got some intel about Ferrari's tire strategy if you want it 👀"

Despite everything, Lewis smiled. Who would've thought Aaron would become one of his biggest supporters in the paddock?

His mind drifted to Rorie and Lyric back in LA. To Larke, doing her qualifying analysis via kicks. To the future beyond Mercedes, beyond this frustrating season. He'd announced his departure early, to be transparent with the team and fans. But damn if these last races weren't testing his patience.

"Fuck it," he said. Tomorrow was race day. He'd started from worse positions, fought harder battles. And at least he had something many drivers didn't - a family waiting for him, win or lose.

Still, as he headed toward Toto's office, Lewis couldn't shake the feeling that this car had one last surprise in store for him. He just hoped it would be a good one.

The Mexico City paddock buzzed with its usual energy, but Lewis felt disconnected from it all, like he was watching himself go through the motions. The Austin DNF still stung - another race, another technical issue, another reminder that this wasn't how he'd imagined his final season with Mercedes.

"How's the car feeling heading into the weekend?" Will Buxton asked, microphone extended.

Like a fucking nightmare, Lewis thought darkly. "It's going," he said instead, maintaining his media-trained smile. "We're always working to improve, always pushing forward."

Between interviews, he found himself gravitating toward the younger drivers. Franco Colapinto's enthusiasm was infectious, the Argentinian rookie's eyes lighting up as they discussed racing lines through Turn 1. Ollie Bearman reminded him of himself at that age - hungry, determined, full of dreams about what F1 could be.

"Any advice for managing the altitude here?" Ollie asked during a quiet moment.

Lewis actually smiled genuinely for the first time that day. These conversations felt real, unlike the endless questions about the car's performance that made him want to scream in frustration.

"Lewis, can you talk about the development direction for these final races?" another journalist called out.

I'd rather talk about how this car seems determined to break my spirit, he thought. "We're focused on maximizing our package," he said diplomatically. "Every race is an opportunity to learn."

His phone buzzed - a photo from Rorie of Lyric watching his Austin race replay.

"My boy," Lewis muttered under his breath, before turning back to the next interview.

"What are your expectations for this weekend?"

To get through it without this car finding another creative way to fail, his mind supplied. "We're taking it one session at a time," he answered smoothly. "Mexico always presents unique challenges."

The contrast between his internal monologue and his measured responses was giving him whiplash, but years of experience had taught him how to maintain the façade. As he watched Franco and Ollie's excitement about their first Mexican GP, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of nostalgia for when it all felt that new, that full of possibility.

His final Mexican GP with Mercedes. Another last in a season full of them. At least Aaliyah and Lyric would arrive tomorrow - having his son in the paddock always made everything better, even when the car was determined to test his last nerve.

"You're finally escaping these Mercedes media days soon," Ollie joked during a break between interviews, both of them hiding in a quiet corner of the building.

"Trust me, they don't get easier. No matter the team," Lewis chuckled, though his mind was already on his next commitment - a sit-down with Sky where they'd inevitably ask about Austin.

His phone lit up with a text from Rorie: "Liyah and Lyric’s flight is confirmed. Lyric's already asking if we'll make it in time to see 'Dada's silver car.' Also, your daughter is doing backflips. ❤️"

That brought a genuine smile to his face, one that didn't go unnoticed by the next journalist who approached.

The Sky interview was exactly what he expected. Ted tried to get technical about the DNF, while Naomi probed about his emotions heading into these final races.

"It must be bittersweet," she pressed.

"It's definitely emotional," he answered diplomatically. "Mercedes has been such a huge part of my journey."

Franco caught his eye from across the room, the rookie giving him a sympathetic look. These kids understood more than people realized - they'd grown up watching his battles, his victories, his dominance. Seeing him struggle with this year's car must be strange for them too.

Another text came through - a picture of their at-home ultrasound machine and sure enough, Larke was doing somersaults in Rorie’s stomach.

This time he couldn't suppress his laugh, earning curious looks from the media gathered around him.

"Care to share the joke?" someone asked.

"Just my baby’s recent sonogram," Lewis replied, feeling more like himself for a moment. "May have a little gymnast on my hands."

As the day wound down, he found himself back with the rookies, their energy somehow making this endless parade of interviews more bearable. They talked about their karting days, their dreams, everything except the current state of his Mercedes.

It was refreshing. Almost enough to make him forget about the mechanical time bomb waiting in the garage.

Almost.

_______________________________________________

Lewis spotted them first - Lyric running ahead of Aaliyah, his little Mercedes cap slightly crooked on his head.

"Dada!" Lyric launched himself forward, Lewis squatting down to catch him.

"Oof," Lewis exaggerated as he lifted his son. "Getting too big for this, big man. What's Mama been feeding you?"

"Pancakes!" Lyric announced proudly, making Aaliyah laugh.

"Of course she is," Lewis grinned, adjusting Lyric on his hip. "How was the flight?"

"Your son gave a full race analysis to everyone in first class," Aaliyah shook her head. "Complete with sound effects for when 'Dada's car went night-night.'"

"Car sleeping," Lyric nodded seriously. "Like Roscoe!"

"Exactly like Roscoe," Lewis chuckled. "Ready to see the garage?"

"Franco!" Lyric suddenly called out, spotting the Argentinian driver approaching.

Lewis watched with amusement as Franco jogged over, but the moment the young driver caught sight of Aaliyah, his whole demeanor shifted. The confident swagger that emerged was something Lewis hadn't seen from his usually focused rookie colleague.

"You must be Rorie's sister," Franco smoothly transitioned from high-fiving Lyric to extending his hand to Aaliyah. "I've seen you in some of Lewis's Instagram stories. I'm Franco."

Lewis's eyebrows shot up, still holding Lyric who was babbling about wanting to see the "silver car." The confidence in Franco's tone was unexpected - this was the same kid who'd been nervously asking him about racing lines just hours ago.

"Aaliyah," she replied, her hand lingering in his just a moment longer than necessary. "Nice to meet you."

"You know," Franco leaned slightly closer, his accent somehow thicker than usual, "I could give you a tour of the paddock later. Show you where all the real action happens."

"Is that right?" Aaliyah's lips curved into a slight smile.

"Among other things," Franco winked, managing to make it charming rather than cheesy. "Maybe we could grab dinner after? I know this amazing place in the city..."

"Franco come see car?" Lyric interrupted, completely oblivious to the flirting happening in front of him.

"Of course, pequeño," Franco said, but his eyes stayed on Aaliyah. "Maybe your beautiful aunt would like to join us?"

Lewis bit back a laugh. The boldness of it all - hitting on his sister-in-law right in front of him. The kid was twenty-one and Aaliyah was twenty-four, and yet here he was, shooting his shot with the smoothness of a veteran.

After Franco reluctantly headed off for his media commitments, Lewis couldn't resist. "Just got here and got the whole paddock in a tizzy."

Aaliyah scoffed, adjusting her bag. "Don't start, Lew. He isn't really my type anyways."

But Lewis caught her glancing back in the direction Franco had disappeared, a thoughtful expression on her face.

"Mhmm," Lewis smirked. "Lies."

"Whatever," Aaliyah rolled her eyes, but her slight smile told a different story. "I can't wait to tell Rorie about these thirsty F1 drivers you work with."

"Pssh," he blew out a raspberry and rolled his eyes at her. Aaliyah was undoubtedly going to call Rorie later and have a venting session about what just happened, but from the way Aaliyah was looking at Franco – she was just as interested in him as he was in her.

_____________________________________________________

The garage screens showed Franco's Williams dancing through the final sector. Lewis paused, balaclava in hand, to watch the young driver push through Turn 15.

P10 - not bad for a rookie in a Williams.

He waited near the Williams garage, watching Franco emerge from his car with that unmistakable rookie enthusiasm. The moment Franco spotted him, his eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas.

"You were watching my qualifying?" Franco's accent was thick with excitement. "That's so cool, man."

"Not bad out there," Lewis nodded, then decided to seize the moment. "Listen, about Aaliyah..."

Franco immediately stood straighter, all attention.

"She's a free spirit," Lewis started, placing a hand on Franco's shoulder. "Vegetarian, loves Legos more than people most days. Takes her coffee black but her tea with honey. Can't stand pretense or games."

"You're giving me intel?" Franco's grin was infectious.

"I like you, Franco. I do." Lewis's tone shifted slightly. "But let me make this clear: Aaliyah is my sister, and if you break her fucking heart..."

"It's my neck?" Franco finished, still grinning but with understanding in his eyes.

Lewis chuckled. "You catch on quick."

"I sometimes do," Franco chuckled.

"I usually wouldn't help a driver get with her," Lewis continued. "Lando was bothering me about it before, but I think you're alright, Franco."

Franco's face scrunched up in disgust. "Lando? He wouldn't know what to do with a woman like Aaliyah."

Well, damn…

Lewis raised his eyebrows, impressed and amused by the kid's confidence. Before he could respond, the sound of children's laughter filled the air as Lyric and Laura came tearing around the corner, Aaliyah in pursuit.

"No running in the paddock!" she called out, but she was laughing too as the kids circled Lewis and Franco before darting off again.

"She's so good with kids," Franco said in awe, watching her chase after them.

"Yeah, she's a great aunt," Lewis replied, studying Franco's expression. The kid was already smitten. This would either be highly entertaining or complete chaos.

Probably both.

______________________________________________

Aaliyah Phillips turned heads without trying. At 5'7" with a slim waist, wide hips, and the kind of curves that made men walk into walls, she was used to the attention. Her straight black hair fell to the middle of her back today, though she often let it free in its natural curls. While she didn't have her sister's designer wardrobe or brother-in-law's fashion empire connections, her simple high-waisted jeans and cropped white button-down showed she understood how to dress her figure.

But what people didn't see was the woman who spent weekends building intricate Lego Architecture sets, who had an entire room in her Jersey apartment dedicated to magnetic tiles and architectural models. The entry-level architect who stayed late at her firm sketching designs for her dream home - a modern Pueblo Revival style house she hoped to build someday in Arizona or New Mexico, all clean lines and adobe walls with a courtyard full of succulents and desert wildflowers.

"Aaliyah! You look so good girl," Lando's voice interrupted her thoughts as she made her way through the paddock. His attempt at smooth came off try-hard, as usual.

"Thanks, Lando," she replied politely, though her mind drifted to a different accent, one that actually made her stomach flutter.

"We should grab dinner sometime," he pressed on. "Or we could–"

"Still not interested," she cut in gently but firmly. Lando was alright, but his cockiness felt forced, unlike Franco's natural confidence that seemed to flow as easily as his Spanish.

Franco. She hadn't meant to let any F1 driver catch her attention – she'd seen enough through Lewis and Rorie to know how complicated that world could be. But there was something about the young Argentinian that made her want to break her own rules. Maybe it was the way his curls fell into his eyes when he talked, or how he'd managed to be smooth without being arrogant, or the genuine enthusiasm he showed when talking about his passions.

The Mexico City paddock buzzed with pre-race energy as she found her way to the Mercedes garage. At twenty-four, she was established enough to know what she wanted - and what she didn't want. Lando's manufactured swagger wasn't it. But Franco...

"Earth to Liyah," Lewis's voice broke through her reverie. "You good? Or still thinking about a certain P10 qualifier?"

She rolled her eyes at her brother-in-law, but couldn't help glancing toward the Williams garage where Franco was preparing for his first Mexican GP.

Maybe it was time to take a chance. After all, she was single, and that accent was something else.

Aaliyah settled into a chair, Lyric bouncing on her lap as they watched Lewis prepare for the race. Her architecture brain couldn't help but appreciate the engineering marvel of these cars, even if most of the technical talk went over her head.

"Aunt Liyah, look!" Lyric pointed excitedly as Franco's Williams rolled past their window. She tried to ignore the flutter in her stomach when the Argentinian driver glanced up, his smile visible even through his visor.

"Still not your type?" Lewis teased as he stopped by before heading to the grid.

"Don't you have a race to focus on?" she shot back, but her smile gave her away.

The race itself was chaos that somehow made sense to everyone except her. Lyric seemed to understand more than she did, cheering at appropriate moments while she mostly just followed Lewis's silver car and, occasionally, a certain blue Williams.

"Remember what Mama says," Lyric told her seriously during a pit stop. "Always bet on black."

Aaliyah burst out laughing. That was such a Rorie thing to say - her sister had probably been teaching Lyric that since birth. But watching Lewis fight his way to P4, she had to admit the saying held true.

Franco's P12 wasn't bad either, though she pretended not to notice how many times she'd checked his position throughout the race. The way he handled the car through those tight corners was actually impressive, not that she'd admit that to anyone.

After the race, she found herself lingering in the paddock, ostensibly helping Lyric collect signatures on his little racing suit. When Franco approached, still in his race gear with curls damp from the helmet, she blamed the Mexican heat for the sudden warmth in her cheeks.

"Get any good signatures?" he asked Lyric, but his eyes were on her.

Maybe her sister was right - sometimes you had to bet on what felt right, even if it wasn't part of your careful plans. And this curly-headed rookie with the smooth accent and genuine smile definitely hadn't been part of her plans.

"There you go, campeón," Franco handed the marker back to Lyric after signing his suit.

"Actually," Aaliyah said, surprising herself with her boldness as she took the Sharpie from him. "Give me your hand."

Franco's eyebrows rose but he extended his palm, a slow smile spreading across his face as she wrote her WhatsApp number in neat architect's handwriting.

"About that dinner you mentioned..." she started.

"I know the perfect place," he finished, studying the numbers on his hand like they were the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen. "You coming to Brazil?"

"I can go," she replied casually, though she'd already arranged two weeks of PTO from the firm to help her sister and Lewis out with Lyric, but aunties need some down time too.

"Lucky me," Franco grinned, that accent somehow getting thicker. "I'll text you later about dinner, yeah?"

"Yeah," she replied, pretending not to notice Lewis and Lyric making exaggerated kissing faces behind Franco's back.

As Franco walked away, clearly trying not to look too eager to program her number into his phone, Lewis sidled up beside her.

"Smooth moves, sis," he teased. "Very smooth."

"Shut up," she laughed, but she couldn't help watching Franco's retreating figure. "Why are you always in my business?"

"Because I can be, and this is very entertaining."

The Las Vegas strip had been transformed into an F1 circus, neon lights competing with camera flashes as Lewis navigated through what felt like half of the world's population crammed into the paddock. His custom bedazzled Tommy Hilfiger tracksuit caught the artificial light, the matching Timbs completing a look that screamed Vegas baby - even if his mind was firmly fixed on Los Angeles.

Nothing.

He checked his phone for the hundredth time. Still nothing from Rorie. The helicopter was on standby, ready to whisk him to LA the moment she texted that their daughter was ready to make her debut. Toto had already arranged everything - Mick was ready to step in, though there were whispers that Kimi might even drive. Because fuck a race when his baby girl was being born.

"Lewis," Bono called out, trying to get his attention during the pre-race briefing. "The tire strategy…"

"Sorry," Lewis muttered, eyes still glued to his phone. "Just…"

Bono's expression softened. "How about this - you focus on the race, and I'll keep you updated if Rorie calls or texts. Deal?"

"Yeah, okay," Lewis agreed, though his hand still twitched toward his pocket. "Thanks, man."

The paddock was a maze of VIP areas and pop-up clubs - because only Vegas would turn an F1 race into a full-blown festival. Under normal circumstances, Lewis would have been living for this energy, this spectacle. But right now, all he could think about was Rorie at home, their daughter seemingly content to keep everyone waiting.

"Any news?" Toto asked as he made his way to the garage.

"Nothing," Lewis shook his head. "Larke's taking after her mama - showing up whenever she damn well pleases."

After another meeting, he made his way to his driver's room to get ready for the race.

Lewis pulled his race suit on, phone pressed to his ear. "Anything? Any contractions?"

"Nope," Rorie sighed. "I'm bouncing on this ball, drinking this nasty labor-inducing juice from TikTok… nothing. Though these celebrities showing up to Vegas are wild-"

"I don't care about that, Rorie, honey. I'll say fuck this race if you're going into labor." The sound of her laughter made him pull the phone away from his ear, staring at it in disbelief. "Rorie, I'm serious," he said once her giggles subsided.

"What if you're driving?" she asked.

"Bono is on baby watch and he'll tell me over the radio. I'll stop like I'm doing a pit and just leave."

"What- Lewis, you can't leave in the middle of a race!"

"Like I said, I don't give a fuck. Besides, this car is ass and I'm not missing her birth like I did Lyric's."

"Lewis…"

His jaw tightened. He hated that being an F1 driver meant missing important moments. Missing Lyric's birth because of a race still haunted him. Yes, he'd made it to the hospital while Rorie was still there, but he should have been the one holding her hand, telling her to push, feeding her ice cubes, even being the target of her labor-induced rage.

"Sweetheart, I know how you feel but trust me when I say this, I think she's waiting until you're officially done."

"Rorie, your due date is tomorrow. You could go into labor any time today," he pointed out.

"She's stubborn. More than you, actually. Trust me. When you are done with your last race and it's the end of the season - Larke will be here."

"You sure you're okay?" Lewis asked for the third time.

"Yes, baby. Go race. Win something for our girl."

"I just… I need you to promise me you'll tell someone to call if anything happens. Even if it's just a twinge."

"Lewis Hamilton," Rorie's voice took on that tone he knew well. "I have your mother, my mother, my sister, and about fifteen other people here watching me like hawks. Trust me, if this baby so much as hiccups, you'll know."

"Okay, okay," he conceded. "I love you. Both of you."

"We love you too. Now go show Vegas what you've got."

After hanging up, a knock came at his door. "Lewis? It's time," Rosa called.

The walk to the garage felt surreal, Las Vegas lights reflecting off his visor as he settled into the car and then lined up in his spot on the grid.

Lights out, and away we go.

The start was clean, Lewis immediately picking off two cars into Turn 1. "How's the grip, Lewis?" Bono asked.

"Anything from Rorie?" Lewis countered.

"No mate, nothing yet."

Lewis groaned, both from the lack of news and the understeer he was fighting. "Car's pushing wide in Turn 6… Should we add a crib mobile? I feel like we forgot a crib mobile."

Despite his distracted mind, he was flying through the field. Another overtake into Turn 1. "Nice move, Lewis!"

"Thanks. Do you think we need a humidifier? The nursery might need a humidifier." Another pass, up to P5 now. "And maybe one of those sound machines? Lyric loved his sound machine."

Bono's chuckle came through the radio. "You're doing brilliant, mate. Just brilliant."

P4.

P3.

Lewis barely registered the positions, too busy mental shopping for the nursery. "The changing table - did we get enough supplies for the changing table?"

"Box this lap, Lewis," Bono managed through his laughter. "Whatever you want, mate. You're absolutely flying out there."

As Lewis hit his marks in the pit box, he was already planning his next Amazon order. Somehow, racing while planning for Larke was bringing out his best driving.

10 more laps.

5 more laps.

Then the final lap.

The fireworks exploded over the Vegas strip as Lewis brought the car home in P2, George just ahead in P1. The garage was erupting - their first 1-2 of the season, and in Vegas of all places.

"Anything from Rorie?" Lewis immediately asked over the radio.

"Nothing mate, but bloody brilliant drive!" Bono's voice was gleaming with pride.

Lewis placed his forehead against the steering wheel, then gently banged it a few times. "Yeah, yeah… thanks man."

The crowd was deafening in parc fermé, casino lights mixing with camera flashes as he climbed out of the car. George was already there, grinning ear to ear.

Maybe Rorie was right. Maybe Larke was really waiting for his final race with Mercedes. Their stubborn little girl, already showing that Hamilton determination before even making her debut.

"Lewis! What a drive!" George pulled him into a hug. "The old Mercedes magic is back!"

"Yeah," Lewis managed a genuine smile, pride in their team's achievement breaking through his baby-focused thoughts. "Hell of a way to light up Vegas."

But even as he went through the motions of celebration, his thoughts kept drifting to Rorie and their baby. Their daughter was definitely taking after her mother - making her own plans, everyone else's schedule be damned.

TO BE CONTINUED.....

Next is the final chapter then there's the epilogue.

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arcane-ish · 2 days ago

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Season 1 Vanco, Season 2 Vanco and why I love both

There are people who will insist that shipping season 1 Vanco and season 2 Vanco is almost two different things. I don’t fully agree.

I wrote my “why I’m drawn to them” post in season 1 and even back then, for me at least the allure with the idea of the “one big happy family”. Of it being so close you could taste it. Of it being the ultimate what if. Of all the things that could be fixed if Zaundads were just real (in season 1: mostly the conflict between Jinx and Vi).

So yes, season 2 came as a shock of just how aligned the writers ended up being with the way I saw the ship even in season 1. And even in some ways I wouldn’t have dared to hope.

Still, I do understand the point that s1 Zaundads is a subtly different ship almost as s2 Zaundads. I’m just lucky enough to like both.

Season 1 Zaundads…

Season 1 Zaundads was broody and mysterious. Full of violence, veiled references and open questions. “I’ve heard this kind of talk before”, “There are worse things than enforcers out there”, “you had my respect”, “brothers and sisters, back to back against whatever the world threw at us”.

But also of evocative parallels. If in my ways Vi is Vander’s and Jinx is Silco’s, if they are like their fathers and yearn to be together, is it that strange to imagine a this being mirrored by Vander and Silco when you try to imagine their relationship? When Silco as he tries to ward off Vi is the one who draws the comparison to him and Vander over and over again, while Jinx questions how honest he really is in this regard?

And then there’s Silco and the heartbreaking parallels. The show starts with Vander changing his life to pick up his future daughters. And it ends with Silco ending up in a very similar spot, willing to value Jinx over attaining Zaun and losing his life over it. What can I do but question whether this falling out between them was really necessary if in the end maybe they end up in such a similar situation, which Silco himself seems to realize when he seeks out Vander’s statue.

And ah, the poignancy, that he seeks out the Vander statue at all to talk to it when he is so close to his moment of triumph.

Season 2 Zaundads…

When Season 1 Zaundads drove us crazy with speculation what happened between them, what they were like in the before timed, what exactly happened to make Vander turn on Silco, sesaon 2 answers some of those questions. And yeah, some of those answers were underwhelming, not gonna lie.

But! To me there’s still beauty in season 2. Season 2 on a Zaundad front is so much about yearning. About Vander’s yearning especially. It’s there in his letter. It’s there in how Silco is still in Warwick’s mind as he scours the mines half crazed.

It’s there in the little love shack and the jackets. It’s there in Jinx, the person who probably knew Silco best in the recent years says the letter would have mattered, it would have changed so much. It’s there in Silco, a sweet, loving Silco memory being the first thing that shows up when Viktor manages to enter Vander’s soul.

And there are other things, worth loving, the way Silco looks even in Vander’s dark red visions of him, the way the tease in the flashback to their younger selves, the way Silco is scribbling away and then of course … the AU.

The AU that has the writers coming out firmly on the side of “a reunion would have been possible” but also “a reunion is close to the best thing that could have happened to the world”.

This element might not be necessary to make a good ship, and it sure isn’t what I expected to get when I shipped them in season 1. But I think a shipper group or two can confirm that it feels pretty damn awesome to look at your ship and think: “their love changed the world and it made it better” (and you know, not just just in the sense that they are the ones that made it worse in the first place :p)

A personal take

People talk a lot about how Silco and Vander could have made up and how they achieved the Zaun we see in season 2, episode 7. Did Silco come around to Vander’s side of seeing things, or the other way around. I don’t have a problem with either approach.

But my personal preference has always been towards balance, of both parts of a couple being developed and important and worth cheerleading.

So for my personal tastes, I like to think it needs both of them. They are better together than apart. Their approaches are flawed are incomplete without the other. Silco’s approach is shit highly questionable (as in: I question whether the society he would achieve would be a very appealing one and not full of its own problems) if it doesn’t have some of Vander’s conciliatory and communal elements and Vander’s approach is shit without Silco’s zeal and focus.

#arcane #zaundads #vanco #vander #silco

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mimiii-3 · 1 day ago

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I love your stupid Pizza Steve pfp and the sabateur drabbles.

I was wondering, what if at first Batsib was sabotaging Darling out getting attention out of Bruce; however, after a while, Batsib starts craving the Darling's attention?

Every time Darling gets punished, it's Batsib who comforts them. All of their attention is on Batsib. Any form of attention given is what they want. It's what they crave.

Batsib pretends to be powerless, unable to do anything to help them. Like really playing up the defenseless submissive softboy/girl/person(?). While in secret, is fully smitten with the idea of having complete control over Darling, enjoying the fact that he is needed by them, and is wanted more by Darling than the people who actually kidnapped Darling.

I can imagine the confrontation where they find out why they keep sabotaging and mentally fucking Darling, would be interesting.

Thanks!

…

Saboteur: Two Most Wanted Prequel Pt.1

Yandere Platonic Batfam x GN Neglected Reader

Notes: typical yandere themes, platonic relationship between batsib and darling, I’m writing this w/ a massive headache rn

…

What if batsib realizes that Darling’s attention is all they need…

🦇 - there’s a sick sort of satisfaction you get from knowing that the family’s darling loves you

🦇 - you’re their shoulder to cry on, their only sense of reprieve, and the closest thing to a real sibling

🦇 - after being punished nonstop by Bruce for things they may or may not have done (looking at you batsib). Darling can’t help but make you their designated friend

🦇 - Darling hugs you every time you hide them in your room from Dick��s obsessive behavior

🦇 - they scribble drawings of you and them on post it notes. You purposefully leave the drawings out so that the batboys have to see

🦇 - Darling goes on long tangents about what the two of you can do once they’re free. They roll around on your polka dot rug, detailing future trips to the mall or swimming at the beach

🦇 - you tried to stay strong. Denying the warm feeling in your chest whenever Darling affectionately called you their sibling

🦇 - it wasn’t until you’re birthday that you realized you loved Darling too. Maybe even more than your brothers

…

Your birthday was a quiet one. Alfred had served you a slice of cake and presented you with a wad of cash. It was impersonal but at least he remembered.

You took the rest of the cake to your room and ate in silence. The tv played one of your comfort shows but it did nothing to ease the heartbreak. How could your father and brothers forget your birthday? After all you’ve done for them…

Your silent brooding is interrupted by an excited knock at the door. Whoever’s behind the door doesn’t wait for an answer and swings it open.

Darling peaks their head in and smiles. They enter your room and shut the door with the heel of their foot. Before you can question their presence, Darling breaks into song.

Darling sings some horrible rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ and you can’t help but laugh. Their antics lift your sour mood. Darling, pleased with their work, plops down in front of you. They’re holding a small, brown box with a yellow ribbon tied around it.

“I know it’s small but is the best I could do,” Darling chirps. You eye them curiously before opening the gift.

You feel tears well in your eyes at the contents of the box. It’s a wooden duck, no bigger than the size of your palm. No one has ever spent so much effort on you.

You look up at Darling, “Did you whittle this yourself?” You turn the duck in your hand, the detail is impressive. You wonder if one of the knives you caught them stealing was used to make it.

“Yup! I made you a duck because they symbolize family and love!” Darling grabs one of your stuffed animals and begins to play with its ears.

The guilt overpowers you. You’ve been treating them like crap but this whole time they cared about you.

You don’t say anything and lean forward to hug them. “Thank you,” you whisper. Darling hugs you back, oblivious to your previous betrayal.

You decide right then and there that you’ll make a change. They’re your new sibling. Who cares if Bruce and the batboys don’t care about you. You don’t need them anymore. You have Darling now.

…

Extra notes: my head hurts😫

Tag list:

@jjsmeowthie @shawty-a-lil-baddie @butratherbutrather @shirp-collector-of-fixations @stove-top96

#dc x reader #dcu #yandere batfam x reader #batfam x reader #platonic batman #yandere platonic batfamily x reader #gn reader #sibling reader #batsib!reader #batsiblings #platonic yandere x reader #yandere x reader

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not-neverland06 · 2 days ago

Text

𝚂𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝙳𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚝

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

Summary: Tensions rise as you continue to pull against Dutch's taut leash. You seem to be the only one who sees him for the trickster he is. Infuriatingly, that means you and Arthur butting heads about the man. But you don't expect your latest fight to end with him coming back to you nearly dead.

As much as you’d love to bask in the newness of whatever this is that you have with Arthur, the law has other plans. While the gang has grown comfortable, fat in their complacency, the Pinkertons have gotten closer. You are beginning to realize just how rare these moments of peace are in the life of an outlaw.

“I’m gonna sell her, I swear,” you tell Arthur angrily as you try and get a stubborn Lady to obey your commands. You finally feel comfortable enough to head back into Valentine, you know the woman he’d been with is gone, Arthur told you as much. You doubt he’d have any reason to lie about something as silly as that.

Arthur laughs and leans down, smoothing over Diablo’s mane. “No, you ain’t, you like her too damn much.”

“You’re right,” you acquiesce. “I’ll sell her to a glue factory, instead,” Lady lets out a stubborn noise, flicking her head back and forth. “Unless you start to listen, you insolent little bastard.” Arthur brings Diablo to a slow trot while you relentlessly tug on Lady’s reins to no effect.

He watches you struggle, laughing as he hitches up Diablo. When Lady comes to a sudden stop in the middle of the road, he lets out an amused sigh and comes forward to take her reins from you. You hand them over easily, nudging the horse with your spur in retaliation.

He hitches her next to Diablo and rounds her to stand at your side, holding his hand out for you. You take it in your own, relishing his touch as he helps you down from your saddle. Your movements are still clumsy but you’re starting to get a little bit better at riding her. Even if she still refuses to listen to you.

“If you stopped insultin’ her, I’m sure you’d get along better.” Arthur leads you towards the general store and you glare up at him.

“Whose side are you on, Mr. Morgan?” He chuckles and leans down, pressing a brief kiss to your cheek. It’s chaste and near prudish, but you still find yourself flushing.

“Not on anyone’s side, sweetheart. But if you want to start getting along with her, you’ll just have to learn to trust her.” You nod, not listening to anything he’s saying, too busy admiring how handsome he looks.

He seems to realize what you’re doing, rolling his eyes and pushing you forward. A man’s voice booms through the air, interrupting the both of you. “Well, isn’t this a pretty picture?” You pause, turning to face the man watching you from the porch of the hotel. Men with large guns move around the side of the store and come to stand in front of him.

Your brows furrow, eyes roving across the street, suddenly noticing the stark lack of people out and about. You’d been so distracted by Lady that you hadn’t realized just how dead Valentine was. Something glints in the sunlight on the roof beside the hotel. You narrow your eyes, peering through the glare and seeing a man with his rifle pointed at you and Arthur.

“I’m sorry,” the man calls out, sounding wholly unapologetic. Arthur’s hand tightens around yours and he drags you slightly behind himself. “I should introduce myself,” the man drawls.

You take note of his finely tailored clothes, and the way he’s not fully leaning against the wall because he doesn’t want to dirty his suit. The pocket watch attached to his vest is real gold, something you haven’t seen a whole lot of in Valentine. He’s too prim and proper for a low-down town like this. He could easily have been one of the men from the city you grew up in, upper-class and elite. He’s not from around here and he seems to, at least, vaguely recognize Arthur. You don’t see this going any way but bad.

“Leviticus Cornwall, I believe you’ve heard my name before.”

“God dammit,” Arthur curses under his breath, he nudges you further back in the direction of the horses. Your foot freezes in the air as you hear the familiar click of a rifle being loaded right by your ear. Swallowing hard, you risk the slightest glance back and see another black-suited man with the tip of his rifle pointed squarely between your eyes.

Arthur sees him in his peripheral, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Cornwall. “I know what you want,” Arthur calls out, one hand raised in surrender, the other still holding yours. “But leave her out of it, she’s got nothin’ to do with any of this.”

Leviticus laughs and tilts his head patronizingly. “If she’s with your ridiculous little gang, then she’s got something to do with what happened to my train.” Your eyes flutter shut, dread filling every crevice of your body as the realization finally sinks in. In your last days in the mountains, the men had gone off to rob a train.

They’d mentioned the same name a few times but you’d never cared to pay attention to it. It comes back to you now. Leviticus Cornwall. He was here to collect what they’d stolen.

“I know you are your master’s favorite little lapdog, so why don’t you go fetch Dutch for me and I won’t have my men splatter your lady’s brains against your boots.” Your nails dig into Arthur’s palms, body tensing with fear as you lean further into him.

Arthur gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, keeping you firmly tucked into him. “I’m afraid neither of those things is gonna happen, Mr. Cornwall,” Arthur calls out to him. He leans slightly towards you, voice lowered so even the man behind you can’t hear, “When I tell you, make a run for the horses.”

You so desperately want to look towards where you know Lady and Diablo are hitched by the saloon, but it would only give your plan away. Instead, you force yourself to focus on the man with the rifle pointed at you. You maintain eye contact with the barrel of his gun, refusing to look away.

You try and force your heart to be silent and still, hoping you’ll be able to hear Arthur’s order over the rushing force of your blood. Arthur keeps a tight grip on your hand as the men begin to close in.

“I’ll only say this once, Mr. Morgan. This will be your only chance to escape my wrath, alive.”

“Right,” Arthur moves you in front of him and you suck in a shuddering breath when you see just how many men surround you now. They’re everywhere, on the roofs of buildings, on horseback pacing the streets, and the worst of them have their guns trained right on you. “Well, I’ll say this,” he rips his hands out of yours and practically tosses you to the side. “Run!”

You don’t think, just blindly follow his orders and take off towards the horses. The shots start going off instantly, mud flying up around you as bullets narrowly miss you. You run in a wild pattern, trying not to be such an easy target.

“The times of outlaws is over, Mr. Morgan!” Leviticus calls from behind you, voice tainted with wrath as it penetrates the air. “There’s no place for you anymore!”

You’re running with the instinct of a prey trying to outwit a predator who's actively snapping their maw. It feels futile, though, when you’re so wholly surrounded. Arthur comes up behind you, hand snatching up the back of your shirt and dragging you faster behind him.

Your feet scramble to keep up with his pace as you make for the horses. The men seem to catch onto your plan faster than you’d hoped. One of them jumps in front of you but his body topples to the ground before he can say a word. When you turn, Arthur’s got his revolver out and the end of it is smoking.

You’d barely even had time to process the threat before Arthur had shot him. You’d never seen what a quick draw he was in person before. If you weren’t feeling the breeze of bullets whistling past you, you’d have time to be impressed.

You reach Lady and she’s already stomping and kicking her legs out, terrified by all the noise. You grab her reins, hands shaking as you try and keep yourself steady. You don’t have time to let Arthur help you up. You place your foot in the stirrup and jump, you’re barely seated before she goes flying.

You lean forward, holding on tight as she moves like fire’s licking at her heels. “Come on, Lady!” You shout, not once looking back to see how many of them are after you. The sounds are getting closer and you swallow bile down as you risk a look over your shoulder.

Arthur’s just behind you, turned in his saddle, and shooting at as many of them as he can. Lady lets out an odd squeal and your brows furrow, glancing back at her. You see a streak of red across her side and feel your blood rush to your head.

They’d shot her. They’d shot your damn horse. You don’t even like her all that much, but right now she’s the only thing between you and a bullet through your head. Forcing yourself up, you slip the revolver out of your holster and turn like you watched Arthur do. It’s disorienting, feeling your hips rocking forward while you try and keep a steady aim behind yourself.

There’s no way for you to know which of them actually managed to knick her. But if they can hit your horse, they’re not far off from hitting you. You don’t have time to take in deep breaths and settle yourself, you can only start wildly shooting and hope you hit one of them. You don’t care to spare your bullets, firing off without any real aim and spotting a few drop from their saddles. You don’t know if it's you or Arthur that claims the kills but they eventually start to slow down and the space between you all grows wider.

Arthur tucks his gun away and rides up closer. “We need to get back to camp,” he shouts. You nod your head and follow along the path behind him. Your gaze drifts towards the wound across Lady’s side and you run your fingers through her mane as she races back home.

You brush out Lady’s coat as you wait for Arthur to finish up with Dutch. Hosea had promised that Lady would be fine, horses were sturdy but she’d have to make it through a lot worse if she wanted to stay with the gang. You understood what he meant but you didn’t appreciate it.

It’s only as you finish up with her that you realize what happened on the way back. You’d seen and, possibly, contributed to more killing and you hadn’t felt a thing about it. Not only that, Arthur had seen you shooting at men with no remorse.

Your heart flips itself into a knot in your chest as you look over to where he’s speaking with Dutch. He was quiet on the ride back and you’d assumed it was because he was worried more people would show up. What if it was because you ruined your image for him? The only former lover of his you know about was a lady like you. But, now, he sees you as someone who’s perfectly fine riding around and shooting at men without question. What if he doesn’t want you now?

You swallow down the lump in your throat and try to get your fingers to still. You’d been shaking from the adrenaline for the last few minutes. Your blood is still rushing so fast you’re getting dizzy standing still. You try to convince yourself that it’s just the nerves of the day getting to you, but you’re not so sure.

Arthur finally turns away from Dutch and heads back towards you. You give him a shaky smile but he doesn’t return it. Instead, his brows are set with anger and he’s glowering at you.

You feel your stomach drop as you scramble for a way to explain why shooting at those men was so easy for you. “Arthur, I’m sorry-”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He demands. Your face falls flat and you feel like you might throw up. Has he somehow found out about your husband? “I didn’t realize they’d hit you,” he reaches forward and you frown with confusion. His thumb brushes against your upper arm and you hiss.

Off instinct, you swat his hand away, fingers stinging at the force. You glance down and notice blood soaking the sleeve of your shirt. One of the bullets had done a little bit more than graze you, leaving a deep gouge in your arm. “So you touch it?” You ask him, only now starting to feel the pain of the wound.

He stutters over a defense before rolling his eyes. “Come on,” he sighs and places a light hand over your back. He presses you forward, herding you towards his tent. “Let’s clean it up.” He sets you down on his cot and begins rummaging through the chest he keeps next to it with all his supplies. Glancing up at you, he asks “What were you apologisin’ for?”

“Oh, um,” you feel a bit silly now. You almost don’t want to say it but that doesn’t feel fair to lie straight to his face. “I feel sick that you saw me shoot at those men.”

His brows furrow and he pauses his rummaging. He glances around like he’s waiting for you to finish but you just shrug. “Oh,” realization dawns on his face and he looks a little stunned. “That’s it?”

“Well,” you stutter and stumble over your words as he walks over to you with a cloth and some alcohol. “Yes,” you finally land on.

He tips the bottle over, soaking the cloth in the liquor. “Darlin’, I’ve seen death more times than I can count to. I don’t care about a little shoot-out. I only care about you bein’ alive.”

He presses the cloth to your wound and you jerk back, hissing in pain. He mutters small reassurances to you, soothing you like a bucking horse. “You mean that?” You ask through gritted teeth.

He laughs a little, kneeling and smiling at you. “Kill as many men as you like, sweetheart, just don’t point that gun at me.” Despite the aching pain in your arm, you find yourself smiling back at him.

The new spot for camp isn’t awful. The town nearby isn’t much to write home about. Two families have been feuding here since before the war. They haven’t seemed to fully accept this new society you live in. And you’re sure that their crops thrive on Braithwaite and Gray blood rather than water.

You weren’t allowed to go into town with Arthur and the others. None of the ladies were. Dutch had said that the people here wouldn’t react well to so many unmarried women. Especially not women like Karen. She hadn’t appreciated the dig, but she hadn’t argued with him.

You found it difficult to follow along blindly to Dutch’s whims. Sometimes it feels like you just traded one master for another. Your father, then your husband, and now you can’t do anything without Arthur constantly running to Dutch to get his approval. As much as you’d like to pretend you have a newfound freedom, you know that Arthur will never leave the gang behind. Dutch has practically brainwashed him into a loyal soldier. So long as you love Arthur, you’re stuck under Dutch’s thumb- and he knows it.

“I said go and get another slab. How hard is that?” Pearson’s voice carries through camp, his tone tight and irritated. Your brows furrow and you turn in your seat to see what he’s fussing about now.

“It would be a lot easier if I wasn’t havin’ to fight with a goddamn fool the whole time!” Sadie picks up a slab of deer meat and hurls it at the man. He throws his hands up, just barely managing to catch it in time.

You stifle a laugh, figuring you should have known what was causing him so much grief. Sadie’s been having to follow his every order ever since Dutch changed her over from Mrs. Grimshaw to Pearson. You know it’s driving her mad, same as you, to do nothing but cook and clean all day.

Even when she was married she had gone out hunting and fishing with Jake. They’d always taken care of your land, they were never house servants. She only knows how to cook because she’d had a husband to take care of, not an entire camp.

You place your book down on the table before you and get to your feet. You figure you should step in before this gets nasty. Again. You’re worried Sadie might actually stab the man. You can see them both considering it as you approach. Neither of them are happy with the arrangement. Pearson thought he was getting a quiet assistant and Sadie just plain hates him.

“Mr. Pearson!” You call out before they can say anything else. You lift your hand in greeting and he grunts noncommittally. “If you wouldn’t mind, I need Sadie’s help with a task.”

Sadie’s lip curls up at him and he crosses his arms, leaning back like he has any power to hold over you. “Oh, yeah? What would that be?”

You glance away, eyes down like you’re flustered. Your hand hovers over your stomach and you grimace, “I’m afraid it may be more feminine in nature.” His face blanches and he turns back to the slab of meat before him.

“Get.” He waves Sadie away and refuses to look at either of you.

You grin at her, holding your arm out and nodding towards the trees around camp. She chuckles slightly, looping her arm through your own and following alongside you. With Dutch and most other men out of camp today, you can afford to explore a little further than you might normally be allowed.

“Has he been giving you much grief?”

Sadie rolls her eyes with a scoff and sets you with a deadpan look. “What the hell do you think?” She doesn’t actually give you a chance to answer and continues with an angered tone. “He seems to be of the belief that women are of better use quiet and obedient.”

“Well,” you tilt your head in consideration and nod. “Most men think that. We haven’t yet reached a point in society where women hold much power, Sadie. Do you expect a group of outlaws to be fighting for our rights?”

“I don’t want none of them fightin’ for me. I just want to be able to take a ride, go huntin’,” she throws her hands up and sighs, “somethin’.”

You realize you do have a slight bit more freedom than she does. Arthur often takes you into towns with him or, at the very least, on some rides for space away from everyone. She’s been holed up with all these strange people since they first rescued you. You purse your lips and give her a sympathetic look.

You lead her further towards the grove of trees and hope some new scenery will help her calm down.

Arthur’s white button-down shirt lay across your lap. Needle in hand, you check it over to make sure you didn't miss any holes or tears. Satisfied with your efforts, you get to your feet and walk towards Arthur’s tent.

You don’t sew or fix anything up for the others unless they’re willing to pay. You find yourself doing this naturally for Arthur, without telling him. You're not sure if it’s because your finishing school teacher had ingrained into you the good qualities of a wife, or it’s simply because you want to.

Part of you will always resent the fact that you can’t recognize your own actions versus your training. You try to keep those thoughts at bay most days, but sometimes, when you do something like this, it’s a little more difficult.

Orange light glares into your eyes and you lift a hand to block it. Peering through one eye, you watch as the sinking sun sets against the horizon. Orange, red, and pink swirl and dance around each other to create a scene so perfect it almost doesn’t feel real.

It makes you think of Arthur, of how he would draw it. He’s incredibly gifted with art, even if he won’t admit it. Even with a piece of charcoal, he manages to capture the life of the animals he sees or the people around him.

After working a few odd jobs in camp, writing a letter for someone or doing some tailoring, you have some meager savings. You’ve been considering buying Arthur a proper drawing kit. You’re sure it would be foolish to spend it all on him, but you’d think he’d like it.

The people in camp only think he’s good for shooting and providing muscle. As much as they care about him, they don’t see the value in some of his finer skills. And you know it affects him. Anytime you catch a glimpse of one of his drawings he immediately starts tearing his work apart, always calling it trash and a waste of time. You wish that he could see the beauty of his creativity like you do. But a skill like that isn’t rewarded around here and you know he’ll never truly understand just how much more he’s capable of than what he’s been told.

Your gaze moves from the setting sun to the table in his tent. His journal rests on the edge and you frown. He doesn’t normally leave it behind. Reaching forward, you snag it off the edge and tuck it under his pillow. There are a lot of nosy people in camp, you doubt he’d want anyone getting their hands on it. While you fuss with that, you notice the picture on his table. Or lack thereof.

It’s been a while since you’ve paid attention to the interior of his tent. Most of the time you’re here, you’re focused on him. But you can’t help and snoop, just a little. The picture of his mother is still there, along with a folded-up one of the gang. But the picture he used to keep of his former lover is gone.

Curious, you take the shirt and turn towards the chest at the end of his cot. You bend over slightly, undoing the buckles and propping the edge up.

You lay the shirt flat, straightening out any wrinkles, and your hand accidentally slips toward the turned-over picture frames beside his clothes. You lift the first one and find another one of his mother. Pursing your lips, you debate if you should dig any further. Glancing over your shoulder, you don’t notice anyone watching you or coming close. You bend over a little more and rifle through another frame.

There it is- the picture of the woman buried beneath the rest. You don’t blame him for keeping it. You know how much she meant to him. You’re just curious as to why he went so far as to bury it below the rest.

Someone clears their throat behind you and you let out a squeak, slamming the lid of the chest shut. You whip around and find Arthur leaning against the post of his tent. “Arthur,” you're breathless as you clutch at your chest, not having even expected him back in camp yet. “I didn’t hear you come up.”

“No,” he lets out an amused huff, “I don’t imagine you did.” He nods towards his chest and you flush with guilt. “What’re you doin’ in there?”

You tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear and shrug innocently. “Just putting away a shirt I fixed up for you.” He moves away from the post and takes a slow step towards you.

“And that’s all?” He looks completely serious, as though he’s about to start interrogating you, but you can hear the slight tease lingering at the end of his words.

“Yes,” you lie, “that’s all.”

“Alright,” he stops in front of you and chuckles a little. “I’ll pretend to believe that. How ‘bout next time you want somethin’, you just come to me?” You nod your head and he steps around you. He takes his hat off and places it on the table, running his hands through his hair.

“Actually,” you grin at him as he turns around, “there is somethin- wait, what is that?” You demand, pointing to the deputy’s badge on his shirt.

He glances down with a sigh and rolls his eyes. “Bill went and got us deputized. Don’t know how, but Dutch seems to think it’s best if we want to stay here.” You try not to sigh at the mention of Dutch. He’s been getting stricter ever since the incident in Valentine and Arthur’s obeying him like a leashed dog. It’s beyond frustrating.

“I can’t believe they gave you all badges,” you can’t help but laugh. The sheriff has got to be touched in the head to have looked at those men and thought they were anything but outlaws.

“Buncha fools,” Arthur grumbles. He sees the look on your face, the way you bite your lip to keep any more laughter from escaping, and sighs. “Quit laughin’ at me, woman. What was I supposed to do? Say no?” You shake your head mutely and he rolls his eyes. “What did you want?”

“Right,” you clear your throat and let out one last huff of laughter before straightening up. “I need you to do a favor for me. Sadie’s been itching to get away from camp, especially from that old bastard Pearson. Could you take her out for me, tomorrow, or sometime soon? I’m worried she’s going to drive a knife through his skull if we don’t deal with this.

Arthur doesn’t look convinced, eyes narrowed and head tilted in a way that makes you think he’s going to say no. You risk a step forward, taking his hand in your own and pulling him close. “Oh, please, Arthur. It would mean the world to me.”

His eyes meet yours, and you widen them, giving him your best pleading look. He holds out for a minute longer than you thought he would before letting out a rough sigh. “Alright, alright, fine. But she better not cause any damn trouble, she’s got a worse temper than Bill.”

You can’t promise she won’t, so you just lean up and press a kiss to his cheek in thanks. He rolls his eyes and takes your chin between his fingers. He tilts your face up towards his, narrowing his eyes at you, “Come on, give me a real kiss,” you smile slightly and wind your arms around his neck, pulling him down to meet you halfway. You suppose there are worse ways to have to pay him back.

Arthur and Sadie were both out on a supply run before you even woke up. By the time you’re properly dressed and cleaned, you can see the wagon cresting over the hill. Your eyes widen with alarm when you see Sadie with the reins, driving the horses even worse than you do.

You know she’s driven a wagon before. You think she might just be trying to give Arthur a heart attack. You can hear them shouting at each other from where you stand and you snicker. You wonder if those two were separated at birth or something, they get along about as bad as most siblings you know.

You go over to Arthur’s tent and rifle through his bullets until you find a few extra for the revolver in your holster. Eventually, you’ll have to start buying your own supplies. But he doesn’t seem to mind much. Either that or he hasn’t caught on yet.

You load the bandolier on your hip and walk out to meet them as they return. Sadie doesn’t quite park the wagon in time, nearly taking out Bill’s tent as she drives them back into camp. “Enough!” Arthur barks, ripping the reins out of her hands. “I am never lettin’ you drive again.”

“Didn’t know you were such a coward, Arthur,” she taunts, hopping out of the wagon. You find yourself grinning when you see the clothes she’s sporting. Pants, a new hat, and some fresh boots. You’re sure Dutch won’t appreciate her use of camp funds but you applaud her latest show of rebellion.

You round the horses to greet Arthur as he gives Sadie a bewildered look. She hauls a sack of flour out of the back and tosses it at Pearson’s feet. “Have fun?” You ask airily as you greet him.

He whirls around on you and points an accusing finger towards you. “I said no trouble.”

“She couldn’t have been that bad,” you admonish, swatting his hand away.

He purses his lips in irritation and crosses his arms. “She nearly killed me drivin’ back. Women can’t drive!” You gape at him as he hops out of the wagon and begins storming towards his tent. “They can’t!” He shouts and you gasp, face twisted in a bewildered smile.

“Arthur!” You admonish, chasing after him. He shakes his head, not looking at you.

He scoffs and shakes his head, looking for all the world like a madman. “Think I don’t remember how you drove when we came down from the mountains?”

“You broke the wheel,” you throw back at him. With his shoulders nearly up to his ears, he continues his stubborn march towards his tent. “Oh, Arthur, come on.” You catch up with him and dart in front of him so he can’t get around you.

“How about a ride to calm you down?” He looks to Sadie and then back at the wagon with a sickened look and you laugh. “On the horses,” you laugh and grab his arm, dragging him to Diablo and Lady. “Sadie ain’t the only one feeling cooped up,” you tell him.

His low sigh sounds a little apologetic but you hadn’t meant anything against him. It was Dutch keeping you under lock and key. “I know, and I’m sorry about that. But we can’t risk too many of us bein’ seen.”

“Dutch can’t risk it, you mean,” you grab onto the saddle’s horn and swing up, glancing down at him.

He frowns, mounting Diablo with more grace than you can manage. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You bat your lashes and shrug, leading Lady towards the edge of camp. “Nothing really, just that it seems to be Dutch forcing us all to lay low.” You take the lead through the trees, ducking underneath a few low-hanging branches. “No one else seems to be as worried, or even know what’s going on out here.”

Arthur slows down and you’re forced to match his gait if you want to hear what he says. You turn back in your saddle and give him a questioning look. He’s looking at you in a way you’ve never seen before. It’s distant like he’s gazing at someone closer to a stranger than a lover.

“You’re doubtin’ Dutch?” His voice is low, tone giving nothing away to you.

“Well,” Lady shifts restlessly underneath you, seemingly sensing the change in your mood. “Not doubting per se. I just don’t think things are as dangerous as he makes them out to be. It just seems to be-”

“Do I need to remind you how you got that scar on your arm?” Arthur snaps, pointing towards the slight bullet wound left behind by Cornwall’s men. You blanch as he nudges Diablo forward, quickly surpassing you.

“No Arthur, I think I remember getting shot at pretty damn well.” You’re getting angry now too, you really hadn’t meant much by the comment. But he had to realize how out of proportion Dutch was making everything feel. The “threats” surrounding you, the grand plan of escape, it was all too magnificent.

“Look, you can’t be questionin’ Dutch like that. If we stop trustin’ each other or start turnin’ on each other, it’s all gonna fall apart faster than you can blink.” He slows slightly so you can catch up with him but it doesn’t seem as natural as it normally does.

“That’s not what I was trying to imply Arthur. I’ve been in camp for too long. The world outside seems so distant to me. It’s just hard to believe we’re in any real danger.” You try to downplay what you said. Pretend you hadn't been suggesting exactly what he’s accusing you of. Playing the ditzy little lady used to get you out of trouble in the past, but now, he sees right through you.

“Well, we are,” he snaps, “and you’d do your best to remember that. Just because you can’t see it, don’t mean it’s not real.” There’s a sense of finality to his words that tells you the conversation’s over. Whatever hope you’d had of a peaceful ride is gone.

It’s a difficult pill to swallow, knowing no matter how much you care for Arthur, he’ll always pick Dutch over you. And worse, he’ll pick Dutch over saving himself. He’ll never understand just how much he’s worth, or how much he means to everyone around him. He’s a martyr through and through. Always prepared to make a sacrifice, even when it’s not needed.

You tighten your grip around Lady’s reigns, eyes cast down as you follow along silently beside him. He leads you onto the path towards town and you wonder if you should just head back. You could lie, say you’re feeling sick, and be done with him for now.

You’re already upset by how the day’s turned, no point in prolonging either of your misery. “Arthur,” you call out. He hums, turning slightly, just barely facing you. “I’m going to go back to camp.”

He pulls on Diablo’s reins, turning him around so he can properly face you. “I thought you wanted to get out?” He asks, sounding on edge and a little snappy.

You shrug dismissively, not bothering with an excuse. “Changed my mind-”

“Told you it’d be worth a pretty penny,” your brows furrow as a strong Irish accent starts talking a little further up the path. It sounds startlingly familiar.

“Those wagons are always worth the trouble,” Arthur’s quick to ride up beside you. He doesn’t hesitate as he takes Lady’s reins out of your hand and leads you both off the path. You’re silent as you follow him off the safety of the trail. He tucks you both behind some trees. You have just enough coverage that they can’t see you but you can still see them.

There’s a sharp pain slicing up and down your back the closer the Irishmen get. You hiss through your teeth, shifting uncomfortably as they continue to talk. Arthur keeps his head low, hat tilted down and you follow suit. They pass by without much fuss and Arthur picks his head back up to watch them go.

“O’Driscolls,” he curses and the painful familiarity suddenly makes sense. “We need to tell Dutch,” he says, already making his way back to camp. You follow him without much argument, as eager to get back as he is.

Your heart sinks to your stomach, toiling in hurt the whole way. You know Dutch has instilled a paternal familiarity into Arthur but it hurts knowing the man you chose will always choose someone else.

Pearson’s ambling back into camp just as you and Arthur arrive. You’re tempted to just go back to your tent but you follow Arthur, knowing he’ll probably need someone else to back up what he saw. “Dutch!” He calls out, interrupting whatever scheming conversation he’d been having with Micah.

Dutch walks towards you both, Micah following slightly behind, coughing into the crook of his elbow. You grimace at the wet, choking noise. He’s been looking worse and worse everyday. The circles under his eyes are so dark he looks like he’s been knocked across the face.

“Something the matter, Arthur?” Dutch asks, eyes briefly darting to you before looking back at Arthur.

“Saw somethin’ out on the road.” You cross your arms, mind drifting as you wait to be called into the conversation. You’re roughly jarred out of your reverie as a strong, clammy hand lands on your shoulder so suddenly you’re nearly dragged to the ground.

The smell of sweat and moonshine sours your nose and nearly makes you gag as Pearson leans against you. “Gost ‘ome news,” he slurs, eyes barely open as he gestures vaguely towards Dutch.

You struggle under his weight, doing your damndest not to fall into the mud. Arthur frowns and knocks Pearson’s arm off your shoulder. “Get off ‘er, you damn fool,” he grabs him by the bicep, roughly jerking him straight and relying on his strength to keep them both upright.

“Now, Mr. Pearson, Mr. Morgan, I believe you both have news to share. Seeing as Mr. Pearson is close to toppling over into the mud, he can go first.” Arthur’s lips purse in irritation but he says nothing, only shakes Pearson to wake him back up.

“Met ‘ome fine mens in the bar. O’durshels, wanna purl.” You narrow your eyes at him and your face twists with confusion. You’re not the only one, the other men around you already look tired of having to deal with Pearson’s inebriated state.

Sadly, years spent married to a drunkard means you’ve learned the language of liquor quite well. “He met some O’Driscolls in a bar, they want to parley,” you translate, looking to Dutch.

His brows set with something you don’t recognize and Arthur scoffs. “It’s a damn trap.”

“‘Course it is,” Micah snaps. “Don’t mean we can’t use it to our advantage.”

Arthur drops Pearson’s arm and the man goes tumbling face-first into the mud. He takes a menacing step towards Micah who only grins up at him. “We’d be a bunch of fools to go anywhere near this.”

“Arthur,” Dutch barks his name out like an order and Arthur pauses, still leering over Micah. “I believe Mr. Bell might be right.”

“Oh,” you glare at him, smiling with disbelief. “You’re kidding, aren’t you? Those men are bastards,” you spit the word out with venom you didn’t know you possessed and step towards Dutch. Micah darts forward, protecting him like you’d actually try something.

“Arthur,” Dutch warns lowly, intense stare set on you. Your skin crawls with the weight of his gaze. You feel like he’s pulling you to pieces, digging around to see which parts of you are weakest. He doesn’t have to say anything more, Arthur walks forward. He’s gentle as he grabs your arm, but he leaves no room for argument as he leads you away from Dutch.

“Arthur,” you admonish. “You can’t be thinking about this.”

“I’m not,” he mutters, glancing over his shoulder at Dutch. “But I ain’t got a choice.”

You laugh in disbelief and shake your head at him as he parks you beside his tent. “Of course you do. You’ve got the same choice as any of us. Just say no.” You’re praying that he sees sense, that he doesn’t go along with what is a clear trap.

He only shakes his head and turns back towards Dutch. You should have known. Even if he knows there’s danger, he’ll ride in headfirst so long as someone else doesn’t get hurt. You feel something like disgust twisting you up and irritating the anger already present.

You look towards Dutch and he’s already got his eyes on you. He doesn’t wear it plainly, but you see the satisfaction on his face as Arthur comes to stand beside him and leaves you. As if you were ever a threat to his authority.

You turn away from them all, unwilling to watch them ride off as you storm back toward your tent. If they want to go be a bunch of fools, so be it. It’s not your business what mistakes men make with their freedom.

It’s Sadie that wakes you, her hand on your shoulder, shoving you insistently. Your eyes are slow to flutter open, your mind racing to remember where you are and who you’re with. “What?” You slur, one eye open as you try to orient yourself.

“They’re back,” she hisses, tossing away the blanket and getting to her feet. You sit up slowly, hands landing in your lap as you let your head sink between your shoulders. You listen to Sadie’s rushed footsteps as she runs away from the tent.

You’re moving slowly as you rub your eyes, trying to force yourself awake. Whose back?

You try to remember the events of the day and then the realization hits you like ice. Your heart palpitates as you scramble to get up. You chase after Sadie, feet bare in the mud as you run to the entrance of the camp. You’re not looking to give Arthur a happy welcome back, you just want to make sure he’s okay.

You see The Count’s white head parting through the trees first, then Baylock. You come up behind Sadie, peering around her to see if you can spot Diablo through the trees. You know it’ll be hard with his striking black coat, but you figure you’ll manage some hint of him, even through the dark.

Dutch and Micah are slow as they amble up to you. Your brows furrow and there’s an intuitive gnawing feeling in the back of your mind. John comes out of his tent at the sound of hooves, moving to stand beside you. A few others join the welcoming party but you’re not paying any attention to them.

You move away from Sadie and take a step closer to the men now broaching the perimeter of camp. Your hand balls into the fabric of your night dress and you suck in a sharp breath when you realize they’re riding back alone.

Red-hot anger hits you like a hammer knocking a blade into place. You run towards Dutch, not even waiting for him to be fully off his saddle before you start hollering at him. “Where is he? Did he have to stay behind? What’s going on?”

Dutch holds his hands up, lips curled back in irritation as he skirts around you. “There were some complications,” Micah snipes as he jumps down from his horse. His lips are twisted up, humor coating his rotten voice.

Your chest heaves with panic, heart tapping an odd pitter-patter as you try and process what the hell that means.

“Complications!” You shout, uncaring for the way the others are staring at you. “Where the hell is Arthur?” Dutch tries to walk away from you, giving you a bewildered sort of look. He’s looking at you like you’re some sort of ranting madman wandering in from the woods. You may be ankle-deep in mud, wearing nothing but a nightgown, but you are not crazy. And you will not let him treat you like you are.

You shoot forward and shove at the back of his shoulder. You catch him off guard and he stumbles slightly. You reach for him but Micah rushes forward, snatching up your left wrist before you can try again. You don’t see anything but red as you whip around and snap your hand as hard as you can against his cheek.

You hear the sound your skin makes against his, see the bright burning mark on his face, but you feel no sting. You rip your wrist out of his hold and turn back towards Dutch. “You wicked little-”

“You left him, didn’t you?” You interrupt Micah’s low-brow insult and wait for Dutch to answer. He’s got a surprised look on his face as he takes you in. As if he hadn’t expected you to do anything but sit back and obey.

His silence is the only answer you need as he tries to turn away from you again. “After everything he’s done for you! You just leave him!” You sound more heartbroken than he looks and it’s devastating. He left him to the mercies of O’Driscolls and he doesn’t seem to care at all.

“We didn’t leave him!” Dutch shouts, voice cracking slightly. He snatches up your arm, dragging you away from Micah and trying to isolate you from the others. He’s pulling you to his tent, trying to keep you silent so you don’t cause a big scene in front of the rest of camp. You won’t let him do this, you refuse to let him keep his perfect mask of the unfaltering leader.

You dig your feet into the ground and feel the cold wet rush of mud filtering around your legs as he tries to drag you forward. “This is childish,” he snaps, glaring at you and letting your arm go. You know there’ll be a nasty purple bruise where he’d held you but you could care less right now.

“You didn’t leave him? What the hell do you call this?” You gesture around wildly, not fully comprehending that this isn’t just one bad dream. “You don’t understand the cruelty of those men. What you just left him to-”

“Excuse me?” Dutch’s voice is low now, no longer is he shouting. Instead, he stalks towards you in two easy steps.

“Easy,” John warns, coming up behind you both.

Neither of you pay him any mind. You take a step closer, nearly nose to nose with Dutch, refusing to be intimidated by him. “This isn’t your fight, Mrs. Rowe. These aren’t your people, how dare you-”

“Arthur is my people,” you interrupt, voice a deadly whisper. “How dare you leave him. Fearsome Dutch Van der Linde,” you taunt and his nostrils flair at your impudence, “can’t even keep his people safe. Tell me, if you’re such a great leader, a man who’s always got a plan- what is it? What is your great plan? How are you going to get my Arthur back from this?”

Dutch’s face blanches and it’s the first time you’ve ever seen anything genuine appear. He almost looks concerned. And not for himself or his image, but for Arthur. It makes you hesitate for a moment, startling a step back from him with a furrow between your brows.

“I’ve got a plan,” he whispers, eyes wide like he’s trying to convince himself. He turns and looks at the rest of the gang, most of them having woken up while you’d been shouting. “I have got a plan!” He yells, turning back towards his tent and storming off.

Micah follows behind him, shoulder slamming into yours as he passes. You grunt, tripping forward and glaring at his back. You wouldn’t mind putting a bullet between that bastard’s eyes.

Your mind races with everything the O’Drsicolls had put you and Sadie through. Your skin crawls with the way their hands and weapons had felt against you. You swallow the bile in your throat and turn towards the horses.

John is right behind you, having been lurking at the edges of your and Dutch’s fight. “Where’re you goin’?” He asks with a tired sigh.

“Where do you think?” You snap, reaching for Lady.

Charles calls out your name and you turn to see him standing behind John with Hosea. Out of everyone in camp, you’d think these would be the three men joining you, not trying to stop you like they clearly are.

You scoff in disbelief, a sardonic smile on your face. “That's it?” you demand, a disgusted glare directed at each of them. “You’re just going to abandon him too?”

“We’re not abandoning him,” Hosea objects, taking a step closer. You flinch away from him and he frowns. “You don’t know these men-”

“The hell I don’t! I’ve got the scars from what they did to me. I barely survived it.” Hosea winces away from your words.

“Dutch has a plan,” he tells you, but it doesn’t even sound like he believes himself. “We just need to wait.”

“What’re you going to do?” Charles adds, and it feels remarkably like they’re circling you, herding you away from your horse. “You don’t even have a gun and you’re just going to ride into an O’Driscoll camp.”

“I will,” you tell him, all the sincerity in the world backing you up.

“And you’ll get yourself killed,” John snaps. “I want them dead just as bad, but you are only going to get yourself hurt or caught. We only need some time, we’re not abandoning him. But we can’t just go in guns blazin’.”

“When has that ever stopped any of you?” You snap. You feel all your anger, all your determination, slip right out through the bottom of your bare feet. You know from their faces there’s going to be no arguing with them. They’re just as bad as Arthur, just as blind.

They truly believe that Dutch has any clue what he’s doing. How could you possibly be the only one to see the truth of what he is? He’s a conman, decorated as a friend, father, brother, leader. He takes whatever form he wants and he knows how to use it against those around him. There’s no plan, there’s no grand escape to some tropical paradise.

“You’re not leaving tonight,” Charles tells you and you wish you had the energy to cry. You want to weep for Arthur. Here stood the people he would sacrifice himself for, and they aren’t going to kill a few O’Driscolls to save him.

You let them lead you back to your tent and look toward the horizon. You’re not going to be allowed to leave this camp. And even if there was a plan to rescue Arthur, you’d never be told of it. All you can do is wait.

You stay up all night, sitting by the fire and forcing yourself to tolerate the feeling of Charles watching you the whole time. You don’t know what it is that makes you look away from the flames and towards the trees, but something pulls at you.

As the sun crests the horizon, you place your cup of coffee down and turn. Over your shoulder, barely visible, a horse struggles along the path. You squint, head tilting this way and that so you might be able to better make out what it is. You get to your feet and hear Charles follow you.

“Oh, god,” you gasp, making a run for the horse just as the rising sun illuminates it. Arthur is slumped over Diablo’s head, blood soaked through his shirt. You don’t make it to him before he slips off the saddle and lands in the mud. Diablo stands over him, nosing at his neck and cheek.

Charles races behind you as you slide into the mud, hands roving over Arthur’s chest until you find the burned-over wound on his shoulder. You press your fingers to his throat, holding your breath while you pray to feel the beat of life within him still.

“Oh, thank god,” you whisper when you feel the faintest thud against the tip of your fingers. Charles kneels beside you and you both throw an arm over your shoulders, lifting Arthur to his feet. “Susan!” You scream the old lady's name until you see her stumble out of her tent.

A few of the other’s still awake all stand, Dutch included. “He needs help!” You shout, Charles helping you drag him towards her.

“Bring him over here!” She shouts, clearing off Arthur’s cot and motioning for you to lay him down. You stumble under Arthur’s weight, ankle rolling the wrong way as you struggle to keep up his limp body. Charles helps as much as he can but you can barely stay standing. Dutch runs over to you, you share a brief look before he slips Arthur’s arm off your shoulder and carries him the rest of the way to Mrs. Grimshaw.

You turn towards the tent of women and by now they’re all up, watching everything with wide horrified eyes. “Tilly, help me,” you demand, rushing towards the water boiling for Pearson’s stew. She snaps into action, racing behind you and passing you a cloth to lift the scalding pot off the fire. You both carry it over to Mrs. Grimshaw and she barely spares you a glance, too focused on Arthur.

You can’t look at him for too long, can’t bear to face the way his eyes stare up at nothing. He looks too much like the corpses you’ve seen. But you know you felt life inside him. You couldn’t have made something like that up.

Mrs. Grimshaw slices through his shirt and hisses at what she sees. You move past Dutch and peer over her shoulder with Tilly. “Oh, you fool,” she mutters. You shake your head when you see what he’s done to his shoulder. You know he did the best with what he had, but gunpowder is a risky move to close up a bullet hole.

If you’re not careful with how you treat his wound, it’s more than likely to get infected. Besides the gunshot, judging from the bruises on his body, you can tell he was beaten to within an inch of his life. He’d barely been there a day and they’d nearly killed him. If what they’d done to you wasn’t reason enough to want the O’Drsicolls dead, this was.

“Susan,” Dutch whispers and he sounds so disappointed, “sit by him. Take care of him. Keep him alive.” You refuse to look at Dutch, dipping a cloth into the purified water and wringing it out. You pass it to Susan who only nods her head.

Tilly draws the tent flaps closed, pushing Dutch the rest of the way out. Susan presses the cloth gently to the area around Arthur’s wound and his shoulder jerks slightly. “He’s burned himself up,” Tilly mutters, rooting through his supply trunk and ripping up some of his clean shirts for extra cloth.

“Closed up the wound,” Susan mutters, “but we’ll need to watch for infection.” Her hand drifts down his chest, pressing down on one of the purple and yellow splotches along his ribs. His eyes shoot open for a moment, a pained groan coming from his cracked lips.

“Broken rib?” You ask, rooting around in his table for some of the ointment Hosea had made for him. She hums an affirmative and you hear Tilly rip up some more cloth for binding.

“It’s gonna be a long night, you best listen to every damn thing I tell you,” Susan snaps, not taking her eyes off of Arthur. You nod your head silently, pulling out the tin of salve and presenting it to her. Your eyes drift towards Arthur and you let out a shuddering breath, not willing to look at his broken form for more than a few moments.

Susan helped the most the first night Arthur was back. It was because of her that he made it. Tilly and you assisted her the best you could. But she had the knowledge only a doctor should as she staved the infection away from his wound.

She wasn’t capable of a miracle, but this seemed damn close. Still, even with all the work you’d put in, someone had to stay by his side at night, make sure he didn’t slip away quietly. You volunteered yourself, opting to let them watch him during the day while you slept.

His recovery was a slow one. You have to make sure his ribs are wrapped tight enough to encourage them to heal again. You need to ensure he doesn’t flip around in his sleep and do any more damage to himself. More importantly, you have to do everything you can to keep his fever down.

Despite the heat of the day, it seems worse at night. Sweat soaks through his clothes and blankets, he’s constantly twitching with shivers. You try and make sure the cloth along his brow stays cool, but he seems to heat them up like a fire.

There’s no puckering green skin around his wound, none of you can figure out where the infection is stemming from. You don’t have the medicine he needs to fight it, only sheer will and prayer.

You lean forward in your chair, pressing the back of your chilled fingers to his cheek. Same as the night before, it’s hot to the touch. You’re surprised your skin doesn’t sizzle as it touches his. His breaths come in short pants as you slip the cloth off his head and dip it into the bucket of water beside you. You wring it out and place it gently along his brow again.

Standing, you perch yourself on the edge of his cot and peel back the bandages on his shoulder. It sticks slightly to the skin, yellowed and bloody as the skin works to heal itself. He’d done the best he could with the gunpowder, but all it had done was stop you from getting below the surface and healing what needed it.

Your eyes are fighting to stay open after being awake all night. You know the sun will rise soon, that you’ll have an opportunity for rest. But you haven’t been able to sleep well, not since he was brought back. You nearly drift off and then you think of him dying while you’re dozing away.

He might have made it through the first night, but there are no promises with things like this. Your hand slips into his and you let out a heavy sigh. You take in his sallow face, the gauntness of his cheeks, the circles under his eyes. His beard has grown longer than you’ve ever seen it, his hair nearly reaches his shoulders. You don’t recognize this beaten man below you. This isn’t the Arthur you know.

You squeeze his rough hand in yours, “You better not stop fighting, you stubborn bastard.” You feel a familiar burn in the back of your throat and look away from him, choking down your tears. You can’t cry over him again. You’ve done it so often your eyes have run dry.

Just as you’re about to get up to leave, his hand twitches ever so slightly in yours. Your brows furrow and you glance down at his hold on you. It was nearly imperceptible, a barely there movement. You watch his arm carefully, seeing if anything else happens. When he doesn’t move again you dismiss it as your mind playing tricks on you.

Again, almost as if he knows you’re going to leave him, his hand twitches. This time, you can’t dismiss it as a reflex or simply something your addled brain has conjured up. The movement is deliberate, purposeful, as if he’s trying to hold on to you in every way he can. His fingers squeeze your palm weakly, and a sharp gasp escapes your lips.

“Arthur?” you breathe, voice trembling as your heart skips a beat. You turn back to his face, ragged and pale, the shadow of the man he once was. But there’s something in the faint wrinkle of his brow and the uneven parting of his lips. It’s the most life you’ve seen in him in days.

You’re practically shaking as you move further up the cot. You stick yourself as close to his side as you can. “Oh, Arthur?” you plead, leaning closer, searching desperately for any sign that he’s still fighting. A low mutter slips from his cracked lips, the sound so faint it’s almost lost in the silence. You freeze, straining to hear, your breath caught in your throat.

You’re so close you can feel the shallow rise and fall of his chest against yours. His lips move again, his ribs quaking with effort. It’s a whisper, barely audible, but you hear a cracked version of your name slip through his lips.

This is the most you’ve gotten from him in days. There had been moments where, as hard as it was to accept, you’d begun to realize he could be dying. His lips move again and if you weren’t watching him so intently, you might have missed it.

Your heart shatters and mends all at once. “Arthur,” you choke, nearly crying with relief. Your body slumps over his with the relief that he’s not been lost to you yet. You clutch your hand in his as though sheer will can keep him with you. For a moment, the unbearable weight of your fear is lifted.

Tears spill down your cheeks, hot and unrelenting, as you press your forehead against his. “You’re still here,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “Just keep fighting for me.”

He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t have the strength, but his fingers twitch again, his grip just a little firmer. It’s enough for you. You hold on to him like he’s your lifeline, and in a way, he is. You can’t let him go, not now. “I’m here, Arthur,” you promise, voice shaking but just steady enough for him to understand you. “I’m not going anywhere. Just, don’t leave me. Please.”

For the first time in what feels like forever, there’s a flicker of hope in the darkness. It’s fragile, so fragile, but it’s there.

It doesn’t take long for Arthur to start coming back around. Most nights, he’s still groggy and spends more time asleep than awake, but the fever has broken, and that’s enough for you.

You no longer go to sleep every night worrying he won’t be there in the morning. Now, when you check on his tent, you find him waiting for you, even if it’s with little more than a tired glance and a hoarse word or two. Tonight is one of those nights. He doesn’t have much energy for anything beyond picking at some stew and lying down, but you don’t mind.

You stay by his side, fussing over him as you fluff the pillows behind his head. He’d teased you the other day, comparing your fretting to Mrs. Grimshaw. You’d laughed, too relieved he felt well enough to joke to take offense. The memory makes you smile as you smooth the blankets over him.

“Quit,” he mutters weakly, swatting at your hands.

“Oh, hush,” you retort, tone light as you sit back down in the chair by his cot.

His hand catches your wrist before you can settle. When you glance down, you find him peeking up at you through one half-lidded eye, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Come on,” he mumbles, tugging gently.

“Arthur, I’m fine right here,” you reply, hesitating. His cot isn’t exactly spacious, and you’re worried about jostling him or hurting his still-healing ribs.

He doesn’t answer, just tugs again with what little strength he has.

“Oh, alright.” You laugh slightly and shake your head. “You’re so stubborn,” you grumble, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you. Carefully, you climb onto the cot, curling into the space he makes for you on his good side. His head tucks into the crook of your neck, his arm settling around your waist like it belongs there.

You comb your fingers through his hair absentmindedly, thinking that maybe you’ll cut it for him when he’s stronger. His breathing slows against you, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He’s nearly asleep when he rasps out a question, voice muffled against your shoulder.

“Why didn’t they come?” He rasps against your shoulder, nearly asleep as he asks.

Your hands still in his hair, and the quiet around you feels suddenly heavy. His arm tightens around your waist, as though he senses your hesitation. You close your eyes and draw in a shaky breath.

How are you supposed to answer that?

You could tell him the same tired promises Dutch fed you, that there was a plan, that he was never really abandoned. But you’ve been here, tending to him alone for days. You’ve watched Dutch only appear when Arthur’s too far gone to notice, his visits perfunctory and brief. And you know, deep down, what Arthur would never admit, if he keeps believing Dutch’s lies, it’ll kill him.

You swallow hard and take his hand, threading your fingers through his. “Arthur,” you whisper, voice trembling but firm enough to hold his attention. “You’ve given Dutch everything, and he left you there. He left you to die.”

You hear him exhale, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. His grip on your hand loosens just slightly, but he doesn’t pull away.

“I’m not saying this to hurt you,” you continue, leaning closer so your words sink in. “I just- I need you to know the truth. He’s not the man you think he is. He never was. Please, Arthur, when you’re strong enough, tell me we’ll get away. We’ll leave this all behind before it’s too late.”

You fall silent, letting your words settle in the quiet. He doesn’t respond, his breaths deepening as sleep overtakes him again.

You tighten your hold on his hand and rest your forehead against his temple. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, your voice breaking. “You deserve better.”

You doubt he’ll remember this when he wakes, and maybe that’s best. But you had to say something, you had to try. It feels wrong, though, to try and twist Arthur’s loyalty. You’ve barely had a chance to know either of them the way they know each other.

Still, you can’t shake what you’ve seen. Dutch’s words, his cleverly painted lies, they turn into nooses, and he’s got a rope around everyone in camp. You know his kind, once he sinks his claws into someone, there’s no letting go.

You glance down at Arthur’s face, softened and unguarded in sleep, and your chest tightens. He deserves to be free of Dutch. At the very least, he deserves to see the truth and to live for himself instead of chasing someone else’s dreams.

Doubt still creeps alongside you. Did you have a place to say anything at all?

You brush a hand through Arthur’s hair one more time, listening to his breaths as they even out. Curling closer around him, you drift to sleep with your heart heavy, praying he sees the truth when he wakes.

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