#robert is in one scene in this part | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

valeriianz · 14 days ago

Text

Mega Popstar Dream and Hob, his extremely non-famous celebrity crush: THE FIC!

for @cuubism! based on this incredible post! Sorry it took me like, 6 months to write :') 5k later, here we are!

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

“Alright, plans for today…” Lucienne plops down on the sofa across from Dream, a tablet in her hand and a cup of tea waiting for her on the coffee table.

Dream is still in his sleep clothes; the pants of a mulberry silk, midnight black pyjama set, forgoing the matching long sleeve buttoned top for nothing but his favourite cashmere cardigan that is a size too big on him, draping over his shoulders elegantly and hanging open to reveal his bare, hair-free chest. He’s curled up on the corner of the couch with an old acoustic guitar in his hands, idly strumming away while a notebook sits waiting for him by his side.

Matthew, one of his trusted publicists, would sarcastically quip about how “work never stops,” but it’s more like “inspiration never stops.” Words and melodies are constantly floating around in Dream’s head, and if he doesn’t at least have a pen and paper with him at all times, they will drift away as soon as they come.

Dream listens as Lucienne goes over their itinerary. Awards season is upon them and these days a lot of Dream’s time is spent in appointments with designers and agents for campaigns and endorsements, even media training, still, at Dream’s level in his career. He still has the occasional gaff when speaking in anything that isn’t a practised interview. And, although Dream has gotten better at red carpet events, where a microphone is spontaneously shoved in his face, that coupled with all the flashing lights and overlapping chatter has made him dissociate more than a few times.

Dream nods along when Lucienne pauses to make sure he’s paying attention. He is. And she knows his quirks by now; that he needs to be constantly moving when taking in information. His fingers fluttering along the neck of the guitar, producing quiet blooms of sound that quickly fade away in the space between them.

“And then after lunch is the YouTube appearance…”

Dream stops playing.

“The what?”

Lucienne looks up at him over her coke-bottle glasses.

“The interview with Centuries, the up-and-coming YouTube channel. We discussed it back in August.”

Right, Dream vaguely remembers the name. He doesn’t watch much YouTube… unless it’s interviews or clip compilations of Robert Gadling from his TV show, Prophecy. He’d be more ashamed of his search history if everyone on his team didn’t already know about his absurd crush.

Dream merely nods, trusting Lucienne and his team by now to handle trivial things like interviews or guest appearances. If he had needed to do any modicum of research beforehand, he would have by now.

But now Dream’s imagination starts to wander, thinking about the video he’d watched before going to bed last night, his phone clutched in his hand while he took in a behind the scenes feature of the stars of Prophecy going through their period typical wardrobe and makeup, replaying Robert Gadling’s part over and over again. The way the hairdresser had combed her fingers through Robert’s hair, pulling it back to reveal his forehead and bushy eyebrows, expressive as ever, lifted up as he smiled widely in the mirror, the skin around his eyes crinkling with it.

Or the set’s costume designer taking Robert’s measurements, revealing the man in a thin white henley and boxer briefs, the camera only panning down for a moment to capture his tan, corded thighs just thick with hair and taking Dream’s breath away, squirming under the sheets of his too-big California king-sized bed.

It was bad… Dream’s infatuation with Robert. His team had been worried at first, knowing the gossip columnists loved it when Dream got into a new relationship, shamelessly publishing questions of how long this one will last? And going down the timeline of Dream’s past lovers, all heat and passion at first, before inevitably getting snuffed out by their own intensity.

Despite Dream’s track record– or maybe because of it– many people, male and female, had tried to capture the performer’s attention. Willing to endure the heartbreak at the end because, as nearly all Dream’s partners had attested to, Dream was an excellent lover. And perhaps, to them, the high was worth the pain.

But Dream had set himself on a firm break from romance. His heart couldn’t take it, so instead he pined, though not from afar. If media outlets were to take him seriously, they’d have a real story to invest in.

Perhaps newsmongers thought it was a joke, the way Dream was so candid about his interest in Robert. In past affairs, the public would just suddenly see Dream cozied up with a new paramour– no need to speculate when Dream would always just go for it.

Dream is surprised, too. His listeners are usually so quick to judge Dream’s suitors and even his relationships. Perhaps it is because Robert Gadling is barely a celebrity, in the eyes of Hollywood.

Prophecy is a BBC program, one of those low budget, historical dramas where romance doesn’t propel the plot, so unfortunately the series hadn’t garnered much success. Which Dream was boarderlined annoyed by. The writing was fantastic, the acting– superb. And Robert Gadling specifically…

If Dream’s staff noticed how often his mind would wander into daydreams, a woebegone sigh escaping his lips, they didn’t say anything. Leaving Dream to write vague love songs that his fans speculated which ex it was about.

Despite his maddening crush on Robert Gadling, Dream refused to act on it. Not only because he was on a self-imposed break, but he truly was so terrified of rejection. Or worse, dating Robert and having things fizzle out, like they always did.

Dream knew he wouldn’t survive it if Robert and him were to ever cross paths. So he made sure to steer clear of any events where they might overlap, even going so far as to inform his staff to keep their distance.

Hiring a friend like Lucienne to be Dream’s manager had one downfall though; she knew him better than himself at times. And she was devious.

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

Hob tugs on his ear as he sits in a chair at the table that’s been set up for his surprise meeting with Dream. The crew is still hovering– even after bustling around and getting everything set up.

It’s not that Hob is regretting this�� but it is starting to feel awkward, waiting for Dream to arrive, to surprise him. What if the show’s producers were wrong? What if Dream took one look at Hob and turned right back around?

Though Hob had done some research of his own, after his agent had called him and offered the opportunity to him. Because that’s what this was… an offer— a favour, of sorts. He was barely getting paid for his time here, this was basically just for fun, and “exposure,” a word YouTubers loved throwing around.

He’d heard of Dream, obviously, despite Hob’s lack of social media and smartphone. You’d have to be living underground to not have heard of Dream, the mega rock-star phenomenon that had risen to fame a short five years ago and was only getting more and more popular, especially as he began adding pop elements into his music.

Hob wouldn’t call himself a fan though. He knows the hits that played on endless repeat on the radio, what he hears in coffee shops and what his co-workers talk about. Hob doesn’t dislike the music, it’s very catchy and he can clearly hear why Dream is so popular. He is one of the few currently dominating the charts because he has actual talent. Dream writes and composes his own music and isn’t tied down by a label (anymore), it’s incredibly impressive.

Hob took the time to get into his music before this meeting. Dream’s lyrics are truly stunning, his arrangements unique and reflective of the words he would croon into the mic. Interestingly, Hob found himself enjoying the more dismissive tracks on Dream’s albums, the songs that weren’t mainstream, especially from his early records.

Hob took on the task of learning more about Dream like he would going into a new role. He liked falling into wormholes about a trade or language he had to learn, and he always put 100% of himself into anything he did. So it was inevitable that he would wind up discovering more and more things about Dream than he had originally intended. Becoming more and more interested and, unexpectedly, attached.

While he had been knee-deep in his music, Hob also watched plenty of interviews with Dream, finding the man to be more withdrawn and selective with his words. He was allusive and coy, and extremely awkward. Watching the way he would interact with TV hosts or answer random questions at red carpet events became endearing. When Dream was caught by surprise, this little lopsided smile would creep out and he would stammer over his words.

It was endearing, and surprisingly… cute.

Hob only had about a day to question if Dream really had a crush on him, like the producers of the show claimed. It didn’t take long before Hob found a late night interview with Dream where the host had pivoted to TV shows and casually asked Dream what he was currently watching.

Dream’s eyes lit up. He shifted to be more on the edge of his chair, and even leaned forward a bit.

“Prophecy.” Dream had said with full emphasis on every letter. “You watch it too, yes?”

“It is growing on me.” The host had admitted, similarly struck dumb by Dream’s entire switch in demeanour.

And Dream goes on a tirade about how good the show is, the story, the set design, the costumes. How he’s not an actor, has never been on a TV or film set, but he can see all the detail and love and hard work poured into the show and is admittedly obsessed with it.

“And Robert Gadling…” Hob’s heart had leapt in his throat at the way Dream nearly moaned out his full name. “... he’s just so… passionate in his work. His face is so expressive and it’s like he becomes Ser Gideon.”

“Big fan, then?” The host smirked conspiratorially.

“Oh yes,” Dream admitted, crossing his legs and lolling his head to one side, getting comfortable. “I discovered him while watching Prophecy, and fell down a rabbit hole of his previous work. He mostly does stage, you know. And I’ve always admired live art, the theatre. And God– he does it so splendidly. He acts with his entire body and it’s just–”

“Sounds like you have a bit of a crush.” The host cuts in, his smirk sharpening as Dream throws a glare at him for interrupting.

But then Dream smiles, a tiny thing at the corner of his mouth and his eyes fall. The crowd erupts into a chorus of cheers, goading Dream on and encouraging his embarrassment.

“Well,” Dream pulls his head up, resting it in the palm of his hand. “He’s very dashing, wouldn’t you say?”

Dream’s fingers on his other hand drum along his knee, his gaze gone wistful and distracted. It’s adorable, and maybe could be seen as an act, if not for the answer he gives the host after the next question.

“Have you ever told him of this? I’m sure Robert would be very flattered to hear he has such a notable fan.”

“Oh no. I could never,” Dream withdraws slightly. “If I were to ever see his face in person I’d probably die.”

The audience laughs good-naturedly but Dream has a pretty pink flush spreading up his neck now.

It’s all downhill from there, Hob discovers. Apparently that had been the first time Dream had admitted to his little crush on Hob and after that, the subject would be brought up again and again, sporadically throughout the course of (if the timestamps on the YouTube videos could be believed) over a year.

Over a year of the very famous Dream proclaiming openly his very serious attraction to Robert Gadling and Hob had somehow never known of this.

Until the day his agent called him, a couple months ago, and asked if he wanted to be on this show. The gimmick was– typically– people (read: fans) meeting their celebrity crush. But for this new season, Centuries had a twist: celebrities meeting their celebrity crush.

Hob had no idea what to wear. For Dream it would be a surprise, unless his agent instructed him to dress a certain way, Hob could only assume the man would show up in casual attire. So that’s how Hob opted to present himself. He wore a forest green jumper, the sleeves pushed up in the warm cafe, and a pair of simple blue jeans. His hair had gotten pretty long, at the director’s request for the next season of Prophecy, so he’d pulled that up into a small bun that struggled to stay in place. He opted to put in his contacts, though Hob was starting to regret it, wanting something to fidget; his hand kept unconsciously lifting to touch frames that he wasn’t wearing.

Hob tried not to think too hard about his look today. He knew Dream (shockingly, unbelievably) liked him, but for some reason didn’t want him to be disappointed in what he saw. What if Dream took one look at him and realised Hob wasn’t what he thought? What if the real thing didn’t compare to whatever Dream was making up in his mind? And why did Hob care at all?

Perhaps, because… Dream was. Well. Dream.

Hob wasn’t blind. Dream was beautiful. Hob was sure the lavish lifestyle Dream undoubtedly lived in helped, what with top of the line skin care products and a dietician to make sure he stayed healthy and youthful. Whatever other products Dream used in his hair, on his straight, perfectly white teeth, even down to his nails– clean and pretty, cuticles invisible, usually covered in varnish that matched with whatever expensive outfit he was wearing that day.

And Hob. Well.

Hob wasn’t shy, he knew he was conventionally attractive, the attention he used to get even before his appearance in television clued him in on that. But nothing about him really stood out. Just another face in the crowd. He didn’t have any outstanding features, no connections in the industry, he was a very private person who… sometimes regretted accepting his role in Prophecy. Into Hollywood.

Hob didn’t have social media. It’s something his manager had admonished him about, early on in his career. It would help connect with his fan base, his manager had said. Would be good for connecting with others in the industry as well, and building a social media following was just something everyone did. But Hob had refused. He’d always been a private person, even before he started acting. It was the one thing he refused to give up: his confidentiality.

How could someone like Dream, who had limitless options, countless people fawning over him, find Hob in a sea of faces and latch on like he did? How was he able to know so much about him, when Hob had been so careful to not stand out? It was enough to make Hob skeptical, flattered– a swarm of contradictions but mostly… curious. Hob was so curious.

It was his best and worst trait.

The entire coffee shop, a locally owned one that perhaps was easiest to rent out for a couple hours, is barren of customers, only the crew of the YouTube show present as well as Hob’s small entourage and several of Dream’s agents, as well as a few of the cafe’s staff, patiently waiting behind the counter.

It’s a little awkward, to say the least.

After Hob has drained his second glass of water and traced every grain on the table’s surface, someone announces that Dream is finally arriving and it’s like a switch is flipped in the room. Everyone either goes ramrod straight, or twitchy with nerves. It’s enough to break the tension in Hob, replaced by amusement, momentarily distracted and wondering if he’d ever cause such a reaction just by the sound of his name.

And now Hob, for his part, doesn’t know what to do.

The producers had informed him to just act natural, be himself, that this was essentially a blind date. But calling it a “date” only made Hob sweat. This definitely was not a date. He looked around at the camera’s pointed at him and at the door, a little red light on them blinking to indicate that they were recording. Hob sighed, slouching a little in his seat and taking steady breaths in through his nose and out his mouth, his hand out on the table’s surface and drumming his fingers. Christ, there wasn’t even music playing, all was quiet in the room.

At last, the front door to the cafe opens with a jaunty ring of a bell and Dream steps through. He halts as soon as the door swings shut behind him though, his gaze imperceptible behind a pair of dark Ray-Ban shades, but his head swivels around, visibly confused before a woman out of sight of the cameras (Lucienne, she had introduced herself as, Dream’s manager), catches his attention and nods with a smile.

Why is everyone so quiet? Hob bites his lip, he’s bursting to say something, even a simple hello, but had been told to remain silent until Dream initiated contact. But Dream is clearly uncomfortable, stepping cautiously, like a cat in unknown territory.

“What’s this?” Dream speaks, mostly toward Lucienne. His voice sends a pleasant shudder up Hob’s spine, despite how caution colors his tone. It’s a lovely voice. Smooth like chocolate, clear and deep, commanding attention. Hob had heard it countless times through his headphones, singing or giving an interview, but the full force of it in person made Hob’s heart jumpstart in his chest.

And he’d only spoken two words.

Hob is tucked away into a corner table, next to a window with a deep burgundy curtain drawn over it. It’s perhaps why Dream only spots him only once he’s fully in the center of the room, his head turning and his entire posture freezing up.

It’s a little silly, to see how Dream still hasn’t taken off the sunglasses, but even more so that Hob is somehow able to tell that Dream’s gaze has found him, draped over him like a physical thing.

Hob waves, putting on an easy smile, afraid to spook the man further. He also– fuck these producers– speaks first.

“Hello,” Hob swallows his nerves, keeping his voice soft. “Would you, ah– would you like to sit?”

Hob gestures to the empty seat across from him.

It takes a moment, and Hob’s smile grows as Dream just continues to stare. He’s suddenly grateful for the shades, certain that if he had to experience the full force of those eyes on him, Hob would be just as– if not more– nervous than Dream.

And it’s the obvious fact that Dream is nervous that somehow manages to calm Hob down a little. It’s also doing wonders for his ego, if he’s being completely honest with himself.

Dream swallows, and the movement catches Hob’s attention, watching how his throat moves and the way the snow white skin there begins to flush a pretty pink.

Cute.

Dream at last takes a step forward, then another. His focus zeroed in on Hob, which kicks up Hob’s calming heartrate, his breath coming out in shorter intervals because– fuck. Dream is dressed to kill.

A fitted black jacket with narrow labels, open and revealing a black, smoky, intricately woven sheer top with subtle ruffles that drape down the collar like a scarf. He’s wearing a silver watch on one wrist and a mess of silver bracelets on the other. The pants match the jacket and they go on for miles. Hob licks his lips as he feels his mouth drying. The black boots Dream wears reveal a red outsole, the flash of color barely perceptible with every step.

Dream’s lips part, expression otherwise unreadable, when suddenly he walks full on into the back of a chair.

The sound of the collision is like a balloon popping in the quiet room. His hands fly up to grab the chair, steadying it but his legs continue on, stumbling and causing the chair to scrape loudly on the hardwood floor. Hob makes to stand and help, just as Dream topples forward, one hand attempting to latch onto the table for support and taking that down as well in a noisy crash.

Hob vaults upwards just as the room tenses around them, frozen with uncertainty, and a camera comes in close. Hob barely perceives it, wanting nothing more than to shove the man operating it away, but his focus is on Dream, laying in a heap on the floor among the table and chair.

He hears some muffled jittering and sends a glare up in the general direction, catching Lucienne’s worried expression– she’s taken a few steps forward as well– along the way.

Hob collapses to his knees at Dream’s head just as the camera arrives and Hob can’t stop himself from waving the man away, shooting him a disgusted look, before looking to Dream again.

“Hey, you okay? Anything hurt?”

Hob’s hands spread out uselessly, wondering if it was okay for him to touch Dream. His glasses are askew and he’s lolled his head to the side, nearly knocking them completely off. Hob could see his eyes squeezed shut, his ears beet red.

“Just my pride,” came a small, miserable response.

Hob smiled, huffing a short laugh as he chanced to reach out and gently swipe his fingers over the top of Dream’s head, pulling hair out of his face.

Dream’s eyes open and peek sideways. Hob, again, felt his breath catch. Blue. Like the clear ocean, glinting from the sun’s rays. Or like gemstones– sapphire, sharp and bright. Wow.

“Wow…” Hob hears himself speak and blushes, heat spreading up his neck.

Dream’s eyes widened, turning to flop on his back and letting those expensive shades fall from his face and Hob was struck by the full force of those blue eyes.

They’re just as captivating as he’d imagined, even more so, up close and in person.

Hob almost forgets they are surrounded by a camera crew, almost lets himself touch Dream again, imagines putting his hands on either side of his face, just to feel how warm his skin must be, tinged pink. It’s so endearing… and such an attractive look on him, only making the blue of his eyes pop so much more.

But at that moment someone coughs politely and Hob comes back to reality, blinking and clearing his throat. The sound startles Dream, who flinches, still on the floor, and looks side to side.

Hob helps him up, slowly, his nerves singing as Dream’s hand lingers in his as he manages to stand to his full height. There’s a moment of corporeality where Lucienne finally approaches Dream, as well as someone else on his staff, double checking that he’s in fact, okay.

Dream nods and mumbles something to them, his gaze continuing to swing over to Hob, as if checking that he’s still there.

The irritation and distrust that Dream carried on his shoulders when he’d entered the room have vanished, replaced by awkward tension and acceptance. He’s still obviously embarrassed by what happened, his hand rubbing the back of his neck and his lips pulled in to form a thin line, eyes focused as he’s mic’d up, understanding now what kind of position he’d been forced into.

Well, maybe not forced. He looks at Hob again, who’s taken his seat again at the table. Not forced, tricked maybe. Dream probably thought this was an interview of some sort, there must’ve been a reason he was dressed up so well.

Eventually, Dream sits with him, drinks are brought to them (a coffee for Hob and a tea latte for Dream), and they take a moment to sip the hot beverages.

It’s good coffee, at least. Hob looks into his drink as he sets the mug down, thumbing over the lip of the ceramic cup. He lifts his lashes to watch Dream, who’s also studying his drink, dunking the tea bag over and over again in the liquid.

Hob nibbles on his bottom lip, his fingers now tapping on the mug, his brain sifting through a thousand ice breakers, a thousand things to say, before sighing and leaning back as casually as he can.

“I know you didn’t plan this” Hob starts, falling back on an old charm he hopes will break the tension. “But this is the strangest way to get a man’s attention.”

Dream snorts into his drink and Hob laughs as it sprays foam over the table’s surface.

Hob wipes the mess with a napkin while Dream hides his mouth behind his hand, flustered all over again. Hob smiles. This Dream is so unlike how the man presents himself in public. Poised, professional, god-like. Dream wielded his star power well, it commanded attention and intimidation, only faltering enough to garner his loyal fanbase, to give himself human qualities that listeners could connect with and fawn over.

Like the rambling during red carpet interviews. Or talking about Robert Gadling… talking about him.

But Hob had never seen… this. The stumbling, the blushing, the insecurity. It made something warm and incredibly fond well up in his chest.

Dream finally collects himself, taking a breath and dropping his hand back to fiddle with the handle of his cup.

“What about your attention?” Dream tilts his head to one side, eyes gone playful but still with a hint of nerves behind them, uncertainty.

Hob’s smile hesitates before he laughs softly, shaking his head in delight.

He had not anticipated that Dream would flirt.

“I think all you had to do was look at me,” Hob murmured softly, ducking his head a little, letting himself be honest because– how could he not?

Dream’s lips parted, his face gone lax.

And that pretty blush crawling up his neck again, making Dream drop his head slightly, a tiny, shy smile peeking through, making something take hold of Hob’s heart and give it a squeeze.

“You can’t just say that.”

“I’m not. Just saying it.” He wants to say more, actually. Hob gets it now. He gets it. Why Dream has half of the fucking world at his feet.

Suddenly, Hob wishes he was the only one. The only person to worship Dream, to know his smiles and his voice, how easy it was to make him blush and stammer.

Hob takes a long breath and realizes, oh God, I’m gonna fall in love, aren’t I?

Dream nearly squirms in his seat, meeting Hob’s gaze again like he can’t help it. Like he’s amazed Hob’s here at all, before he blinks and casts his gaze to the side, at the large handful of people in the dining room. Hob looks too– just a quick glance. He’d forgotten for a moment there that they had an audience.

So Hob hums thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on his cup before propping an elbow up on the table and resting his chin in his palm.

“So,” Hob grabs Dream’s attention, thinking it best to divert the conversation… for the moment. “... when did you know you wanted to become a singer?”

They relax again as the conversation turns casual. They share their history, from childhood to now. Dream admits he never entertained the idea that he could perform professionally… he liked to sing and play at open mic nights, but the idea of fame scared him. But it was all he knew how to do, he said. Play guitar and write poetry.

Hob shares that sentiment, but with acting. He’d loved the stage and figured he’d be happy doing that forever. Auditioning for a small part in a film was just for fun, and then it’d snowballed from there. Prophecy was his first major role, but already he was making headway, catching attention (mostly because he was so private) and rejecting offers from other major studios. Hob did enjoy acting in front of a camera, it was fun, in a different way. But for now he wanted to stick with indie stuff and small roles. Unsure if this was the life he wanted for himself.

Dream had gone quiet again, at that, his gaze faraway. Hob wondered what he was thinking about, but before he could ask, Dream changed the subject, asking about Hob’s favorite plays.

Then Hob asks about Dream’s favorite poets, writers, what book he was reading right now. They discuss music and the cities they’ve lived in, sharing embarrassing stories that crack Hob up and make Dream laugh out loud, the atrocious sound unable to be hidden behind a hand.

Hob stares and stares and wonders what he’d been doing his entire life.

Dream has this aura about him, his own gravitational pull, and Hob is powerless to its charm, getting sucked into the point where Hob never wants to leave. He could get lost in the blue of his eyes, his shy smiles. Hob is smitten. And probably a little bit in love.

Before Hob is ready to let Dream go, someone announces that it’s time to wrap up. The spell is broken and the two men fall silent once more.

The director instructs them to say some final lines, some awkward dialogue that apparently is traditional with this channel’s gimmick, and then the shoot is proclaimed to be finished.

Like a dream, everyone is already chatting amongst themselves, scattering about, though the cameras on the tripods remain on. Lucienne walks up the table, thanking Hob for his time and energy, shaking his hand, before turning to Dream.

Hob’s head spins. The illusion is shattered, and Hob has a fraction of a second to wonder if it was all a setup.

But that thought is squashed as Dream’s face sours at something another man says over his shoulder, trying to encourage him to stand and make their way to their next appointment “... already 8 minutes behind schedule…” and Dream looks desperately towards Hob.

Hob stands at the same time as Dream, his mouth working uselessly as he scrambles to say something– anything, to keep Dream here. To borrow him in private for just a moment, just a second!

Hob is only reminded how Dream is an international celebrity by how quickly he is escorted away from him. Despite how well they’d gotten along, despite how they’d run over the shoot time because no one wanted to disturb them. Because there was something there, Hob knew it. And now it was being ushered away from him.

Frantic, Hob asks to borrow a pen from one of the staff members, hastily scribbling down his phone number on a napkin. He turns his mic pack off, and, with a quick glance around, spots Dream standing off to the side as his manager speaks with the show's producer, likely just saying goodbye to them as well.

Hob tries to school his expression into something that’s not insane as he marches up to Dream, catching his attention immediately and holding out his hand.

Dream takes it, a flash of curiosity and wonder– still– at the sight of Hob before him.

Hob clenches Dream’s cool, bony fingers in his, pressing the napkin against his palm.

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” Hob says, very aware that there are still cameras around them.

“Likewise,” Dream says, his chin tilting down, a secretive smile curling his lips as he certainly feels the napkin in his hand.

Hob smiles, too. He swallows before leaning in close, bringing his free hand up to cover Dream’s lav mic, just in case it’s still on, and brushing his lips against Dream’s ear.

“I’d love to see you again, without cameras.”

A quiet gasp tickles Hob’s eardrum and he grins as he pulls back, elated at the spark of mischief in Dream’s eyes.

“I would like that…” Dream whispers, his low voice cutting Hob straight to his core and knocking the wind out of him.

Hob can only nod, feeling dizzy, as Dream’s hand closes around the napkin and they separate.

Dream nods too, smiling as he’s finally turned away and out of Hob’s sight.

(stay tuned for part two! in like... another 6 months to a year lol)

#dreamling #hob x dream #celebrity crush au #omg omg thank you for letting play around with this concept haha #this is severely unedited and sometimes British. sometimes not #i forgot that Dream was supposed to pass out too whoops lol #he's fine he's fine #my writing #also lol did anyone catch the T Swift reference?#le cringe

267 notes · View notes

javier-pena · 6 months ago

Text

circumstance

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Word Count: 2k

Rating: Explicit

Summary: On a stormy night, you’re haunted by a ghost from your past.

Notes: God idk what it is with me and seeing random pictures of Pedro characters that make me go feral. Anyways, wrote this in an hour, hope this is anything. I had Latin in school but I’m not vouching for any of the Latin words in this. I mostly wrote this because I’ve had a vendetta against international bestselling author Robert Harris ever since I was 15 years old. This is loosely based on a scene from his novel Imperium that has been haunting me for almost 20 years now. Also based on this post by @ozarkthedog.

***

There’s war. Outside the city, the land is burning. Behind the city walls, life goes on as it always has. There’s decadence and dissipation and life. That’s your part of the story. That’s all you’ve ever known. The comfort and the safety. That’s all you’ve ever needed to feel fulfilled.

During the night, when the city quiets down, when the people return to their homes and the public life ceases, you can sometimes hear it, like a storm brewing over the distant sea, like the rumbling of a volcano miles and miles away, taking deep breaths before spewing its fiery death. On clear nights, nights free of clouds and wind, nights where the air is so heavy it feels like a blanket weighing you down, you can even see it, the light from the battlefield, the glow of a carnage that swallows everything, even itself.

This night isn’t clear at all. This night brought rain and hail and thunder so violent it shakes the foundations of your house. You’re alone, reclining on your triclinium, too drained from dinner to move much. The storm promised some reprieve from the muggy summer air, but the heat is worse now than it was this afternoon. The wine you had with your meal, the glass in front of you now refilled a third time, combined with the weather makes your head feel like it has been wrapped in wool. Even breathing seems laborious.

But there are footsteps against mosaic floors, and footsteps mean visitors and visitors mean business. Business at such a late hour is never a good sign. With a groan you stand, with a sigh you straighten your tunic, and then the footsteps are drowned by a clap of thunder so loud you flinch.

What follows it is not the sight of one of your servants or even your husband. In the gloomy darkness that always follows a flash of lightning a shadow moves into the room, and when your eyes have adjusted to the dim lights of the lucernae all around you, you flinch again, this time with cause.

A man is standing before you, looking like the slain ghost of a soldier from the battlefield nearby. He is covered in dirt and grime, wet from the rain, wet from the blood he has recently spilled. His armor looks black in the darkness, and your eyes flicker to his side in trepidation only to discover that he’s still wearing his sword. He’s still wearing his sword, going against the rules of your house, the rules of your husband.

“Where is he?” the stranger asks, his voice deep and dangerous like the thunder outside.

You could play dumb, you could act like you don’t know who he’s talking about, but in that voice you discover something familiar, like a memory of a distant dream, never quite forgotten.

“He isn’t here,” you reply. “He might come back later, but he’s with the senate.”

The man steps closer, quick strides that take him right to the foot of your triclinium. You step backward until you reach its head, trying to put the piece of furniture between the two of you. Your hands are clammy.

“Good,” the stranger answers with a twitch of his lips that’s all too familiar for all the wrong reasons. “I promised you I’d be back for you, and I always keep my promises.”

There’s a doorway behind you leading through a small peristyle straight to your husband’s tablinum. You glance at the court, at the shrubs and flowers and fountains that you know are there but that are currently hidden by curtains of rain and darkness.

“Don’t –,” the stranger starts, but it comes too late.

You turn and run, skip down the two steps from the porch into the garden itself, your feet splashing into puddles as you run and run. Heavy footfalls behind you, heavy breathing, and a heaviness in your heart, calling back to a similar moment years ago that happened on such a different day full of laughter and sunshine and secret kisses exchanged in secret corners.

You reach the doorway to the tablinum. “Stop!” you bellow, and to your surprise he does. To your surprise, this works, and you don’t know what to do with that. “What do you want, Acacius?” you ask, your heart growing even heavier when you name him.

“You know what I want,” he answers, the rain loudly hammering against his armor, the water dousing his hair, making his curls stick to his forehead. “I came back to collect what you owe me.”

“We were children,” you remind him.

He’s up the steps faster than you can say those three words, the years between now and that summer afternoon seemingly having left no traces.

“Keep telling yourself that,” he growls, the storm raging over the city reflected in his eyes.

You step backwards into the tablinum, one hand protectively slung across your stomach. “You should leave, Acacius. I have nothing more to say to you.”

But there is only so far you can go before your back connects with your husband’s writing desk. And once it does there is nowhere for you to run to.

“I don’t need you to say anything.” His face is cast in shadows now, but when another flash lights up the night sky, you see that his expression is completely blank. “I just need you to lift up those expensive skirts of yours and let me take what’s mine.”

“Go back to that battlefield of yours,” you reply. “Go back and defend Rome like you’re supposed to. Or are you too much of a coward still?”

You should have known he would not take that kindly, should have known that provoking him wouldn’t make him leave. But when you feel his cold, wet hand wrapped around your wrist, when you’re being yanked into his chest, turned around, and shoved up against the desk, it still catches you by surprise. Some part of you, the one that never left that sunny afternoon, didn’t think he’d have it in him. Another part wanted him to.

His body presses into you with such force the desk scrapes against the stone floor with a creak loud enough to be heard over the storm. The sound that cannot be heard is the gasp you let out when he pushes up your tunic, exposing your legs to the humid night air.

“Don’t –,” you start.

He shushes you, one dirty finger touching your lips. You can smell the storm and the blood on him. He can feel your shaky breath.

“Just this once,” he mumbles into your hair.

Maybe you should fight this, but you don’t know how. He kicks your feet apart, and maybe you should kick back, connect your heel to his shin, and run. He bites the spot where your neck connects to your shoulder, and maybe you should bite his finger that is now resting against your lips while the rest of his hand is wrapped around your chin and throat, bite down hard until the bone cracks. He runs his other hand down your backside and pushes it between your legs, groaning at the warmth and wetness he finds there, and maybe you should use this moment of weakness to climb across the desk and search for something to defend yourself with.

All of it passes and you do nothing. All of it passes and you push backward against him, sucking his finger in between your lips. He pulls it out of your mouth, grabs the hair at the back of your neck, and pushes your head down toward the desk, your shoulders straining in protest. The groan you let loose is read as defiance by him.

“I told you to be quiet,” he hisses. “Just …”

He trails off and at first you don’t know why but then the hand at the back of your neck is gone and you sigh with relief, a sound that turns into something less human when he pushes two fingers into you.

“God, you’re tight,” he groans, his forehead resting against your shoulder.

“Please …,” you try again, but you’re not quite sure what you’re asking for.

There’s a rustling sound behind you, leather and fabric being moved frantically, and then his fingers are gone, replaced by something thick and heavy spreading you open. You lift yourself up on the tips of your toes, trying to adjust, trying to lessen the burn, but he digs his fingers into your hips and pushes you back down, right onto him.

“Stay,” he orders. “Just … just take it.”

His words are slurred now, and your vision is blurry, your eyes wet from biting your lip so hard you can taste blood on your tongue. He rocks into you, and your nails scrape against the wood of your husband’s desk, leaving marks in their wake. But you do as you’re told.

“That’s better.” He bites your shoulder again and you gasp from the sudden burst of pain, gasp from the way you constrict around him in response. He laughs, a rumbling like thunder, then pushes your upper body against the wood, holding you down, one hand in your hair, the other firmly locking your hip in place.

Another bolt of lightning must have illuminated your face, turned sideways for him to see the trepidation in your eyes because he says, “Don’t cry. I’m going to take good care of you.”

You don’t know how to tell him that you’re not crying because you’re afraid of him. You’re crying because you don’t remember the last time you’ve felt this way, the last time sex wasn’t just a duty you had to fulfill but something someone wanted from you, and just from you, so much so he would abandon his duty to take what’s his. You don’t know how to tell him you’re terrified of what that discovery might mean for you and your marriage, how you’re hoping your husband is going to walk in right this very moment and free you from the bonds that bind you to him.

Acacius starts to lose control of his body then. He’s pushing himself up deeper and deeper into you, groaning louder with each thrust. You know those sounds, dread them when they’re coming from your husband, encourage them now with desperate whimpers of your own. He grips your hair again, pulls you up flush against his chest so hard you yelp with pain, fumbles with your tunic until he finds that bundle of nerves between your legs that he loved to kiss when you were both free to enjoy each other’s company. But it’s just for a brief moment he considers your pleasure before hitting the desk with his open palm, holding onto the wood, and letting go.

You close your eyes, waiting. It doesn’t take long for him to let out a sigh, to still deep inside of you. You can feel him twitch, you feel his hot release, but most of all you feel the sting of a promise broken. Your whole body is on edge, wound up, pulled taut, and there is nothing he’s going to do about it.

When he’s done, he pulls out of you and lets your tunic fall down around your legs. You turn to face him, your cheeks burning with shame, but his face is once again hidden behind all those shadows that come with a starless night.

“You wanted to take good care of me,” you point out, trying to keep your voice steady.

“I just did,” he says, running his thumb from the corner of his mouth along his bottom lip. “You’re mine now. Leave that between your legs for him to find.”

“Acacius …,” you try, a name once so familiar then so strange now growing familiar again.

He crowds you against the desk, chest to chest this time, and wraps his thick fingers around your throat. The kiss he presses to your lips is hard, devoid of all tenderness. “Mine,” he repeats. “Never forget that.” And then he’s nothing more than heavy footsteps against mosaic floors.

#marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius #gladiator 2 fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfiction #aksjdhfjsdf it is what it is #i'm gonna go hide now hahahahah

587 notes · View notes

attapullman · 7 months ago

Text

Silver Screen, Make Me Scream | Robert "Bob" Floyd

Summary: The world is used to seeing Robert Floyd as a Navy admiral on a screen thirty feet tall. You're used to seeing him as the man who spoils you rotten, in and out of the bedroom.

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: f!reader, 18+ ONLY, older boyfriend AU, movie star AU, daddy k!nk, unprotected pinv, older bf Bob eats it from behind, cowgirl position, age gap, no y/n

A Note from Mo: Uh...this is porn without plot disguised as a filthy, flirty AU and I am waving from the bars of horny jail. Fellow old man fuckers, this one is for you.

It’s his cold pillow that wakes you.

No deep breaths or soft snores echoing around the vaulted ceiling. The absurdly expensive bedding all yours to take. Your late night should keep you asleep until noon, but it feels wrong to be in bed when you don’t have your lover’s solid warmth against your skin.

You pad down the terracotta-tiled hall and take in the views of the Pacific, the only artwork needed on this side of the house. Stormy blue and glass-riddled sandy white, the picturesque view sells itself. The waves crash on the beach below, their mellow sound seeping into the Mediterranean revival from the open patio doors.

He’s sitting outside in just his sweatpants, coffee in hand, as he watches the water while flicking through a thick stack of pages. The grey at his temples is bright under the early San Diego sun. You know he’s reading something important because he has those horn-rimmed glasses on, the ones he repeatedly complains are too tight around his ears. Won’t even waste a minute to go grab his preferred wire frames.

Robert Floyd may be retired from show business, but he’s hotter than the first day he graced screens.

Eyes lifting from the pages, he catches you staring from your spot by the French doors, negligee skimming your body in the soft ocean breeze. The lids of your eyes are still a little heavy with sleep.

“You need something, baby?” He pats his broad thigh and you assume your perch, snuggling against his sun-warmed skin as you shake your head. How is he always the perfect temperature? The chill from the ocean wafts over you as he wraps his arm around your waist.

Your lips part in a contented smile. “Just checking in on you, Daddy. Missed you in bed.”

“Sorry, baby,” he coos, brushing his lips against your temple. His thick pointer taps against the stack of pages that arrived by messenger at sunrise. “Agent asked me to give this a look over, see if I’d be interested.”

You tilt your head to see the title. “Is that-”

“Yes, baby girl. They’re asking me to come back. Just a few scenes with the new regime, but get to wear that admirals uniform one more time.” Despite him saying it so matter of factly, you can detect his giddiness at wearing those pins once again. “Not sure if it’s the right move though.”

You trail your finger along his pectoral, imagining the ironed uniform underneath your touch.

Robert Floyd had made a career of Naval action films, starting out as a fresh faced Weapons Systems Officer in his debut, to gracing the screen one last time as an Admiral in the franchise’s original conclusion. He’d won over hearts with his steely blue gaze and soft smile, never one for breaking the rules. Yet always the one who celebrated the hardest when his squadron completed a mission.

For military propaganda, he made a compelling poster boy.

Your entire childhood he had been on posters in the mall, trailers on the television during commercial breaks. Those bright sapphire eyes and gleaming pins burnt into your vision, uncontrollably charmed by the strong, silent type.

And now here he was, putty under your palms as you asked if he wanted more coffee.

Without a doubt he’d take the appearance, spend a day or two on set with the next generation of Naval action stars. The next year he’d appear on every talk show and repeat his modesty over his fifteen minutes on camera. Your Bobby would balk at the attention, but glow with pride as the host played his cameo for the audience.

Watching him flip through a few pages, you could already see the shy smile he would win the crowd over as he insisted the revival’s cast members were the real stars.

“What’cha thinking about, sweet girl?” You were so lost in your daydream that you missed his attention turning to you, warm palm running over your hip under your thin robe.

You stroke his jaw, fingers curling into the regulation-cut greying hair. The cut he’s kept since he was first cast in his early twenties. “You should take the role. You look handsome as an admiral.” You peck a light kiss to his lips. “Dashing, really.”

His blush is striking against the ocean sky. As you get up to go make you both breakfast, you can feel his eyes on you; an extra sway in your hips for his enjoyment. Bob lounges back on the outdoor set and looks between the breaking waves and the now slightly rumpled script.

He’s coming back.

The view of the ocean as you zip up I-5 is breathtaking, a gorgeous Southern California day. The early call time was less than ideal, but the energy in the car is electric. Bob’s hand wanders into the passenger seat to wrap around your bare knee, thumb tapping out an unknown rhythm as he navigates traffic.

He looks the vision of wealth and importance sitting in the front seat of his pewter grey Porsche 911 - a sleek upgrade for his 40th from the battered truck he’d been driving since he arrived in Hollywood. The car is understated in its elegance, like its owner. You admire his graceful lines of a life well lived, the pokes of silver woven through his hair. And yet his eyes carry that intelligent, sassy energy that keeps you on your toes, ready for the next challenge he brings you.

“You’re looking at me.” His eyes don’t leave the road, but the smile on the corner of his thin lips is playful.

You fiddle with his fingers, admiring the large dexterous digits. “Just so handsome, how can I not?”

Bob lifts your hand with his, allowing the platinum and diamonds of your bracelet to catch the morning sun - nearly blinding with their sparkle. He brings your interlocked fingers to his lips, pressing a loving kiss to the skin as he finally looks at you. His eyes are the same striking blue as the ocean behind him.

“Perfect girl, what did I do to deserve you?”

You’re wondering the same when he enters the studio lot, passing through security and finding your way to the set. There’s a bustle of commotion as the two of you join the crowd, everyone immediately hushing their voices as the talent arrives. Bob’s chest swells with power as everyone immediately caters to him before noticing you.

“That must be his assistant?” Rumors spread through the crew like wildfire, watching you prance behind film legend Robert Floyd like an excitable puppy. Eyebrows shooting up when he turns back and rests a hand on the back of your bare thigh, leaning close to ask if you want anything from craft.

You slide your diamond-covered wrist around his neck and peck his cheek. Definitely not an assistant.

Since the day he’d made his name on marquees, Bob had been surrounded by women. A tall man in Navy blues with the golden touch of Hollywood? His fellow cast joked more than once that tag chasers didn’t care whether you served the country or just did it on screen. Eventually he’d done the responsible thing and tried marriage, settling down with a woman who cared more about his flashy lifestyle than the quiet man behind the lights. Divorce was swift and the introvert reverted inside his shell, his film career quiet as the next generation of aviators took the screen.

And then you entered his life, with your open face and bright smile. A coffee shop in Coronado he frequented that you happened to pass. A bump of elbows over the creamer, his amused grin when you accidentally grabbed his drink in your fluster. You were so excited to meet a real movie star, a dream come true. And he looked so much bigger than his character - those shoulders brawnier, that jaw sharper. Yet the smile he gave you was heart-melting as you handed him your own coffee cup to sign, nothing else available.

It wasn’t until that afternoon you noticed he’d written his number in neat penmanship. You had to wait until that next night to know you were falling inexplicably in love with a man who the rest of the world already adored. He was bigger than life, your everything.

And for all of your affection, he spoiled you. Dates to restaurants you couldn’t pronounce in Liberty Station, private events with tickets you couldn’t afford. Every week a new trinket left at your bedside, sparkling in the low light while he hummed in the bathroom excited for you to notice. Few things brought him joy at this stage in life, but you traipsing in with nothing on but the latest diamanté left him positively enraptured.

People could stare and point and judge all they wanted. It was love, and it was all yours.

You’ve raided the mini bar and read through the call sheet when Bob finally comes back to his trailer. He strikes a bold figure in his Navy blacks - pins gleaming, white cap under his arm.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he greets you, swooping to kiss your cheek. But your breath is already stolen. You’d seen pictures, caught his movies at the old matinee in Balboa Park. But standing in front of you is the sexiest man you’ve ever seen. He looks so…official.

Bob was already feeling good in the wardrobe trailer, the crew he’d worked with for years stroking his ego as they put the final touches to his starched uniform. He’d be on screen for a total of eight minutes and he was going to look important every single second.

But with your eyes trained on him, pupils wide and mesmerized, it’s the only compliment he needs.

“They look good on you again,” you coo, tracing your fingertips over the sterling silver insignia pins. It’s hard to quell the rising heat as you look at him, standing tall in this uniform - his uniform - just like the posters and movie trailers of your youth.

He rubs his temples and grabs his wire frames from the counter, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he straightens up. “Feels good to wear them, baby. Not sure who I am if not in the ‘Navy’.” He chuckles around air quotes, morphing into a moan as you run your nails down his torso.

Even though he’s not in character, the suit transforms him.

He’s not your Bob, the man who walks around his big ol’ house in band shirts he got in the 80s and his worn shearling slippers. Squinting through his glasses while trying to read fine print for instruction manuals for more Lego sets than he needs, peppering your head with kisses as you sit between his knees. Your Bobby is always goofy and smiling when you come through the door, eager to wrap his arms around you as he patiently listens to all the friend updates from brunch. He’s warmth and safety, that side of middle age where you have to explain internet fads with a playful eye roll.

But this man…this man in front of you is stern and mighty, seizing the room with his intensity. He’s commanding in his own silent way, back straight and shoulders taught. No nonsense, just like the admiral he plays for screens around the world. His presence is intoxicating. You can’t decide if you want to dominate him or be putty in his hands.

You twist in his arms, pressing your chest to his as you smooth the lapels of his suit. It’s only natural that those big, practiced hands of his immediately slip to your legs. Two magnets drawn by the promise of touch. But once he’s inches from your pretty face, ready to ask you to help him read over lines, that gleam in your eyes has other plans.

His girl wants him.

“Babygirl, I’m in wardrobe.” His words say no, but the fervent way he’s stroking the skin under your hem says differently. He’s not immune to a tiny dress and puppy eyes. You watch his hand reach up to drag through greying roots before he remembers it’s styled, redirecting his frustration by slipping rough fingers around the nape of your neck. Holding your head still while he fights his sense of responsibility.

It doesn’t matter that you’re in a tin can trailer with no sound proofing. You lick your glossy lips and give him the most innocent smile. “Please? We can be super careful.”

He eyes you warily. The two of you together is messy.

“Please, Daddy?” You rub yourself against him, feeling the way he shivers underneath his stiff uniform. “I wanna know what it’s like to fuck an admiral. Please?”

He’s powerless against you when you’re like this. Needy and heavy-lidded, unsatisfied until you’ve had your fair share of him and then some. It’s only when you’re a panting mess full of his spend that he can regain any control against you. The age gap is exhilarating and exhausting.

His face dips to rest against your temple, the floral scent of your perfume clouding his senses. So sweet, so soft. You feel his groan against your cheek before he straightens up to his full height, towering over you with a stern expression on his face. Those elegant, practiced fingers tuck under your chin.

“Attention.” Your spine straightens, your breath deepens. “Let’s see if you’re up to regulation, lieutenant.”

A warm gush of excitement floods your body, soaking in your flimsy excuse for underwear. You watch your big, broad, authoritative boyfriend sink down into the plush trailer sofa, knees spread. Patting his thigh with an unamused brow quirk.

Exhilaration races through your veins as you eagerly straddle his lap, sundress sliding up your thighs as you perch prettily on his thighs. The vision of youthful glow, hoping to impress.

Bob traces your heated skin with callused fingers, lips pursed, before sliding a hand firmly up your back. The world spins as he flips you over his lap, your rounded ass exposed to his eyes, modesty barely covered by a scrap of lace.

“Uniform panty inspection,” Bob huffs out, fingers ghosting over the fabric. His voice is restrained, clipped. You stay as still as possible as you hold your breath. You want to pass this inspection so bad.

The firm touch of his ring finger to your clothed sex forces a moan to slip through your clamped lips. So close to giving you what you want. But he remains diligent, stroking your pussy through the fabric until he’s satisfied with the wet patch he created. “Perfectly up to code.”

His finger wraps around the strap of the thong and yanks it down, forcing you to further immodestly part your knees as he discards the sexy - yet unnecessary - piece of fabric.

Your mind is heavy with lust as you turn your head, trying to understand. Normally he’s between your thighs teasing the fabric for longer than you can handle. Your lips are still dry. But before your eyes and brain connect with the visual, film legend Robert Floyd has a rounded cheek in each hand and his tongue plunged deep in your pretty pink pussy.

Blunt nails dig into the soft skin of your ass as he re-acquaints himself with your taste. Sliding his thick muscle along the velveteen walls of your cunt, lapping up the addicting taste of your lust. Your head is empty as he forces you to take it, to enjoy the way he worships the very core of your being.

Saliva and arousal mix on his clean shaven face as he presses deeper, moaning as he feels you clench around him. His own pride growing as you wail with only his tongue fucking you. It’s wet and dirty, the heat along your skin eating you alive as you succumb to your pleasure.

These are the benefits of dating a man with experience.

His tongue retreats, laving over your folds with practiced precision. You bury your head in the rough sofa fabric, muffling the depraved sounds crossing your lips. Your fingers reach up and wrap around his thick wrist, needing a tether to reality. His free hand travels to his belt, loosening the leather and freeing his erection to the humid trailer.

He knows you and your tells. Dragging that wicked tongue back, he corners your little neglected clit. Sucks it into his mouth like an after dinner mint, savoring the tangy sweetness of you. Your hips thrust back at him, desperate for more as you begin your hedonistic descent.

Time and space lose all meaning as Bob goes in for the kill, switching between the heavy pulls on your clit and the slippery licks along your core. Blowing cool air where you’re most sensitive before sweeping in with his burning tongue. The combination of his stiff muscle fucked into your depths and his thumb bumping your swollen clit finally send you over the edge, a white light overtaking your body as you scream into the plush cushion below.

Film legend Robert Floyd cleans your juices from your shaking thighs thoroughly.

Begrudgingly, your limbs are jelly as you bring yourself to his level. Bob’s hands continue their ministrations to the globes of your ass, squeezing and groping the soft skin. When you finally find yourself sitting upright, his thick cock nestled between the soft lips of your cunt, he gives into his desires and draws his hand up, only to bring it down with a slap! The sound rings through the room and his cheeks tinge pink with arousal and embarrassment.

“Admiral!” you giggle as he repeats the harsh slap on the other cheek.

While you have the devastatingly sexy view of a sweaty admiral beneath you, his eyes are glued to the mirror across the trailer that captures the dark red handprint he wishes he could tattoo on your perfect ass.

Lips descend upon his and the trailer is filled with the slick sounds of tongues and moans, four hands grasping with the need to touch. But where to touch? His burning skin? The cool pins of his jacket? It’s almost too easy a choice to wrap your fingers around the bulbous head of his cock while he swallows your desperate little tongue.

“That’s it, feel how hard Daddy is for you.”

He finally pulls himself from your kiss-bitten lips as his hands tug down the neckline of your filmy dress, exposing your heaving breasts to the room. Lips dipping down to wrap around your hardened nipple, leaving teeth marks and wet kisses on tender flesh. Your moans egging him on to bite deeper, suck harder.

The world knows the reserved man who waits to speak, level-headed in the most dire situations. And yet here he is, the remnants of your orgasm staining his chin as he closes his eyes to better enjoy the peaked bud he’s devouring.

He’s delicious and all yours.

Your fingers tangle at the nape of his neck, grasping the short strands with all your might as you pull him off your chest with an audible pop. Those impossibly blue eyes look at you reverently, letting you call the shots so he can continue to enjoy your body as it deserves. You drag your shared gaze to where your bodies meet and a grunt involuntarily leaves him. Finally.

The first touch is a puzzle piece falling into place. The thick head of him asking for entrance, slick with your desire.

Those unbelievably large hands hold themselves delicately at your waist, assisting your descent. His eyes flicker between yours and the welcoming entrance of your cunt. Your commanding admiral - your sweet Bobby - grasps you securely as you try to sink further on his swollen cock.

“Daddy, it’s too big.” Your voice is pained, teary eyes struggling to hold his gaze just as he likes. His size splitting you open like his own personal cock sleeve.

“You can take it, baby, just breathe.” His heart threatens to beat out of his chest as your impossibly tight cunt squeezes around him. “There’s my good girl, gonna fit all of Daddy, aren’t you?”

Hesitantly lifting your hips, muscle memory takes over as you adjust. The ease of taking his thick cock coming back to you as your breasts bounce with your fervent movement. The lapel of his jacket wrinkles as you hold it, lip between your teeth as he grazes that spongy spot only he can reach.

He guides you in your pursuit of pleasure, admiring the way you thrust you chest out as you clench around him. One hand on his lapel, the other grasping his knee. Truly using his body to get yourself off. So unbelievably sexy.

Your admiral’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing persistent slow circles over the sensitive, swollen bud. Times a hard press with when you are completely full of him, your senses overwhelmed. Bob. Bob. Bob. His balls ache with the need to claim you as his.

Impatient, knowing call time is mere moments away, Bob lifts his hips to yours. Pumping his erection deep, all the way to the hilt as his balls brush your ass. He’s so deep, so perfectly deep. A guttural moan leaves your spit-slicked lips, begging for your orgasm.

“Are you going to cum for your admiral?” His deep voice rings through your ears as you chase your high, the world clouding as only his cock becomes your reality. Your fingers card through his hair, silver and golden brown weaving together to keep you grounded in your pleasure. “I said, are you going to cum for your admiral?”

“Yes!” The next lot over could probably hear you shout to the heavens, plunging yourself down on Bob’s thick cock as your orgasm plunges you over the cliff. Sweet relief flooding your senses as your pussy pulses around him as a thank you.

Your lips find his neck as you nuzzle in, hips still sunk low on his throbbing erection. You need to be filled with Daddy’s cum.

The stiff fabric of his uniform jacket rubs your bare skin as he holds you close, pressing your nipples to his insignia pins as he strongly thrusts those last few times. Grunting into your cooing mouth as he finally lets go, cock pulsing as thick white jets of his cum coat your walls.

“Thank you, Daddy,” you whisper in his ear when you carefully pull off, barely enough energy to keep your thighs closed for the sake of his uniform. He gently guides you onto your back, ever the gentleman.

You stretch your sore limbs and relax into the plushness of his trailer sofa, hands wrapping behind your head as you smile, satiated, while Bob’s creamy cum runs past your thighs to pool on the fabric. Your graying lover gives you a wry smile as he regains his breath against the back the couch, uniform crumpled and bearing a stain a little too close to his zipper.

Always so messy. But so worth it.

There’s a rap at the door, three quick knocks that shake you both from your orgasmic haze. Bob rushes to cover your modesty, fiddling with the hems of your dress with clumsy fingers. Wishing you were home so he could wrap you in his robe and run a bath before watching the ocean from the terrace instead of praying there’s wipes in this shoddy trailer.

“Mr. Floyd? We’re ready for you,” comes through the door. The PA who whispered you were an assistant, now only steps away from your bare breasts and dirty thighs.

You wiggle your eyebrows at Bob as you fix your own appearance, amused as the bigger than life Robert Floyd shuffles around the room, tucking in his button up and wiping sweat from his collar. Blush in full force as he hands you the thong resting on the kitchenette. He shakes his head at you, mirth softening the edges of his hard gaze. There’s another knock at the door.

Uniform fully back in place, Bob takes a moment to admire you before an afternoon in front of cameras. Enjoying this last moment before he gets into character. Hands on your soft hips, sated cerulean eyes appreciating the curves of your mischievous lips. “Be a good girl for me today and Daddy will give you a reward later. Deal?”

You bite your lip and nod with a smirk, opening the door of the trailer so he’s not later than he already is. Today you get to watch him do the thing he loves, that in itself is already a reward. The crowd outside the trailer watches you turn back and leave one last kiss to his lips.

“Yes…Admiral.”

Bob can’t wait to surprise you with the South Sea pearl and diamond earrings he’s saved for this day. It’s his baby girl’s first day on set, only the best to commemorate the occasion.

join the taglist for any fic

taglist: @bella-maria2018 @berryvanille @bobfloydsbabe @bobgasm @bradshawsbaby @cosmoeticss @creatchie8 @desert-fern @drxgxnslxyer @hangmanapologist @hiireadstuff @himbos-on-ice on-ice @jaguarthecat @jessicab1991 @just-in-case-iloveyou @kmc1989 @littlemsbumblebee @mariaenchanted @maryelizabeth13 @midnightmagpiemama @nerdgirljen @nouis-bum @petersunderoos96 @roosterforme @seitmai @senawashere @sometimesanalice @sorchathered @sweetwhispersofchaos @sydsommersss @topherwrites @xoxabs88xox @yuckosworld

#bob floyd x reader #bob floyd smut #robert bob floyd x reader #robert bob floyd smut #top gun: maverick au #bob floyd au #robert bob floyd au #bob floyd x you #robert bob floyd x you #x reader #daddy k!nk #movie star au #older bf!bob floyd

716 notes · View notes

rootedinrevisions · 4 months ago

Text

Masterlist

Welcome to my Masterlist! (Updated December 1, 2024.)

Here you'll find all my fanfiction in one place, where I explore characters, relationships, and the worlds they live in. Whether it's diving deep into emotional conflicts or adding new layers to the stories we love, my writing is all about giving you fresh perspectives and heartfelt moments. Whether you're here for angst, fluff, or something a bit more steamy, there's a story waiting for you.

I hope you enjoy reading these as much as I’ve loved creating them! Feel free to browse through the links below, and don’t hesitate to reach out if you’d like to chat about the stories or characters.

✨ Happy reading! ✨

If you'd like to support here is the link to my Ko-fi

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

REQUESTS ARE TEMPORARILY CLOSED

I’m planning to reopen requests sometime—likely after the holidays, once I’ve had time to settle into my new schedule. Of course, I’ll keep everyone updated here when I’m ready to take on more ideas!

** This blog is intended for readers 18+. Minors DO NOT INTERACT. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given on any writing that needs it**

KINKTOBER 2024

Kinktober 2024 Masterlist

This was my wild dive into the spicy world of Kinktober! Throughout October, I challenged myself to post a new piece every day, each one exploring different kinks and themes with a mix of heat and heart. Whether you're here for the steam, the characters, or just a fun escape, I hope you find something to enjoy. Each story pushes boundaries in its own way, so please read the tags and warnings before diving in. Enjoy the journey, and thanks for checking out my Kinktober 2024 collection! 🔥

GLEN POWELL

Glen Powell (and His Characters) Masterlist

Whether it’s Glen Powell himself or the unforgettable roles he brings to life, this section is dedicated to all things Glen.

From standalone one-shots to multi-part series, you’ll find stories exploring the charm of Glen as an actor and the personalities of his iconic characters, like Jake Seresin from Top Gun: Maverick and Tyler Owens from Twisters.

Whether you're in the mood for quick reads or something a little more in-depth, there's plenty here to dive into. Enjoy the journey, and feel free to leave your thoughts! 🤠

TWISTERS

Twisters Masterlist

Welcome to my collection of stories inspired by Twisters! Right now, the focus is on Tyler Owens, one of the main characters who’s brought to life in ways that explore his depth, relationships, and adventures beyond the screen.

As this section grows, you might see stories featuring other characters like Scott Miller and Javi Rivera—so stay tuned! Whether you're here for Tyler or curious about future tales, I hope you enjoy these stormy stories. 🌪️

TOP GUN: MAVERICK

Top Gun: Maverick Masterlist

This list is all about the thrill and tension of Top Gun: Maverick. Most of my writing here dives into the cocky charm of Jake "Hangman" Seresin, but you’ll also find some pieces centered around Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, with more stories potentially featuring characters like Robert "Bob" Floyd in the future.

Whether you're into Hangman’s swagger, Rooster’s heart, or curious about the rest of the Top Gun crew, there’s something for every fan of the high-flying action and drama. Strap in and enjoy the ride! ✈️

WRESTLING

WWE & Professional Wrestling

Step into the ring with my collection of professional wrestling stories! Most of my writing here is centered around the superstars of WWE, but you'll also find a few pieces featuring wrestlers from other promotions.

Whether you're a fan of the drama, athleticism, or the larger-than-life personalities in the squared circle, there’s something here for you. From intense rivalries to behind-the-scenes moments, I hope you enjoy these tales of wrestling’s finest. 💥

#Writing #Writing Masterlist #RootedInRevisions Masterlist

376 notes · View notes

antimonyandthyme · 16 days ago

Note

WHAT IF CARCAR REALLY HAD MAGNETS BETWEEN THEM

/or a stuck together au

“It’s like Eat Pray Love,” Carlos says.

“I’ll be honest,” Guanyu says. “Neither of you remind me of Julia Roberts much.”

“Please just,” Oscar massages the bridge of his nose, “point to a place on the map. Any place.”

“Why China,” Guanyu presses. Of course he’s curious. “Why not Spain or Australia?”

“Neutral ground,” Oscar says quickly.

“Ah I see,” Guanyu says. “You can’t agree on a spot, right?”

“I keep telling him,” Carlos says, always with the over-the-top gesticulating. He tries it with both hands first, then realizes Oscar’s being all sorts of petty and weighing his left arm down on purpose where they’re joined, so he continues gesturing eagerly with his right. “Come to Madrid!” He nearly smacks Oscar in the nose with his hand. Oscar scowls. “We have so much good food. I can show you all the things, but no! Piastri will only agree to get sunburned on Australian sand. We have beaches in Spain, too!”

“Guanyu,” Oscar urges, “a place, now.”

“Here,” Guanyu says, index finger plopping down. Like some cartoon scene, both Oscar and Carlos automatically lean in to squint at the map, and bump their heads against each other.

“I hate you.”

“Hard same.”

“Lijiang is actually a famous honeymoon destination,” Guanyu says.

“I hate you,” Carlos says.

“Hard same,” Oscar says.

“Hey.” Guanyu grins like this entire situation is wildly hilarious. Maybe it is, for everyone else. Oscar kinda wants to jump into the sea, but Carlos will only drag him down, their uncoordinated conjoined limbs tangled and thrashing. “You guys asked me to choose. Look, don’t you want to see pandas?”

Carlos makes some sort of shocked noise. Oh, for the love of—Oscar groans. He knows when someone’s just bought something.

“Carlos wants to see pandas,” Guanyu says, sounding far too delighted. “Chengdu’s like a fourteen-hour drive from Lijiang, that’s totally doable.”

They stare at him blankly.

“Oh my god. Chengdu, you know? Research base for giant panda breeding? Panda capital of China?”

Twiddle-Dum and Twiddle-Dee: “Ohhhhh.”

“Yeah, now you got it. In between, you can hit a dozen other places and never grow bored.” Guanyu taps his finger along the map, tick, tick, tick. “So why not? Complete the journey. Transform into Julia Roberts.”

“And break the curse,” Carlos says solemnly.

“Break the curse,” Oscar repeats miserably, but with his left hand, goes to look up flight tickets on his phone.

They discover that the only way they can pull on extra layers is if they yank themselves apart with all their might, creating just a sliver of space between their elbows. It’s painful. Oscar never wants to have to do this again.

“Now,” Carlos yells, and in a flurry of movement Oscar gets his coat on before their elbows snap back together.

Ow, ow. Oscar’s eyes are watering. He suspects Carlos’s is doing just the same.

“Okay, okay,” Oscar says. “Now your turn.”

Carlos waves him off. “I’m not cold.”

Oscar opens his mouth to argue, but Carlos is already dragging them off toward a sign with a car on it. The rental cars are left-hand steering, and it dawns on both of them at the exact time that Oscar will be doing all the driving, with the way they’re stuck to each other.

“No fair,” Carlos moans, as Oscar fist pumps the air. It would be too childish to stick his tongue out at Carlos. So he doesn’t.

A part of Oscar’s a spectator to all of this. Watching with his mouth hanging wide open, some disembodied shade looking from outside in, as his own body purchased tickets, packed a luggage (with Carlos in the same room), and boarded a plane. None of this makes sense. Getting into a car with Carlos, firstly. Then with the added condition that both of them have to clamber in from one side, before Carlos can climb over the middle console into the passenger seat. Fourteen hours of this, huh? He’s going to give Guanyu hell when they get back.

If, they make it back. Oscar guesses it’ll be two hours before they attempt to murder each other. You don’t go road tripping with people you can’t stand. It’s the one and only sacred rule of road tripping.

“I think I saw this in Final Destination.”

Oscar, zoned out staring at the road, manages a stupid, “What?”

“You know that pileup where everyone dies?”

“Everyone always dies in Final Destination.”

Carlos rolls his eyes, shakes their joined elbows for emphasis. “The scene where the logs fall off? A lot of screaming? A lot of swerving? All because they were stuck behind a logging truck?”

“Carlos.” Oscar takes one deep, deep calming breath. “Are you asking me to overtake?”

“If you can, yes,” Carlos says, like Oscar’s the one being thick. “Go on. I’ll help you hold the wheel steady.”

Oscar cranes his neck and glances around the side of the truck. The opposing lane seems clear, not a headlight in sight. What the heck. You can take the driver off a track, but he’ll still want to race.

“Woo!” Carlos yells, as Oscar zooms around the steadily plodding truck. A little clumsy, with Carlos almost overcompensating the steer as they merge back into the right lane, but successful, nonetheless. No one dies.

Mismatched hands on the wheel. Adrenaline spiking for just a few seconds of speed. Oscar finds himself wearing a grin to match Carlos’s. Maybe they’ll cut it down to thirteen and a half hours like this.

“Guanyu was right,” Carlos says thoughtfully.

Oscar’s got his nose buried in a helpful English guide. A sense of ambitious adventure appears to have overtaken them. He wants to hit at least three lookout points today. “About?”

“Look,” Carlos points in some vague direction. “All the couples.”

“Huh,” Oscar says. “That is a lot of couples.”

No one pays them any mind. They haven’t been recognized since they stepped foot here. For all intents and purposes, they could just be another one of those peaceful couples, milling about.

Well. Peaceful, would be a bit of a pipe dream.

“YOU CAN PLAY GOLF AT JADE DRAGON SNOW MOUNTAIN.”

“Carlos,” Oscar hisses. “Quiet.”

“You can play golf,” Carlos repeats, softer but no less excited, eyes larger than two sparkling coins, “at Jade Dragon Snow Mountain!”

Oscar snatches the guide back from Carlos’s hand. “I’m pretty sure I just read that the mountain’s considered holy.”

“They let people play golf on a holy mountain,” Carlos says for the third damn time. “I love it here.”

“We’re not playing golf,” Oscar says.

“Oscar,” Carlos says, dismayed.

“You have one hand, remember?” Oscar wriggles their stuck arms, a reminder he didn’t even know Carlos would have needed.

“Riiight,” Carlos says, shoulders drooping.

“We can still see the mountain though,” Oscar says, is alarmed at the tiny skip-hop going on in his chest when Carlos brightens again. Doesn’t take a lot to keep this guy happy. That’s, good for him. That’s good.

They decide the cable cars up are too much hassle, with the queues already stretching out for hours. The mountain’s basically viewable from anywhere, so Oscar steers Carlos toward Old Town. Where he discovers that Carlos is terrible at haggling. Absolute nightmare. He hands over money to anyone who so much as gestures him over. The singular tote bag Oscar brings starts to get filled with random trinkets, from fans to calligraphy pens.

“What’s this,” Oscar says, when Carlos shakes his head as Oscar prepares to pack away two wooden charms in the shape of a very rotund cat.

“Not for keeping,” Carlos explains. “They’re for wishes. We hang them up in the temple.”

“Oh,” Oscar says. Carlos had gotten one for him too. “I didn’t think you believed in these things.”

“I don’t,” Carlos says quickly, before looking away, like he’s afraid Oscar will laugh at him.

Oscar chews at his lip. He didn’t mean to suggest it was silly. It’s a little unfair for Carlos to think so lowly of him. If they could, this is where they’d walk their separate ways and browse different shops, long enough for the awkward tension to diffuse. Come back refreshed and recharged for more time spent in each other’s company. No such grace, here.

The stream whispers as it flows by the stone-paved path. The wooden house clusters look as if they’re linked, hand to hand, a never-ending line all the way to the top. Everything here’s older than Oscar, older by years and years and years.

“I keep an amulet in my helmet,” Carlos says. His eyes wander around like he’s sightseeing. “I don’t know why I lied.”

“A little belief can’t hurt,” Oscar blurts out, just so Carlos would stop looking so wounded. “That’s what I always say.”

Carlos nudges him. “You never say that.”

Above them, a thousand colorful prayer flags blow gently in the wind. Wooden charms as numerous as the birds adorn the roof of the temple. Wishes for health, prosperity, family. Oscar tries to peek at what Carlos is writing, only for Carlos to shove him away so violently that they both fall over.

Oscar laughs as Carlos strains to keep his charm out of prying reach. No easy task, both of them being joined and all.

May the new year bring surprises and joy. For my family and friends, good health always. For myself—

Oscar wrenches his gaze away. Some things aren’t for anyone else to know.

He watches Carlos hang his charm up carefully. And then Carlos waits, back turned as much as he can, for Oscar to write his own wish. It’s simple. Fast car, many wins. Happiness. Oscar ties his somewhere near Carlos’s. Closes his eyes and listens to them jangle together.

For myself, patience.

Oscar’s pretty sure he’s dying. He’s pretty sure this is what dying feels like.

“I thought,” he gasps, in between gulps of warm tea that only makes things infinitely worse, “I told her not spicy?”

Carlos is cackling like the unhelpful asshole he is. “This is not spicy.”

When you explore some place new, local recommendations for food are a must. Oscar’s seriously reconsidering Travel Tip 101 when he gets fed hotpot that turns his tongue worryingly numb.

“Well, it is a little spicy,” Carlos concedes. “But nothing I can’t take.”

“Isn’t Spanish food not spicy?”

“It’s not,” Carlos says. “Actually, I wasn’t good at taking spice until after I started driving.” He fans exaggeratedly at Oscar’s overheated mouth, like that could even help an iota. It’s so Carlos it’s endearing. Shit. “I only started putting hot sauce on all my trainer’s meals because everything tasted so bland.”

Oscar coughs, wiping at his leaking nose. “It burns,” he moans.

“There, there,” Carlos says, mock sympathetic. “Don’t cry.”

“Seriously.” Oscar blinks rapidly, is it affecting his eyeballs too? His pulse thuds like the hoofbeat of a runaway horse. “How are you not even sweating?”

Carlos winks at him. “They don’t call me chili for nothing.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Aw,” Carlos says, and finally puts himself to some use by waving down a server, and sweettalking her into bringing a pitcher of iced water over.

Oscar calls first dibs on the shower, claiming the need to wash the spice out of his pores. Carlos rolls his eyes but acquiesces, gallant about it for once. They force themselves not to make it awkward. Pull apart for just long enough to slip their clothes off, eyes everywhere but on each other. Carlos stands outside the curtain as Oscar tries to shampoo and soap himself down in the narrow tub with one hand.

When it's Carlos's turn: “Oh my god,” Oscar says. “Carlos, are you using soap for your hair?”

“I’m trying to be quick,” Carlos says, voice disembodied even though he’s right next to Oscar. Separated by the thinnest sheet of translucent nylon. The shadow of Carlos is unmistakable in the light. The broadness of his shoulders, the tapering of his waist. “So you do not stand outside for forty-five minutes like I did.”

“I didn’t take forty-five minutes!”

Carlos laughs, the cackle now almost familiar. “And how are you knowing I’m using soap? Are you peeking?”

“I hate you,” Oscar says, waits for Carlos to return with a Hard same like they’re in on the same joke. Waits and waits until Carlos emerges from behind the curtain, not fifteen minutes later, lips still sealed together like withholding some secret.

As designated shotgunner, with no say in the matter, Carlos is in charge of the GPS and the AUX cord. After the second album of Enrique Iglesias, Oscar relegates him to Captain of Pointing Out Exit Signs Only. Carlos pretends to pout about it, but he reclines his seat, as far back as their joined elbows will allow. Closes his eyes, limbs loose, all relaxed. He looks so good like that, when he’s as easy as easy can be.

Oscar swallows the click in his throat back down.

“I feel bad,” Carlos murmurs, sounding like he’s close to drifting off. “You’re doing all the work.”

“I don’t mind,” Oscar says. He’s getting real good at one-handed maneuvers now. Hah, maybe this will be beneficial on the track. “I hate getting driven. I rather do it myself.”

“Control freak,” Carlos says.

“Yeah,” Oscar admits. “A little bit.”

When Oscar dares to look over at Carlos, there’s a smile curving his lips gently up. They didn’t magically learn how to talk to each other. But it’s a start, trading little morsels of information like passing notes in school.

One of Guanyu’s other suggestions had been Emei Mountain, boasting an altitude of over three-thousand meters and some ridiculous number of stairs.

(Sixty thousand, to be precise. Oscar had opened his mouth to complain, but Guanyu had responded with a report of the monkeys that lived in the mountain. There came that dazed, excited noise from Carlos again, and Oscar knew it was a lost cause.)

Jet-lag’s working in their favour, and they’ve arrived before the tour buses can deposit too many people for them to stomach. Ambitions are dampened when they realize climbing’s harder when surgically joined by some unknown force at the elbow. When Oscar lifts his left leg, his right arm wants to go, which means Carlos’s left arm needs to go, which means Carlos’s right leg needs to lift. They clunk around clumsily for the first chunk of steps, griping and critiquing each other’s technique. The fog rolls in and laps at their ears, and for a while, there’s nothing much to see.

An elderly lady pressures them into an early lunch, and Carlos gives in effortlessly, like always. It ends up being the best thing Oscar’s eaten since coming here. They fight over the last slice of barbecue pork, and Oscar wins, by virtue of being slightly better at using chopsticks.

By the time they’re halfway up, they’ve got climbing down to an art, limbs moving like clockwork around the constriction. Carlos takes advantage of their newfound skill to increase their pace to a march.

“Carlos,” Oscar’s not ashamed to beg. “Please, won’t you stop and look at the monkeys.”

Carlos laughs at him and calls him slow. Because Carlos is crazy, he’s taken off his light sweater even in this weather, and the threadbare white shirt he’s wearing leaves little to imagination. Chest hair, nipples. Oscar looks away before he can be caught staring. The fog’s given way to some amazing views. Rich vegetation, more trees than Oscar’s brain knows what to do with. Beautiful things all around.

Carlos’s face swims into view. “Come on.” The tugging at the elbow doesn’t hurt as much as it did before. “To the top! There are giant golden statues!”

The statues are indeed golden. And they are indeed giant. The largest one weighs six hundred and sixty metric tons, according to the pamphlet. Larger, surely, than the feeling expanding in his lungs.

“Look, Oscar!” Carlos points with their joined arms, all delight.

“Yeah,” Oscar says. Quickened pulse from the strenuous activity, and he wills it to settle. Control freak. “I’m looking.”

Designated phone time on the bed is an hour long. Oscar uses it to text his mum, sift through photos from the day. With how close they’re forced to be, it’s hard to get a picture without a body part of Carlos making its way in. Oscar finds he doesn’t quite mind. He’s got one of the cloudless, blue sky, the backdrop for the Leidongping cable car station. Carlos is pointing at something again, his finger situated artistically right in the middle of the lidless eye of the sun.

Guanyu’s the one who got them into this mess, so he probably deserves a photo update. Oscar sends it over WhatsApp and receives an O-M-G!!! in return, along with nine panda emojis.

No pandas, we’re not at Chengdu yet, Oscar types.

Honestly, I’m surprised you even made it this far, Guanyu says.

Wow, thanks

Oscar squints, rereads Guanyu’s message.

Wait, you were the one who gave us this itinerary!

Hahaha, is all Guanyu says, followed by multiple peace sign emojis.

加油!

Oscar has to google translate that, learn that it means to add oil. To go for it. Go for what?

“Teto says he wishes he was here too,” Carlos says sleepily, looking up from his phone.

“Teto’s out of luck,” Oscar says, ignoring the flash of something hot and possessive down his spine.

He plucks Carlos’s phone out of his willing fingers. Reaches over Carlos for the pull chain of the lamp. Beneath him for just a second, Carlos shifts, comfortable, cozy. Oscar gets the ludicrous notion that if he were to collapse down, right now, Carlos’s body would welcome him.

Shit. How long until they come apart?

Click, off go the lights. Meekly, Oscar makes his way back to his designated side of the bed. Carlos mumbles a soft Good night. More intimate than he could ever mean. Oscar mumbles something back, and satisfied, Carlos closes his eyes. He likes sleeping on his side. Coincidences of coincidences, so does Oscar. Carlos falls asleep faster though, and it gives Oscar a lot of time to stare without accusation. Trace the planes and slopes of Carlos’s face before he drifts off himself.

At long last. Chengdu panda base.

After jostling with the crowds to watch the pandas tumble around for their food, then tumble around to play, then tumble around to sleep, Oscar turns to Carlos.

“Well?”

“Eh,” Carlos makes a see-saw motion with his hands. “It’s a little anti-climatic.”

Oscar barks out a laugh. A joined body part, three shared showers, thirteen and a half hours in a car together later, and Carlos still surprises him. He really doesn’t do Oscar well on a neurochemical level.

“Isn’t this what you came here for?”

“I thought it was,” Carlos says. It’s no longer only their elbows touching. Now it’s bicep to little pinky, pressed up against each other like puzzle pieces which fit slightly crooked. One long, unbroken line of heat. “I thought—”

Carlos tapers off. Oscar waits.

“Well, it’s the journey that counts, right?”

“Uh huh.”

“They’re very cute, too.”

“Uh huh,” Oscar says. “Pictures or Guanyu’s never going to believe we made it here.”

Oscar takes one of Carlos with a sleeping mama panda in the background. He’s halfway through checking if it’s any good when Carlos grabs the phone.

“Come here,” he says.

It’s not easy arranging themselves together and catching a panda as well, but heck, didn’t they climb sixty-thousand stairs with some careful coordination? Carlos holds out the phone with his right hand, smooshes their cheeks together. The scrap of Carlos’s stubble against his skin—that’s, there’s a new sensation, in every way possible.

“Say panda,” Carlos says.

“Panda,” Oscar says, the same way he would say, Alert, or Danger, or Abort. His cheeks are going to show up pink in the photo. And Carlos will notice and say something completely asinine—

“Hee hee,” Carlos says. “Your eyes are closed, Oscar.”

Once they get enough panda souvenirs to shower the grid, the rest of the day passes in the laziest of fashions. They’ve hit their goal now, so there’s no need to rush. Oscar actually bothers to look through Yelp for restaurant options, and after all his hard work, gets yanked by Carlos into some random alleyway with plastic stools to eat hand-pulled noodles.

Meandering like leaves on an easy stream down the folk and culture street, the promise of a hot shower eventually calls to them. Oscar, gentleman that he is, lets Carlos go first.

Oscar stares unblinkingly at a water spot on a tile as Carlos hums and soap himself, as easy and as relaxed as if he weren’t stuck with Oscar listening to the way the water hits his skin. The first time in the shower, when Oscar had unwittingly brushed his hands over his dick, he’d jumped, then stood still for a whole minute, waiting for Carlos to call him out on it. It’d felt forbidden, with Carlos standing not two inches away.

To Carlos’s credit, he doesn’t punch Oscar when the curtain is pulled back, with a force that can only be described as resolution. He only yelps like a little pup, clapping his free hand over his chest, before the hand trails self-consciously down.

“I’ll help you shampoo,” Oscar says. “It’s faster this way.”

“Well,” Carlos says, “if it’s faster.”

They’re staying at the Shang this time, and there’s fancy shampoo smelling like bergamot and orange. Oscar douses Carlos with half a bottle, squeezing too much out by accident. He keeps bumping his hand into Carlos’s while they attempt to scrub. The lather gets into Carlos’s eyes, and Oscar has to try and hide his smile while Carlos whines piteously. It’s not actually faster in any way.

“There, there,” Oscar says, in a similar tone as to when Carlos had observed Oscar leaking copious fluids over hotpot. “Baby.”

Carlos makes a face and pretends to start crying again, and something terribly fond constricts the entirety of Oscar’s ribcage.

Towelling each other dry is a whole new learning curve, just like putting clothes on, and driving one-handed, and climbing stairs. They’re looking at each other this time, too. That’s also new. Huh. Carlos is very, very gentle as he dries the back of Oscar’s ears. The kind of gentle that speaks of someone having done this for him before, resulting in an insistence in getting this right. Oscar gets all warm, even with the water cooling rapidly on his skin.

“Phone time?”

“No need,” Carlos yawns.

It’s Carlos that leans over this time for the light switch, even though Shang’s posh enough to have light switches at both sides for easy access. Carlos hovers over Oscar for a suspended moment, and Oscar sucks in a breath, straining with anticipation. The head pat is unexpected, but enough for now.

Satisfied, Oscar closes his eyes.

“Hey!” Carlos exclaims. “Oscar, we’re free!”

“Whuh,” Oscar says blearily. He’ll never acquire Carlos’s habit of waking up at eight.

“Look, look,” Carlos says, all childish delight. He waves his arms in front of Oscar’s face. Both his arms.

“Hey!” Oscar says, shooting up, suddenly awake.

“Yeah!”

“So all we needed was a shower?”

“Oscar,” Carlos says disapprovingly. “It wasn’t just a shower. We wrote this on prayer cards.” Oscar doesn’t point out neither of them wrote this on a prayer card. “We climbed a mountain. We saw pandas!”

“And took a shower,” Oscar says.

Carlos sniffs. “Have it your way.”

“Fine, fine,” Oscar says. It’s too early to be feeling all warm and crumbly, like the center of a freshly baked pie. “It was the journey that counts, yes?”

“Yes,” Carlos nods. “Maybe. Maybe it was something I—we had to learn. In preparation for. For—”

May the new year bring surprises and joy. For myself, patience.

Their hands are no longer joined, but Oscar takes Carlos’s, and presses a quick, dry kiss to the backs of his knuckles. Carlos is so surprised he lets him.

“Ah,” Carlos says, voice trembly and a little hopeful. “What happens now?”

Oscar looks down at their hands. Going through all of this to separate, only to choose to stay touching. There’s something about a journey being full circle, but Oscar doesn’t want to finish that thought for fear of actually transforming into Julia Roberts. And anyway—

“Now we drive back.”

They’re not near done, yet.

#athy texts #fanfic #rpf #carcar #apologies for responding to your ask with 4k of the most self indulgent fic it will happen again #the cure to getting stuck together is to speedrun time spent together #anon i've never watched stuck together

290 notes · View notes

bobbie-robron · 6 months ago

Text

Look what you’ve done between ya. That lad’s DEAD because of YOU TWO! He’s done nothing… and he’s DEAD! (Part 1.1)

Robert wants to get Max out of the jeep but it’s too late as another explosion sets off. It’s at this point Jack shows up wanting to know what’s happened. Robert just snapped (as he did in 2019) causing the accident to happen and Andy tells Jack that Robert SAVED him. But Max is dead Jack reminds both of his sons.

Note: I was planning to combine more scenes per post but will be spreading the gif love on them, so more posts for part one 😉. Part two will be one post.

03-Oct-2005

#Classic ED #classic ED robert’s story #20051003 #robert’s exit story #episode 4168 #first two sugden scenes from part one #classic ED 2005 #200510 #the chicken run aftermath #lunatic robert just snapped #robert sugden #karl davies #andy sugden

7 notes · View notes

mariocki · 3 months ago

Text

New Scotland Yard: We Do What We Can (2.11, LWT, 1972)

"I have to be careful."

"You're big and ugly enough to look after yourself."

"Not with this little firm I'm not."

"Which firm?"

"Jimmy Sutton's. He don't believe in straighteners. Goes in for surgery."

"Surgery?"

"Amputation with a sawn-off shotgun."

"Ah. Well, you can always apply for a claim at the Criminal Injuries Board."

"I wouldn't have a leg to stand on, would I?"

#new scotland yard #we do what we can #1972 #lwt #classic tv #tony hoare #john reardon #john woodvine #john carlisle #robert morris #susan glanville #stanley lebor #frank jarvis #michael balfour #peter childs #natalie kent #dennis blanch #donald maciver #a fairly unusual script; this series hasn't been particularly continuity focused‚ just handwaving a few details about our leads #homelives etc‚ but this episode features a specific call back to a previous case (Ward's failure to prove the guilt of Ray Lonnen's #gangster back in 2.5) as well as featuring a returning minor character (Balfour's seedy informant‚ a pivotal part of the plot of the #previous episode‚ here having more of a cameo sort of role to get some vital exposition across to Ward)#the plot concerns a planned wages snatch (there's a time capsule for you; nobody snatches wages anymore but then i suppose electronic #banking has put paid to it). the villains of the piece are a triumvirate of classic telly faces: future sitcom stalwart Lebor as the #vicious leader‚ Public Eye's Ron Gash himself Peter Childs as the quieter member of the gang‚ and good old Frank Jarvis (speaking in an #unnaturally gruff voice) as the wide boy. they're involving another ex con tho‚ who happens to be one that Ward helped to get a job and #turn his life around (very out of character for Ward tbh...). cue much skulking and sleuthing. it's a solid ep really but there's a brief #side plot concerning an elderly police widow fallen on hard times that sits awkwardly with the rest of the ep; it's not that it's a bad #side plot‚ exactly‚ actually it's quite affecting; it's just that it's very briefly handled‚ and stood to be further developed or given a #weightier position in the plot‚ rather than two brief scenes in the first half that are never referenced in the second

3 notes · View notes

thesilmarillionblog · 2 months ago

Text

𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄 ── Part 5

Click here to read the first part.

Summary: In the hopes that things would improve between you, you choose to lose your virginity to your friend Dean Winchester because you have been in love with him madly for a long time. However, he doesn't feel the same about you.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x F!Reader

Warnings: confessions, heavy angst, sick reader, distant Dean, insecure reader, painful, jealousy, misunderstandings, edgy

Word Count: 10.2k

A/N: English is not my first language.

Song: 'Now the One You Once Loved Is Leaving' by Lydia.

Dean was disturbed by the frantic knocking on the door and felt helpless to stop you from sobbing. He had absolutely no idea what was wrong. Minutes earlier, everything between you and him was perfect in every way. But suddenly, the moment you spent together had become an absolute misery.

If someone hadn't been beating on the door as if he were going to break it, he might have tried to talk to you about it and figure out what problem you were suffering from. The idea of pushing you made him feel quite sick. Dean believed he had worked very hard to make sure you desired this. He wouldn't have touched you in the first place if he felt even a little hesitation.

Without a doubt, you and him needed to talk about that. However, it wasn't the right time. He knew you needed a little time and you needed to get out of here right away. It hurt to see you cry like you lost someone. Once again.

Fuck the ghost.

You did your best to stop weeping, adjusted your outfit, and wiped the tears from your cheeks out of fear that someone might catch you and Dean. You felt terrible for abruptly having a breakdown and made Dean feel dreadful, spoiling the lovely night. A beautiful Halloween may have been. The perplexity on his face was palpable. You wanted to cry more at the notion of him never touching you again, but you attempted to keep your focus on the present so as not to make a scene and make things worse than they already were. Later on, you would try to explain yourself. That was something you owed him.

Dean sighed deeply and stood up, watching you wipe away your tears as your crying gradually turned into regular breathing. You tried to persuade him that you were the only one responsible for this and that it was just a moment of weakness on your side. You didn't intentionally ruin it after kissing him first.

You secretly wanted him to console you, calm you, and convince you that everything was okay and that you two could fix whatever the problem was. But he remained silent, which just increased your sense of solitude.

However, if he questioned ‘why’ how could you really explain that you were just lovesick?

You wanted to depart as quickly as possible, so you pushed yourself to stop crying before Dean got to the door and unlocked it himself. Robb was the one who was almost angrily banging on the door. When he noticed your teary, red eyes and Dean standing behind you, gazing at Robb with an obviously irate expression, his fist kicking the door stopped.

His voice was worried as he questioned, “What the hell happened to you?” Robb was clearly taken aback by your facial reaction. His fist loosened as it made contact with your arms.

You felt like you could start crying in front of them again when he gave you a comforting back rub. But since you didn't want to give yourself any more embarrassing yourself, you tried your best to smile and tell him, “I'm alright.”

Robert didn't seem to believe you, and he gave Dean a dubious look while remaining close to you and placing one of his hands on the door. “Did you just force her?” Your eyes widened in disbelief and embarrassment when Robb abruptly snapped while taking a quick glance around the room.

“Robb! Of course not!” you said in panic. You thought someone was about to start a fight when you saw Dean's expression go from one of perplexity to fury. Robb's concern for you was appreciated, but it irritated you to see him accuse Dean of committing such an awful act.

“Seriously,” Robb said, examining your face more closely while softly massaging one of your arms. He then turned to face Dean, who appeared ready to hit Robert at any moment. “What did the two of you do in that room? I became a little curious when one of my friends informed me that you two had gone straight upstairs after entering the home.”

You and Dean looked at each other. There, he was clearly caught up in an internal conflict. He gazed at Robb's arm as it brushed yours, who was acting like he was your lover. He couldn't deny how angry he was at the sight before him. A lot. To be honest, that made Dean want to smash Robert's face already. Let alone his stupid accusation, was enough of a reason for Dean to put the doctor in comatose. He would enjoy this in a very twisted way.

You hurriedly clarified, “We were just curious about the room you talked about earlier,” in the hopes that Robb would stop interrogating you and Dean. You withdrew your arm from his contact in order to set boundaries. You needed a place to relax and rest your ass because your heels were causing so much pain in your feet at the moment.

“What?” Robb asked, puzzled by your bizarre response. You would never be interested in such crap. After all, you weren't a teenager. You've also never been interested in such things before. You were a really reasonable person, as far as he knew you. “But that is not the room I have talked about. For heaven's sake... It's in the dowry. The room is completely empty, plus Jordan isn't even using it.”

As Robert crossed his arms over his chest and gave you and Dean a serious face, you felt your cheeks turn white. You felt faint when you realized that the room in which Dean had fucked you wasn't even the correct one. You were overwhelmed by fear to see Dean's face and his reaction. The only sound you heard was him taking a big breath. At this moment, you didn't want to know what he was thinking.

Dean, however, was the one who informed you that the locked room was the right one. There was nothing at all wrong with you other than starting the process by kissing him out of affection. He came up with the idea, not you. You needed to take an aspirin. You were now feeling somewhat more sick due to your headache.

When Robb opened his lips to ask additional questions that would make you feel worse, you said, “I need to use the bathroom.”

“Sure.” As he showed you where to find the restroom, then Robert said, “We'll be downstairs with Dean.”

Dean's keen gaze on Robbert was palpable. You thought you'd find the right opportunity for sorting it out later, but the need to boldly stare at his face and pretend that what happened there wasn't anything important was too strong. If only you had enough courage.

Dean wanted to rub you on the back and tell Robb to go fuck himself after seeing your weary and pale face, but he didn't want to make a scene and ruin your evening any further. Even though he didn't appreciate Robb's snobbish words, Dean only nodded to you to indicate that everything was all right. With those deadly shoes, he questioned how you were even walking. You must have been in pain based on the look on your face as you took nearly clumsy steps to the restroom. He wanted to remove them right away from your feet himself.

Fortunately for Robb, he wasn't glancing at you. If he was, he would have stared at your clothes, particularly your skirt, in a spiteful manner, such that Dean would decide to think of a reason to make a scene. Reluctantly, Dean and Robb went downstairs after they watched you go into the bathroom. A few were observing and spoke in whispers. Most of them were dressed foolishly and high as fuck. Dean came to the realization that he had no fun on Halloween. There was nothing at all enjoyable about it.

Only you and the food.

“So,” Robb remarked, passing him a cup of whiskey while they were standing near a table filled with food. His cigarette theme costume made him appear really ridiculous. Yet Robb had figured out a clever way to make use of his height. “What were you two doing up there?”

Angry when someone stepped on his cloak while he was walking by, Dean pulled it to himself. He didn't respond to Robb and kept piling food on his plate for you and him before he consumed a whole pie. In order for you to share in the small feast, he hoped you were hungry. That might make things less awkward between you.

“Isn't it obvious?” As he proceeded to choose sweets to place on his tray, Dean eventually winked. You would love that desert.

“She's not into crap things. I know that,” Robb said with certainty. Dean was getting irritated by his cocky and confident appearance. Even though he was making every effort to avoid saying anything offensive, he had a suspicion that Robb was doing it on purpose. When you were around, he was a little different.

“Then you don't know her.”

“I do know she's a very sensitive and reasonable person,” he said. “She couldn't possibly want to go inside that room and see herself if it is haunted indeed.” Robb took a sip of his whiskey and said "hi" to a few visitors passing by him. Dean seemed irritated at hearing Robb's assurance when mentioning you.

Robert had no idea who you really were, no matter how long you had been friends. He has never witnessed you hunting beasts or ghosts. He was clueless.

“You have no idea,” Dean answered simply, looking at him intently.

“I know her for a long time,” Robb said, sounding almost aggressive. When someone else walked on his cloak again, Dean became irritated and stopped putting food on his plate, pulling his clothing about his arm. “More than you.”

Dean replied, “Don’t talk like you know a shit,” with the same fury. He wondered whether that person was attempting to irritate him so that Dean would punch him in the face, cause a scene in front of you, and so forth. He would have kicked his ass already if he hadn't realized that he was your best buddy, which was dreadful enough.

“You must know,” Dean said, turning to face him with a cunning grin. “There, she showed a lot of curiosity. She wanted to see herself if the rumors were true, and I'm a really encouraging and helpful friend.”

Robb froze at Dean's implication. He was still in touch with your life and choices since you and him never lost contact. You weren't the type to keep significant information from him, especially those who you were interested in. Well, for a long time, you weren't into anybody, so Robert became tense with skepticism as a result of Dean's inappropriate imply. Robb was aware that you would have discussed it over the phone or via text if that guy was that significant and the things he intimated were true. Robb was aware that you were still untouched. He never criticized you for something like that, though it was still unexpected. He respected you.

He was aware that you wanted it to be with someone you loved and cared about, which Robb deeply valued. That's why he was annoyed by Dean's remarks. That man had no shame.

Robb said, almost menacingly, “Be careful what you're talking about,” and Dean took a deep breath to keep his composure. He could tell that the night was coming to an end, with him smashing his nerdy face.

“That's what happened. Both of us were enjoying ourselves there and were a bit curious. Until you showed up,” Dean went on. He wanted Robb to initiate the fight so he could smash an empty plate on his thick idiot head. Dean was no longer smiling. When Dean first saw this man with you that evening, he knew he was going to be a pain in the ass.

“The way she looked was different.”

With a harsh tone, Dean demanded that Robb stop talking so much. “She's fine.” If there was someone else to talk to, it would be better, but Dean just couldn't walk away, knowing Robb would talk to you nonstop. He wondered what you were doing up there.

Robb was right when he said that you weren't at all okay, but Dean chose not to consider that. He couldn't help but notice how fragile and pale you were. Dean didn't understand what actually happened between you. He couldn't remember exactly who made the first move since he was inside of you so abruptly. But it didn't matter. What mattered was the root cause of your extreme sensitivity, which Dean was unable to fully grasp. It was just a wonderful moment, he thought—a chance for you to enjoy yourself in your own hunter ways. Twisted, but hot.

Having sex in a room he believed to be haunted was hellish, but it felt thrilling with you. He had fucked Jo once or twice weeks prior while they were on a ghost hunt, but it had been quick and not quite what Dean was hoping for. He couldn't find the satisfaction he was searching for. Maybe you simply loathed the environment you were in. A warm bed surely would make you feel better. Dean would think about this later.

Given that Dean was either obstinate or an egoistic jerk, Robb inhaled deeply. Dean gave him a proud, secure appearance, and he was undoubtedly aware that he looked good. Robert couldn't help but wonder whether you've been feeling anything recently for an ignorant man like him. But it was difficult to believe that you would genuinely fall in love with someone so egotistical and reckless.

“I know her limits.” Robb didn't say anything too direct to put you in a bad position, only remarked, “We've been friends for too long. And I can say that she wouldn't be possibly keen on lowering such boundaries with a man like you.”

The man in front of Robb continued to make overly explicit comments, so Robb's tone was harsher than he had expected.

“I'm good at destroying stuff, and believe me, there are no other men like me.” Dean waited for you to arrive while checking the stairs. He made sure the plate was stuffed. He was about to punch the man in front of him. He was able to cure himself. So he needed you.

Robb let out a little sigh as he saw Dean was still giving the impression that you were actually interested in him, doing such crap things with him there. But once he saw your fragile, sobbing face, he refused to ignore it and go on

“Cut this off.” Robb said, “She's not like other women you met before,” in a tone so irate that Dean dropped his dish on the table with a harsh move. He was annoyed, surprised by the nerd's anger. He was absolutely trying Dean to make a scene.

“Say something else and I'll break your face,” Dean said, showing his frustration beyond control. In order to inform you that he knocked your friend unconscious in self-defense, he waited for Robb to initiate the fight since the atmosphere was tense. It would only be a defensive move. Reasonably harmless.

Robb's jaw tightened as well, sensing Dean's growing rage. He wasn't scared of that kind of man. But it was unsettling how he didn't give a damn and just concentrated on himself, regardless of what was going on. Robert wasn't sure whether that man was aware that you were still a virgin, but he didn't want to place you in a difficult situation.

“Do you even give a damn about what she is?” Almost in a bored whisper, Robb asked. He was aware that he needed to learn some things. He answered the inquiry as politely as he could, hoping you were still okay and Dean was just playing tricks on him about you.

When Robb asked an absurd question, Dean scowled. He was aware that you were a hunter and an orphan. One of the most sensitive and intimate aspects of your life was that. Dean didn't bring up the topic of your family so as not to upset you. Robb was more foolish than Dean had believed if he had been talking about this.

To demonstrate that he knew you well, Dean remarked, “I know that she's an orphan,” almost in a whisper. Dean was pleased that the doctor was unaware that you were a hunter. He was and would never be that close to you. You were also closer to Dean than anybody could be. Maybe that shouldn't have made him feel proud, but it did.

“She's...untouched,” Robb said. Before he spoke, he peered upstairs. “A virgin. Thus—”

“You lie,” Dean intervened, his fist clenched in what he believed to be an attempt to get Dean to kick his ass. He couldn't possibly be speaking the truth.

“I wasn't surprised that seeing that face of yours,” Robb said, taking a step back and smiling while sipping his whiskey. “So you keep that attitude to yourself when she's around and stop embarrassing her by implying stupid things.”

Robb was genuinely lecturing Dean, as he was deep in thought. Dean was by himself in front of the table when he heard that he had finally vanished when one of his friends greeted him and drew him to meet others. He drank one glass after another while reminiscing about the first time he fucked you. Dean was certain that he waited long enough before escalating the situation because you didn't say anything before he pushed himself inside of you.

Drinking from a glass wasn't enough, so Dean grabbed a bottle of whiskey and started to sip it while still thinking about the time he spent with you. He was aware that you hadn't seen anyone in a while. Because he believed you might wanted more than just being attracted to someone and that your loss for your family was still raw, he didn't ask you the reason that he hasn't seen you with anybody since you first met. It was good you let him touch you as he liked it, but he couldn't have predicted that you were still...virgin until he touched you.

He took a frustrated breath, disturbed that you didn't even provide him with such crucial information. He was unable to explain the rage that was clenching his jaw.

Dean attempted to figure out why you wouldn't have given him such an important thing, but he was unable to come up with a suitable explanation. He made an effort to ignore the pictures of how he had fucked you quick the first time. But he wasn't sure if he would follow through if he knew. That wasn't important to know, though. There was no way he could take it back.

As you watched him sip from a bottle of whiskey, lost in the moment, you muttered, “Dean?”

After cleansing yourself, you felt a little better, but the nausea remained. Your face was still pale, so you wondered whether you were sick. It may have been the cold weather. It could have been better to bring a hoodie or anything else. Your legs were unsteady from the things Robert told you. However, it didn't feel like the right time to bring it up. For a genuine conversation, you and Dean must be alone. You felt terrible at the thought of him being irritated about your sudden collapse when he was literally inside of you.

Since he was unaware that you were by his side, you softly rubbed his arm to draw his attention to you. He finally gave you a glance. For a moment, he appeared rather perplexed.

“Where is Robb?”

He responded, “I-,” but then he arched an eyebrow and dropped the bottle on the table while still examining it between his hands. He seemed startled. You were curious about how much he had already consumed. His mouth was never empty. “I guess he's spending his time with his friends.”

“Alright,” you said, concerned about the change in his behavior.

You picked one of the sweets that looked so good off the table to ease the tension between you. Perhaps the nausea was brought on by the fact that you hadn't eaten anything since the morning. Dean was observing you with a serious expression on his face as you chewed it slowly. You would say he got frustrated if you didn't know him.

After swallowing a little portion, you placed the piece in your palms on the table and said, “Is everything okay?” When Dean's focused gaze was making you feel uneasy, it was difficult to enjoy anything.

“Yeah.”

After finding out the truth about you, Dean couldn't help but feel a little strange about you. He just didn't know how to continue processing things with you without causing you any more pain.

He glanced around for a moment before asking abruptly, “Do you want to leave?”

You were hoping to meet Robert's buddy, the home's owner, and have a chat with him, but Dean didn't seem interested in striking up a conversation. To be honest, you didn't either. You could tell from the experience that you were about to become sick and your heels and feet were hurting. Just going back home would be nicer.

“Yeah, but what about the ghost?”

To be honest, ghosts and hunts didn't really interest you right now. Regarding what happened thirty minutes ago, there were more serious problems between you and Dean that needed attention. Otherwise, you wouldn't be able to sleep tonight. Dean was obviously annoyed, too, based on how he looked. You had to tell him you were the only one responsible. You may tell him that you were simply stressed because of the atmosphere. Nothing more.

Dean just muttered, “I'll think about it later,” and he watched you expectantly to see whether you were prepared to go. He then took the plate he had prepared for both of you.

“Alright.”

Dean held the plate of food and the bottle of whiskey as he walked you to his car. It poured. You offered to drive since you were worried he could be a little drunk, but he told you he was okay and didn't drink that much. You didn't say anything to lighten the thick air between you. You could only see his stern face, staring at the dark road.

You felt somewhat nervous since he was so focused. It would have been simpler for you to discuss what occurred if he had spoken or if he had been feeling a little chatty. But you were too afraid to speak up and worsen the situation. While he was driving, none of you spoke. He didn't even glance at you.

When you thought Dean would just leave, he came after you. “You are welcome to stay if you so want. It's pouring outside,” you said as soon as you took off your heels and set the plate on the kitchen sink. It was so nice to be rid of those heels that you almost moaned with joy. Even though you hurried to get inside the car because of the heavy rain, your clothes and hair were soaked. You had to change before you became sick.

Dean shut the door behind him, and you watched him with excitement. “Okay.”

Exhaling with relief and delight, you pressed your smile back even though he didn't sound happy at all. The sounds, the rain, and the darkness brought back memories of your first intimate moments a few weeks prior.

As you saw him take off his wet cloak, you ran to the bathroom and got two towels for the two of you. “You can use the bathroom,” you said, leaving him behind as he dried himself and entered your room. Several times Dean and Sam had spent the night at your apartment, so he had clothes.

Dean was confused and unsure of what to do as he nodded, not knowing how to get answers about the the truth. Robert could have been lying to him, but he needed to be sure and make you explain yourself. He couldn't ignore it any longer.

You quickly took off your costume and panties while Dean was changing there, dressing before he left the restroom. Even though you were still feeling a bit sick, you made an effort to keep yourself energetic. You were curious about whether he would sleep in your bed or on the coach when he walked in, but you didn't ask since you wanted to let him do as he pleased. Imagining him lying beside you was making your heart race with joy and delight. You needed that so much; your soul was yearning. You noticed that Dean was looking at you through the mirror as you were removing makeup from your face. You pondered why he continued staring at you with such seriousness.

You both understood that you had got to solve the issue before it became too difficult to fix.

Dropping your stuff, you got up from the chair and looked around excitedly. It would feel better if he was a bit chatty.

Even though you weren't sure whether it was the right way for expressing how you were feeling at the moment, you eventually said, “I'm sorry.” The fact that his expression didn't soften at all made your heart beat. He appeared to be seeking an answer as he gazed at you. “I was just a little stressed out there.”

Dean took a long breath. “I should have confirmed the room was the right one. It's my fault. I was just rushing.”

“Really, Dean, no. I just... Of course, what Robert told was false, and it was rude of him to say something like that. He must be drunk or something. The details Robb revealed about the murder made me a little uncomfortable and worried. I should have acted with more professionalism.” You inhaled deeply and considered approaching him, but the way he was staring at you kept you still. “I'm really sorry for ruining it. Can’t we just act like it didn’t happen?”

Satisfied with the way you express yourself, you awaited the reply. You wanted him to see how much you truly wanted and looked for closeness with him, to know that you were prepared to be touched or taken anytime he wished to. Yet you wondered if Dean was genuinely open to seeing you, real you. He must have known that you would never turn him down. Whatever he wanted to forget about, he needed to know that you were willing to let it go. Your heart was aching for the times when he was closer to you, and the distance between you was shredding your soul in two.

He said, “Professional,” with a faint smile that never made it to his lips. Before he spoke, Dean took a moment to glance around. “How long has it been since you dated someone?”

You didn't seem to understand at all, despite Dean's best efforts to avoid asking in an aggressive manner so as not to shame you.

“Years ago maybe,” you said in an ashamed whisper. You were perplexed by his query, but if he needed clarification, then it was fine. “As you are aware, a lot has happened, and recently I have been too busy. Hunting monsters, ghosts, and my job—” you attempted to explain. These were undoubtedly just excuses, but how in the world could you tell him the truth when he appeared to be ready to judge you at any moment?

There was no reason for you to risk your friendship with him.

Your vague response caused Dean's eyes to narrow. He was aware that going forward, he would have to ask questions directly. “How recently did you have sex? Before me. When was the last time?”

When Dean asked you questions, your body tightened. You could sense the tension in the air as he drew closer. As he got closer, you should have felt better. It didn't. You pondered what precisely he and Robb talked about while you were away. You saw him get closer while lying. “A while.” You sounded a little harsh since you didn't like being asked such questions all of a sudden. However, you wanted to patch things up with him.

“When?”

You muttered angrily, “Why do you ask such questions now?” as he closely examined the response you gave.

“Why are you not answering?” You felt trapped as Dean approached gradually, unsure of why he had suddenly begun to inquire about your private life.

If everything between you was alright, you would be thrilled to see him coming closer, but the way he asked you in a tone that was almost harsh made your body tense with worry and stress. To put some distance between you and him, you stepped back and placed your hands on the chair's head.

“Yes, I responded. It's been a while,” you said, refusing to give in to his dark stare that was crushing your soul. “Not everyone is obsessed with daily hookups like you, Dean, and I'm a busy person.”

You tried to maintain your calm by maintaining eye contact, but after a while your eyes wandered the room as if you were trying to walk away. Your inference didn't appear to be bothering him. He wouldn't be bothered, of course.

Dean stated abruptly “Robert told me that you are a virgin,” and he briefly closed his eyes. “were.”

Your knees felt shaky, and your face turned pale as he maintained his curiosity-driven eyes on you. You opened your mouth to speak, but you had no idea how to convince him that he was mistaken. When Dean revealed to you that Robert had informed him of such a private matter, you felt a surge of rage, but you were too perplexed to figure out how to handle the situation. You hated Robb. You hated him and Dean for discussing such a private subject while you were away.

“He's lying,” you whispered. Your voice was hardly heard, even though you meant to sound harder and more resolute.

“Robb is your closest pal. You told me this, remember? And now you're telling me he's lying,” Dean said. Indicating that he didn't believe you at all, he raised an eyebrow. “Why would he lie about something like that?”

“Why does it even matter?” You snapped, no longer willing to discuss Robb or anything about yourself.

Your question can be interpreted as a kind of acceptance. Your eyes met Dean's as your pulse pounded with nervousness. Dean was staring at you in confusion, as though he was trying to figure out what had actually happened. It was no longer necessary for you to even admit. Dean knew Robb was right.

He was too blind to see it, even though he should have recognized it from the start when he rethought the specifics of your private moments, from how you felt extremely tight and how you hadn't seen anybody in a year. Taking a deep breath to keep his composure, Dean realized that if Robb didn't tell him, he would never know the truth.

“It does matter. You should have told me.”

“You're just exaggerating. I didn't want to inform you later and put you under any physiological pressure. It isn't that important,” you asserted. In anxiety, your fingers had gripped the chair behind you hard. You attempted to speak it out and seem normal while your heart was pounding and your legs felt weak, but Dean's reactions made it much more difficult. You weren't worried about your virginity at all.

He abruptly replied, “You could have told me beforehand,” raising his voice just enough to make you gasp. He moved closer until he was standing in front of you, staring into your teary eyes. “Have you given any thought to whether I would want to take your virginity? Why are you not answering?” He was so close that you could blow up because of the pressure he put on you.

Since it was one of the reasons you didn't tell him in the first place, it would be dishonest to convince yourself that it was what you expected. It's unlikely that Dean was aware of your want to spend your first time with him and your lone hope that he would grow to like you more later on. You were afraid that he may misinterpret your motivations and actions, even if the deed wasn't done with any cunning.

Your fingers loosened, and you released the chair with a disappointed heart. As you spoke to him, you were clutching onto the chair so tightly that you were unaware of it. Your fingers hurt. You questioned why he didn't treat you the same way he treated Jo. Were you worse? Did you not have any lovely features? You struggled to find the right words to soothe him as he gave you an irritated expression. But given how awful the night was, he had to be the one to soothe you.

You felt horrible and guilty.

“Dean, it's not really that special. Just.. heat of the moment.” To ease the tension between you, you tried to smile at him and added, “Don't think that I was expecting something when I decided to give it to you.”

“Good,” he said immediately before you were able to respond. You wondered why he was so frustrated because of the harsh and aloof tone of his voice. It couldn't be bound to what you hadn't revealed earlier. He could have felt somewhat guilty, but you were there to assure him it didn't matter.

“Otherwise it would have gone to waste.”

This time, you struggled to contain your emotions since you were so devastated. You hated the way he treated you tonight; you could hardly restrain yourself from losing it again and looking stupid in front of him. All you wanted was for him not to feel under strain, so you never said anything. However, once he found out, he couldn't ignore something that was so personal. After learning, however, he must have felt pressured.

The yearning to keep him away was stronger than the need to stay close to him. Was it too much to want to sleep next to him in a warm mattress in the final days of October? Your heart clenched when you realized that he was okay with doing even more intimate things with Jo and other women. He wasn't generous with you.

Dean couldn't help but feel regret for what he said as he saw your joyful look for a few moments before gradually waning and becoming filled with agony. His pride prevented him from saying anything, even though he wanted to apologize and comfort you. The fact that your first Halloween turned out to be somewhat terrible evening was awful. This was not what he had intended. You didn't either.

Dean was overwhelmed as he observed your teary eyes idly looking into the room as if you were making an effort to make things better. He was no longer sure how to go with you. And he was unaware that he had gotten close enough that he could practically feel your hard breathing on his lips. If he took control, he could capture your lips and complete the task you began in that room an hour ago. Dean was confident you wouldn't turn him down and offer yourself to him again. He was tempted to move and let go of the tension that was driving him insane. If he lacked the strength to control his urges, he would have made the first move once again.

Since you didn't feel at ease in a stranger's bed, he was happy to take you to a warm bed. That could settle your disagreements. His mind and feelings, however, pushed him to fulfill none of them.

Dean became perplexed when he noticed that you were still staring at him expectantly and that neither of you had moved. The way you looked at his lips and then at his face with a pained expression as if you were about to kiss him made him even more confused. He was aware that he would respond to your kiss immediately, without a second thought. When he realized you were even a little bit closer now, he almost gasped. He was unaware of whether or not you were doing this intentionally.

You were able to whisper, “I'm going to sleep,” because you didn't want to talk about it any more for fear that he would hurt you further and not care about how you were feeling. You felt the rejection in your flesh and bones. Although it was hard to believe, Dean didn't care about you or how difficult it was for you to confess something so personal; you were desperately attempting to convince him that it didn't matter. He called it 'waste'.

Even worse, if he chose to sleep on your bed, on your side, you would still be too weak to feel peaceful. There was no need to disregard the cruel things he said to you or the way he looked at you, or to deny that your bound had weakened.

Dean stepped back. He said, “I guess the rain has stopped,” as you swiftly climbed your bed and moved away from him not to be seen.

Because you no longer wanted to look him in the eye, you turned your face toward the window and listened to the rain decreasing in pace. If you hadn't talked at all and he had simply been lying next to you, it would have been perfect to stay silent and let your bodies speak. As you wrapped the blanket around your cold body, you let your tears wet your pillow, knowing he would no longer see your expression. You didn't make a noise.

Nothing happened while you waited for him to lay down next to you and cover half of his body with the blanket. The only sounds you heard were Dean leaving your house and the faint sound of the door shutting behind him. When you heard him driving away, you repressed your feelings for him.

You couldn't contain your tears any longer and pressed your face against your pillow, sobbing aloud only as you were certain he had left. Knowing that you had no one to worry about who would find out that you were a pathetic lovesick sobbing over a man who didn't even treat you the same way he treated any of his hookups was almost nice. You didn't feel upset at Robb, but you did feel angry with yourself for not being honest with Dean from the very beginning. He should have been the one who soothed you and put things right, just as you were attempting to do.

Seeing him not try to maintain your friendship was the most painful thing. Everything appeared so simple to sort out, but his behavior made it hard to repair whatever had been damaged between you. So be it.

Your cries became sobbing, which in turn became harder to breathe as his words repeated in your head. You fell asleep on your wet pillow just as your headache was becoming worse and you were too exhausted to continue crying.

Your nightmares prohibited you from getting a good night's sleep, and you kept waking up in the middle of the night to see if Dean had texted or called. You checked your own temperature, and you realized that the chilly weather wasn't the only reason you were feeling unwell.

You understood from your experience that the sickness was also caused by your mental health and heartbreak. You considered skipping work today, but it would be best to keep yourself occupied. In order to forget what had happened, you wanted to work for hours on end without even taking a break.

Before you left the house and forced yourself to eat something so you could take some medicine, you saw the plate Dean had set out for you in the kitchen, along with a bottle of whiskey. Your mind was overflowing with bad memories, so you threw the plate full of sweets in the trash can without giving it a second thought. You could drink whiskey another time.

Even though Dean tried to keep his thoughts busy, he had trouble falling asleep. He kept checking his phone throughout the night and considered calling or messaging you to talk it out, but he lacked the bravery and didn't want to wake you up because he knew you were pretty worn out and would be at work the next day.

Dean was sitting on the coach, whirling the phone nervously in his hands, sometimes checking the screen, when Sam arrived home in the morning. He assumed you were busy working at the moment.

“Hey,” Sam murmured while stretching his muscles. He scowled when he saw Dean consumed in his thoughts and still staring at his phone screen. “Are you waiting for a call?”

“What?” Dean said, confused. Sam was there, making himself some coffee, but he didn't even realize when he came.

“You keep looking at your phone.”

Dean defended himself by giving Sam an angry expression. “I'm not,” he said.

“So how did it go?” Sam sat on the couch and handed Dean a cup of coffee as well. He felt wonderful since he wasn't expecting his Halloween to be so joyful and enjoyable with Ruby. But Dean looked like he had been struck by a car. It was obvious he didn't get much sleep, Sam could tell. “You two got the job done?”

“No.” Dean just thought about the job you didn't finish in bed, even though he knew Sam was asking about hunting the Halloween ghost. Thus, his answer could work in both ways.

“Why?”

“It was locked,” Dean lied, unwilling to talk about the night before.

“So you're telling me that you couldn't find a way to unlock it?” Sam's lighthearted tone made Dean tense, but he attempted to dismiss the image of your fragile look by taking a long breath to relax. Since you didn't seem good yesterday, he questioned whether you had become sick.

When his brother offered him a broad grin that made him want to bite his skull, Dean smiled and said, “Will you stop acting like a bitch?”

Sam gave up, not wanting to discuss the specifics in the morning. “Fine,” he sighed. “How is Y/N doing? She has not responded to my texts since yesterday. Did you leave the party too late?”

“Yeah, it was late.”

“How was your Halloween?” Dean asked so that the topic be changed. Since he wasn't particularly good at lying, he would undoubtedly tell Sam everything that had happened yesterday once he had any suspicions. Yet he didn't feel like listening to his little brother's lecture.

“It was all right, but since you couldn't handle a single ghost, I suppose I should have accompanied you and Y/N,” Sam teased him. “It's unbelievable that you couldn't unlock a single door.”

Rather than arguing with Sam and letting him get under his skin with his grin, Dean remained silent and let his brother continue his teasing. Sam's eyes narrowed in suspicion as he saw Dean was no longer defending himself or fighting back, but he didn't ask him any questions. When Dean didn't fuck someone during an enjoyable night, he looked just like this. He would eventually tell him if there was anything else, or Sam would speak with you and find out himself.

The sound of a notification on Sam's phone caused Dean to turn toward him as Sam sipped the coffee in quiet. Dean continued to swirl his phone expectantly between his palms. Perhaps he should instead phone you or leave a message, but his pride prevented him from doing so. Yet his body ached to see you and talk to you.

It was absurd that he had been thinking about you nonstop since yesterday. In fact, he had been experiencing it for the past few weeks. He was unable to recall the precise moment it began, but it was driving him insane. Even in the most absurd situations, his mind kept thinking about you, which was crazy. Dean felt uneasy now that he had left your house after a somewhat little argument.

While he stared at the screen, Sam said, “It looks like she'll be working all day.”

“Did she text you?” With his gaze focused on Sam's fingers that were rapidly messaging you, Dean asked, his hands stopping to swirl his phone and waiting for the same notification.

“Yeah,” Sam said while continuing to message you. As Dean watched his brother with a dissatisfied expression, the click sounds began to irritate him, and his boots began tapping the floor nonstop.

Dean's fingers waited on the screen before tapping a thing when he checked his phone again and saw you online, but he instantly changed his mind since he was unsure of what to type.

After tasting his own nasty smell, which caused him to frown in disgust, Sam finally put his phone down on the table and walked to the bathroom. Dean couldn't resist swiping Sam's phone and quickly checking it to see how you were or what you were doing just after he made sure his brother had closed the door. He hoped that you wouldn't actually be working all day. He might come to your place to fix things, or he may invite you. It was crazy how you avoided talking for so long. He couldn't even recall the last time you hadn't sent texts to each other for so long.

Fortunately, it was easy to go through the texts because he knew Sam's password. In any case, he wouldn't care. Dean read the texts, biting his lip, in which you told Sam that you were going to be working all day, that you were doing well, that Halloween went off well—all of which were complete lies—and so on. Dean typed without even realizing what he was doing since he assumed it was your lunchtime.

Just as he was about to put the phone down, the phone rang, prompting Dean to answer immediately to avoid Sam's interruption. He took a long breath and waited for you to say something. He felt like a teenager, with his heart pounding on his chest. With nervousness, Dean put his hands in his pockets and stood up from the coach.

“For God's sake, Sam,” you complained, “you've been typing for minutes.” All Dean was hearing were metallic sounds and fork sounds.

At last, he cleared his throat and said, “Sam is in the bathroom.”

You weren't expecting to hear Dean's voice. You swallowed as you recalled his cruel words and how he had abandoned you the day before. The food in front of you didn't appear to be as enjoyable as it had a few minutes before. You were no longer hungry. At least these hectic hours enabled you to forget about the argument between you and Dean, even if you've been working nonstop since the morning and the patients were especially challenging today. However, your longing for Dean's voice caused your heart to tighten once again, meaning that all of your efforts to forget were in vain.

Even though you didn't want to, you said, “Alright,” in a cold tone, as you were ready to end the call. Even at such a distance, you could feel the thick air between you. Being that way with him knowing that he had been inside of you hours before was insane. You were close and yet so far away.

Dean immediately said, “Wait, wait,” which caused you to pause. You patiently awaited till he spoke.

While Dean collected his thoughts on what to say, he took his hand out of his pocket and gripped the chair almost anxiously, his rough fingers clenched around it.

He said, “When does your shift end today?” When you informed his brother that you had been working all day, he hoped you weren't being honest. Otherwise, Dean didn't want the gap between you growing, and it would be hard to get together to talk about the matter immediately. He was going crazy from the uncertainty and your cold manner. The worst part was that he was aware of your best efforts to fix it.

Dean simply shut you out yesterday.

“I'll be working the whole day.”

“Why?”

“Because.” He acted as though nothing had transpired between you, and you were annoyed by it. You simply said, “That's what I was told.”

Dean frowned as he considered what to do. He had the option to see you at the hospital, but he doubted that it would be a good idea to discuss such sensitive subjects amongst ill patients while you were attempting to do your job responsibilities. And it didn't make sense that you would be working constantly just after Halloween night. You had to take a break. He wished to know whether you considered taking a day off.

“Tomorrow?” Dean asked softly. The first letters of your names that had been carved on the table were now being traced by his fingertips. He continued to touch your name softly on it unconsciously.

“I'll be working heavily this week.” You didn't want to be alone in your house thinking about Dean all the time. Although working full-time for a week would be extremely hard on your body and you were obviously exhausted, at least your mind would be occupied and you wouldn't be gradually thinking about Dean, creating fake scenarios in your head to overcome pain.

But your soul and mind desired to see him. When you heard his voice, it didn't make sense to do whatever you could to keep being upset with him. There could be a way to make things better. But like you, he had to listen to you and consider the situation from your perspective first.

Dean's jaw tightened in irritation and his hands halted. Now, what sort of shift was that? He was about to question whether you were lying again or if this was something you were doing on purpose, but he immediately changed his mind so as not to annoy you further.

You didn't wait for Dean to finish speaking when one of your colleagues said something. “Okay, I gotta go.” The longer you waited, the more anticipation filled your heart, making you feel even more sick.

Dean's lips opened to get you to stop, but it was too late. His mind was racing with ideas and plans on how to find a way to free up some time for you so that you could spend time together. He didn't move for a moment. He was aware that if he let go, you would grow apart and eventually lose sight of the initial reason for your small fight. He didn't want that.

Although he was still upset that you had withheld such crucial information from him, he needed to hear you out and understand your point of view. If he thought it was as unimportant as you said, you would have already started seeing other guys.

Dean was a little proud that you felt at ease sharing such an important thing with him, even if he hadn't understood the reason for it. He wasn't particularly proud of the way he hurried and didn't take his time to make it perfect for you, though. He couldn't even see your face properly since it was quite dark, even if he was doing everything properly. It still angered Dean to know that he would never have known if Robb hadn't told him yesterday. You couldn't determine that on your own and expect him to act normally about it. You have to understand him as well.

However, it didn't mean that you couldn't fix that problem.

Dean knew that you could become sensitive at times.

Your body ached from too much work as the days went by. Your body and mind were begging with you to take a break, and patients were being too much lately. You slept at the hospital at times and didn't even return home. Those naps were brief and of little use. You definitely needed to get plenty of rest till your body healed. The good news is that, as you had anticipated, Dean eventually left your thoughts. You just concentrated on resting. You washed your face again, looked in the mirror, and made the decision to spend tonight at home. Taking medications to force your body to work that hard wasn't a good idea.

You ignored Robb's warnings. You couldn't help but be irritated by his tone of voice, as though he hadn't told Dean the most intimate detail about your life. You blamed yourself just as much as you blamed him, since you should never have told him in the first place.

When you noticed Sam and Dean at the entrance after you had finished treating another patient and had given him and his girlfriend a ghostly smile, you could not move because their faces were covered in blood.

“Sam!” you said as you hurried over to accompany him, and your colleague looked at you bewildered. He appeared to be a complete mess. He wouldn't often visit the hospital for such injuries, but you were glad he did.

“Hey,” he said, scowling as he attempted to grin at you. His jaw tightened in pain. While you checked on Sam, you requested your colleague to look after Dean. You got the message from Sam's gaze when you asked him what had happened. Compared to Sam, Dean didn't appear as bad. You really didn't want to talk to him or feel brave enough to look him in the eye.

As you attempted to help him, you made him lie down and lifted his t-shirt. After all, it wasn't the first time. He had a little cut. But if Ruby saw it, she would lose her mind.

Your heart was racing as your colleague questioned Dean. You were unable to take your eyes off of them, and you noticed that Dean gave her a quick reply while continuing to stare at you.

Realizing that Sam's condition wasn't very serious, Dean offered the nurse to change her place with you, who was attempting to do her job by cleansing his hand of blood before stitching. You went straight to Sam without even looking at Dean properly, which slightly wounded his pride. Although he didn't care for himself, he assumed you would be curious about how he was doing.

Dean's heart melted when he saw how exhausted you were, how messy your hair was, and how completely messed up you looked. He was on the verge of losing it since you had been neglecting him for so long. And he nearly forgot what went wrong between you when he saw you in front of him, dressed in your sweet nurse clothing. None of them mattered at that moment.

When Dean called your name, you didn't look at him until your colleague, who was annoyed by Dean's actions, joined you. You let her look after Sam after apologizing to her with a bashful smile. Sam's wounded gaze was full of inquiry when you apologized to him as well, but he didn't care and simply huffed when he heard Dean making some noise. He believed that his brother had made an attempt to flirt with the nurse. There were times when he was very embarrassing.

While you examined Dean's wounded hand, you attempted to straighten your untidy hair with your wrist. It brought up memories of the day you were wounded. The whole thing was almost ironic. Your face grimaced as you saw how deep the cut was, and you noticed that your fingers lingered on his hand in a gentle manner, as if you were attempting to ease his suffering. Yet there were no sounds coming from him.

His voice was a whisper, “Hey,” as he sat on the stretcher. When you realized it was your first face-to-face encounter since that terrible night, your face instantly heated.

Once you finally turned to face him, you said, “How that happened?”

“One of the hunts didn't go quite well. It's not serious.”

You said, “It looks a little serious though,” as you began to take care of him. You were nearly as tall as him when he sat. You nearly forgot about everything when he looked at you. You had missed him. You had missed having a fairly casual conversation with him.

Dean said, “You've been very busy these days,” after noticing that you were suddenly overly focused. “I tried reaching out to you many times.”

“I needed some time alone,” you responded without trying to come up with an excuse to get him to talk to you about it.

Stating, “I hoped... We could talk about it,” Dean watched you intently to see all of your facial expressions. His heart was filled with anguish at how weary you sound. You wouldn't push him away with such determination if he didn't leave that night. He was unable to figure out how much his words had caused you to work so long and not want to go home.

Knowing what Dean was talking about, your cheeks reddened with guilt as he brought up the issue between you. You heard him groan in pain as your hands became a bit sloppy. He tried to create no sound by clenching his jaw, but he failed. You whispered sadly, “Sorry,” as one of your hands touched his compassionately. If there were nothing wrong between you, you would most likely give it a gentle kiss.

Dean immediately answered, “It's okay,” and his little smile made you glance at him to check whether he was telling the truth.

Whispering, “I'm really sorry, Dean,” You meant it. Even though it was difficult and uncomfortable, you had to speak to Dean about what had happened and ask him if he would be okay taking your virginity. Even if you felt different, you were still just close friends. You didn't intend to put pressure on him to inform him or make him find out your situation after you had sex. You'd never do that.

Once you gazed at him with sorrowful eyes, his lips parted in surprise. As you were stitching his injured hand, he had no intention of starting this conversation like this, yet here you were. Perhaps you were feeling relaxed at that particular time, and Dean didn't want to ruin that vulnerable moment.

“It's all right.” He tried to show that he was ready to sort out the matter between you and let the barrier fall through his words quietly, “I didn't mean to hurt you.” It felt right; you were so close to each other. He hardly ever slept because of how you let the distance between you grow every day.

As he spoke softly and urged you to look at him, your heart was pounding. It was crazy how things you believed to be serious and from which you would never fully recover now appeared trivial. Less than five words and a little effort, and they were all gone. You relaxed and took a long breath.

“I just need to know why you did this in the first place,” Dean stated. His voice remained warm and compassionate, as if he genuinely wanted to fully understand you and was prepared to consider the situation from your point of view. You waited for him to continue, as you were almost done tending to his wounds. “Why did you share such an intimate thing with me without even telling me who you were?”

You remained silent until you had gently wrapped his hand with a bandage and finished treating it. Your heart raced as you two waited in quiet, oblivious to everyone and everything around you as if nothing else mattered. You couldn't help but apply extremely gentle strokes to touch his palm where it wasn't injured because it was such a tender moment. By the way he stared at you, you could see that your behavior astonished him.

You realized then that you had gone too far to turn back. The damage was too severe to fix. Whoever had first wrecked the other one didn't matter. However, your feelings were certain about him. You knew that your feelings for him remained unchanged no matter how hard you tried or how many hours you spent trying to forget about him and what had transpired. No matter how hard you try to get away from it, the feelings he evoked in you when you gazed into his eyes and he gazed back at you will always be with you. There was no escape.

Your hands ceased rubbing Dean's hand as you looked at his face. He called your name again to get a response. This time, you stared at him without blinking and took a deep breath with a heavy heart.

“I love you.”

NEXT CHAPTER

A/N: Another long chapter for you, hehe. WE ARE IN THE ENDGAME NOW. Please, let me know what you think about this one. Comments and reblogs are very appreciated! Remember they keep me going and I put soo much effort hehe love you ‪‪❤

Taglist: @midnightpearlaurora @procrastination20 @faiirynyaa @deangirl96 @steelthespooder @t1asstuff @slut-for-evans-stan @esposamultifandom @rebecca-hvnstn @monkey-d-hoshizora98 @sammyxorae @filmologetica @n-o-p-e-never @stoneyggirl2 @hhiggs @neptua @yuckqr @steelthespooder @jaredpadonlyyyy @robynn9436-blog @x3zerochanx3 @lilbloggs @chriszgirl92 @ninii-winchester @monshirev @saturogojosgirl @necrobab3 @simpingfortoomanypeople @casey1-2007 @mystic-mara @kamisobsessed

@zaratahir @opheliadynah @spxideyver @mango-munchies

@jeysbae @chirazsstuff @anyisaravia2001 @shanimallina87

269 notes · View notes

novaursa · 2 months ago

Text

Legacy (by his design)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: union of fire and gold

- Next part: alliances

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The morning sun streamed through the high windows of the Great Hall, casting golden light across the breakfast table where you sat beside Tywin. The previous night’s events lingered in the minds of everyone present, each face reflecting varying shades of curiosity, jealousy, and silent calculation. Courtiers filled the hall, their attention turning occasionally to you, their whispers only barely hushed beneath the formalities of breakfast.

Across from you, Cersei sat poised, her lips curved into a small, disdainful smile as she regarded you. Her gaze was piercing, her presence radiating a tense resentment, as though she still struggled to reconcile herself to the reality of your marriage to her father.

“Sleep well, Lady Y/N?” she inquired sweetly, her voice dripping with false politeness. Her gaze didn’t leave you as she picked up her goblet, taking a leisurely sip, her eyes glinting with amusement as she waited for your reaction.

You met her gaze, entirely composed, refusing to let her bait unsettle you. “I did, Lady Cersei. Thank you,” you replied smoothly, your voice calm, betraying none of the previous night’s intimacy. “The chambers you so kindly prepared were most… accommodating.”

Cersei’s lips tightened ever so slightly, a flicker of irritation crossing her face. She forced a thin smile, tilting her head. “I’m so pleased you found them to your satisfaction,” she replied, her tone laden with unspoken meanings. “After all, we wouldn’t want you to feel out of place here, as you must have felt in the North.”

Tywin’s gaze flicked sharply to his daughter, a warning glint in his eyes. “Enough, Cersei,” he said, his voice quiet but steely, cutting through her thinly veiled hostility. “Our family is united now, and any divisiveness will only serve to weaken us.”

Cersei’s jaw tightened, but she inclined her head in acknowledgment, though her eyes still simmered with resentment. “Of course, Father,” she murmured, her tone respectful but laced with an edge she couldn’t entirely hide.

At that moment, Tyrion approached, his expression one of mild amusement as he took in the scene. He offered you a polite nod before turning his attention to his father, raising his goblet in a casual salute. “A rather lively breakfast,” he remarked, his tone light. “It seems marriage has already brought new… energy to the family.”

Tywin’s gaze shifted to Tyrion, his face unreadable. “Indeed, Tyrion. Which brings me to the matter of responsibilities.” His voice carried a note of finality that left little room for discussion. “I will be resuming my duties as Hand of the King immediately. Your own position in court, however, will change.”

Tyrion’s brows lifted, intrigued. “A change, you say? I can hardly imagine anything more… interesting than being the acting Hand, but I’m curious.”

Tywin’s gaze was cold, unyielding. “You will take on the role of Master of Coin,” he declared, each word sharp and definitive. “Your… particular skills should prove useful in managing the crown’s finances.”

Tyrion’s expression shifted, his amusement fading to something more thoughtful. “Master of Coin?” he repeated, an edge of intrigue and perhaps slight irritation coloring his tone. “Well, I suppose numbers and ledgers are better company than some of the members of this court.”

You hid a smile at Tyrion’s irreverent tone, catching his quick, mischievous glance in your direction. The humor in his eyes was unmistakable, and it was clear that, despite his apparent compliance, he saw this shift as yet another move in Tywin’s intricate web of control.

“Do you find the arrangement satisfactory, Tyrion?” Tywin asked, his tone carrying a veiled warning.

Tyrion gave a small, mock bow. “As satisfactory as any command from my dear father, of course,” he replied smoothly, though his eyes held a glint of defiance. “I shall endeavor to make the crown’s coffers flourish in ways previously unimaginable.”

Tywin’s gaze didn’t soften, but he nodded, acknowledging his son’s reluctant acceptance. “Ensure that you do. King’s Landing has become far too careless with its resources.” His gaze lingered on Tyrion a moment longer, as though daring him to argue, before shifting to you.

“You will come to understand that managing the affairs of this court requires… patience,” Tywin said, addressing you now, his voice low but intent. “Expect provocations, even from within our family.” His gaze flicked briefly to Cersei, a silent admonition that didn’t go unnoticed.

You inclined your head, meeting his gaze with calm resolve. “I understand, Lord Tywin,” you replied, letting your voice carry an edge of quiet strength. “And I am prepared to act accordingly.”

Cersei’s lips thinned, her gaze narrowing at the subtle alliance forming between you and Tywin. “A loyal wife, then,” she murmured, her tone as cold as the steel beneath her courteous facade. “How fortunate for you, Father.”

Tyrion hid a smirk behind his goblet, clearly relishing the tension sparking between you and Cersei. “Indeed, dear sister,” he quipped, his voice laced with amusement. “It seems we’re all learning the virtue of loyalty these days.”

Cersei cast a withering look at Tyrion, her patience visibly fraying. “Loyalty, Tyrion,” she replied icily, “is something neither you nor our new… stepmother would understand.”

You met her gaze without flinching, refusing to let her words unsettle you. “Loyalty, Lady Cersei,” you replied calmly, “is about dedication to the family’s strength. If that strength requires patience and endurance, then I am more than willing to provide it.”

Tywin’s eyes flashed with approval, and he gave a brief, almost imperceptible nod, as though silently affirming the truth of your words. He reached out, placing a steadying hand over yours on the table, a subtle but undeniable show of support.

“Precisely,” Tywin said, his voice cutting through the tension. “And let us not forget that unity is the foundation of our house.” His gaze swept over each of his children, lingering on Cersei before moving back to you. ��We have much to accomplish. There is no room for petty rivalries.”

Cersei’s jaw clenched, but she inclined her head, hiding her frustration behind a forced smile. Tyrion, on the other hand, raised his goblet in a silent toast to you, his eyes twinkling with shared amusement. You returned his look, feeling the weight of the power dynamics in the room shifting around you, like pieces on a board carefully maneuvered.

Tywin sat in his solar, the golden afternoon light casting a warm glow over the rich furnishings as he reviewed a stack of parchment, each one detailing matters both great and small within King’s Landing and beyond. Satisfied with the steady progress of his plans and the recent events surrounding his new marriage, he leaned back in his chair, his expression one of reserved satisfaction.

A quiet knock sounded at the door, and without looking up, he spoke, his voice carrying authority. "Enter."

Petyr Baelish slipped into the room, his customary smirk in place, eyes bright with curiosity and the glint of ambition. He approached Tywin’s desk, giving a respectful bow before straightening, his fingers lightly clasped together.

“Lord Tywin,” he greeted, his tone deferential but carrying a hint of intrigue. “It seems congratulations are in order. A successful union, indeed. One that’s certainly stirred interest across the capital.”

Tywin’s gaze remained steady, unreadable, though he gave a slight nod of acknowledgment. “I trust you did not seek me out simply to offer congratulations, Lord Baelish,” he said, his tone clipped, laced with authority. “What do you wish to discuss?”

Baelish’s smirk widened a fraction as he inclined his head. “Always perceptive, my lord,” he replied smoothly. “In truth, I’ve been reflecting on this… union. I must confess, I find it a fascinating development. House Lannister uniting with the last Targaryen princess—it’s an image few would have predicted, especially given the history between your house and hers.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t waver, but a glint of satisfaction flickered in his eyes. “Curious as ever, I see, Lord Baelish,” he replied, his tone dry. “The union is advantageous to House Lannister. House Targaryen was but a shadow of itself—a name without strength. That name now serves my house.”

Littlefinger inclined his head, acknowledging Tywin’s logic. “A shadow, perhaps, but a shadow with an interesting past,” he mused. “I always found it curious how you managed to secure Lady Y/N’s safety during Robert’s Rebellion. Sending her to Winterfell of all places… an unusual choice. And yet, somehow, Lord Rickard Stark agreed to shelter a Targaryen princess amid a war he himself was embroiled in.”

Tywin’s gaze remained impassive, though his eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re not the first to wonder, Lord Baelish. However, the late Lord Stark was a man of duty. When presented with the safety of a princess, even one with Targaryen blood, he saw the importance of keeping her out of harm’s way.”

Baelish’s smile grew sly, his tone as smooth as ever. “No doubt, Lord Tywin. Though I can’t help but wonder what words you might have used to persuade him. After all, this was no ordinary princess… and it was hardly a time for compassion toward Targaryens, not after Prince Rhaegar… complicated things with Lyanna Stark.”

Tywin’s mouth tightened ever so slightly, though he maintained his composure. “Lord Rickard understood that politics and personal vendettas were separate matters. I simply reminded him of his duty as a nobleman—to protect those who could not protect themselves, even if they bore a name considered… unfavorable.”

Littlefinger chuckled softly, as though Tywin’s answer amused him. “Duty,” he murmured, as if tasting the word. “Ah, but I suspect your persuasion was… more nuanced than that, my lord. A quiet reminder, perhaps, that while Robert and the other rebels were keen on Targaryen blood, Lord Rickard’s house had enough to concern itself with. And that keeping Lady Y/N out of the capital may have served his own interests as well.”

Tywin’s gaze hardened, a flicker of irritation beneath his steady composure. “You seem very interested in matters long settled, Lord Baelish. Rickard Stark knew the costs and made his decision. I hardly expect to justify it now to those who had no hand in it.”

Baelish raised his hands in mock surrender, his smirk never fading. “Of course, of course. Merely curious, my lord. It’s rare to see such… foresight, after all, in dealing with such matters. Though I must admit, I find it impressive that you anticipated this marriage so far in advance. It seems the former princess has always been in your sights.”

Tywin’s eyes remained cold, though a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Anticipation is key to securing power, Lord Baelish. Only a fool waits for opportunity to knock on his door.”

Baelish tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with interest. “And yet, here she is, no longer a princess, but Lady Y/N Lannister. A fascinating journey for her, wouldn’t you agree? From Winterfell’s ward to your bride… one might say she’s found herself at the center of power once again.”

“Her place was determined the moment she entered House Lannister,” Tywin replied, his voice carrying a finality that suggested he would entertain no further inquiry on the matter. “And she has taken to it with dignity and purpose, as I expected.”

Baelish smiled, dipping his head. “Well, Lord Tywin, I wish you all the best in your endeavors with Lady Y/N. It seems you’ve woven yet another thread into the ever-complex tapestry of this realm.”

Tywin regarded him coolly, his gaze penetrating. “See that you remember that this tapestry, as you call it, is mine to shape. And that includes any… threads of your own devising, Lord Baelish.”

Baelish inclined his head, his expression as smooth as ever, though a flicker of something unreadable flashed in his eyes. “Naturally, my lord,” he replied, his tone deferential. “I am, as always, at your service.”

With a final nod, Baelish turned and departed, leaving Tywin to his thoughts, a faint shadow of satisfaction lingering on the older man’s face. Tywin knew his plans were progressing as intended, and with each move, his power only solidified. One of the last Targaryens was now a Lannister, bound by marriage and duty—and the realm, whether they understood it or not, would soon feel the impact of his carefully crafted plans.

The memory came unbidden, rising to the surface of Tywin’s mind with the vivid clarity of a scene replayed countless times. He could feel the cold bite of the northern air, the damp chill settling into his bones even as he stood stoic, unmoved by the elements, on that neutral stretch of land between Riverrun and the Riverlands. Across from him, Lord Rickard Stark stood tall and silent, his eyes as sharp as the wind that whipped around them. His guards flanked him, their expressions impassive, yet Tywin could see the flickers of curiosity and wariness in their eyes.

Rickard’s gaze held a glint of suspicion as he studied Tywin, his lips pressing into a tight line. He’d been silent for some time, weighing the implications of Tywin’s request—the proposal that he take Princess Y/N as his ward in Winterfell, far from the tumult of King’s Landing and the wrath of Aerys II.

After a prolonged silence, Rickard finally spoke, his voice low and cautious. “I can understand why you’d seek to remove her from the Red Keep, given… recent events. But forgive my bluntness, Lord Tywin. Why Winterfell? Why me?”

Tywin’s face remained impassive, his gaze steady as he regarded the northern lord. “Because Winterfell is far from the reach of the Mad King,” he replied, his tone calm, each word deliberate. “And because you, Lord Stark, are a man of honor. I trust you to protect her without question.”

Rickard’s eyes narrowed, studying Tywin carefully, searching for the motives behind the Lannister’s practiced facade. “You speak of trust, Lord Tywin, but we both know there is little of that in the capital these days. And we both know your… proposal was once rebuffed by Aerys himself.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Tywin’s face, though he masked it quickly. “You are correct,” he admitted, his tone clipped. “Aerys, in his madness, saw fit to mock the prospect of a union between my family and his. He believed my ambition too great, and my family unworthy of House Targaryen’s blood. But his refusal only served to highlight his foolishness.”

Rickard arched an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. “So this is about vengeance, then? To deny Aerys something he could never foresee? To preserve what remains of his bloodline under your protection?”

Tywin’s gaze hardened, though he remained composed. “This is not about vengeance, Lord Stark. It is about survival. Aerys’s instability grows by the day, and I have no intention of allowing him to drag my family—or the realm—down with him. Princess Y/N deserves a chance at life beyond the twisted court of King’s Landing.”

Rickard considered this, but there was a glint in his eyes, a shrewdness that Tywin hadn’t expected. “And yet,” Rickard said slowly, “it seems to me that this is not merely about preserving her life. There’s more at play here, isn’t there, Lord Tywin?”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his face an unreadable mask as he held Rickard’s gaze. ��If you’re suggesting that I harbor… personal motivations, Lord Stark, then you are mistaken.”

Rickard’s lips curled into a faint smile, his eyes narrowing with a knowing look. “I’m not suggesting, Lord Tywin. I’m observing. This is no ordinary act of duty; there’s a fire in your eyes when you speak of her, even now. It is as though you would burn King’s Landing to ashes just to ensure her safety.”

Tywin remained silent, his gaze icy as he considered his response. He prided himself on his restraint, his ability to control both his emotions and his ambitions with an iron will. And yet, Rickard Stark had seen through him, glimpsed a part of him he kept hidden from all but the most guarded corners of his mind.

Rickard continued, his tone softened, but his gaze unwavering. “The Mad King’s rejection of your proposal wounded you more deeply than you admit, Tywin. Perhaps it’s pride, or perhaps… something more.”

Tywin’s silence spoke volumes, and Rickard watched him, waiting for a response. When Tywin finally spoke, his voice was steady, though his words carried a barely restrained edge. “Aerys’s refusal did not wound me, Stark. It only served to remind me of his unfitness to rule.” He paused, his gaze sharpening. “But yes, perhaps there is more to this than duty. Princess Y/N is… exceptional, and she deserves a place where she can flourish. If that place cannot be with me, then I would see her placed somewhere worthy of her.”

Rickard inclined his head, his expression softening slightly. “Then why send her to Winterfell, Tywin? Why choose isolation over influence? Surely, there are others who would shelter her—houses closer to the capital, houses with less… strained histories.”

“Because Winterfell is where she will be safest,” Tywin replied, his tone final. “The North may be isolated, but it is also steadfast. It stands as a bastion against the chaos spreading from the South, a place where loyalty and honor still hold meaning. I know she will be protected here, away from the eyes of those who would seek to use her for their own ends.”

Rickard was silent for a moment, absorbing Tywin’s words, a hint of respect flickering in his gaze. “Very well,” he said quietly. “I’ll take her as my ward. She will be as one of my own, safe within the walls of Winterfell.”

Tywin nodded, his relief hidden behind a stoic mask. “Then I will ensure her safe passage. She’ll travel under the protection of my men and reach you by the end of the month. Varys has assured me that he can facilitate her discreet departure.”

Rickard’s brow furrowed slightly. “And what of her future, Lord Tywin? What do you envision for her after her time in the North?”

Tywin’s gaze turned contemplative, his voice softening for a moment. “The future… is uncertain. But she will have one, thanks to your willingness to protect her.” He hesitated, a rare moment of vulnerability surfacing as he continued, “And perhaps, one day, our paths will cross again.”

Rickard watched him closely, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Perhaps,” he replied, his voice carrying a note of understanding. “Though I suspect, Lord Tywin, that she’ll never truly be far from your thoughts.”

With that, the two men exchanged a final nod, sealing the agreement. Tywin turned, his expression hardening once more as he prepared to depart, but Rickard’s words lingered in his mind, echoing in the quiet spaces of his thoughts.

The Mad King’s rejection had stung, that much was true. But it was more than pride that drove him to protect Princess Y/N—it was a feeling he dared not name, a rare softness he kept buried, even as it quietly shaped his every decision. And so, with the cold northern wind at his back, Tywin returned to King’s Landing, knowing that one day, he would bring her back—and that nothing, not even a king’s madness, would prevent it.

The garden was quiet, a rare sanctuary within the walls of the Red Keep. The morning sun filtered softly through the canopy of branches overhead, casting dappled light over the winding paths lined with flowering bushes and ivy-covered stone. You found yourself breathing a little easier here, away from the prying eyes and the weight of expectation that seemed to follow you in every hall and corridor. It was a place where you could almost forget the politics and games, where you could meet Sansa as her family had once met you—as a friend and confidant, not as the Lady of House Lannister.

By your side stood Ser Barristan Selmy, his white cloak draped over his armor, his presence a reassuring strength as he watched over you. Tywin had personally appointed him to serve as your guard, an act that had stirred whispers throughout the court. But Barristan had accepted the duty with a solemn grace, his loyalty as strong now as it had been in the days when he served your family.

The old knight turned to you, his gaze softening with a hint of nostalgia. "You look at ease here, my lady," he observed quietly, his voice warm with something akin to affection. “The gardens… remind me of your mother. She would often seek out quiet places like this.”

You smiled, touched by his words. "Thank you, Ser Barristan. I find it hard to feel truly at ease within these walls, but here… it feels a bit closer to home." You paused, glancing around at the greenery that softened the stone fortress. “It’s peaceful. It makes the past seem… not so distant.”

Barristan nodded, his eyes growing distant as he reminisced. “Your mother, your brother… they both had a way of bringing light wherever they went, even in the darkest of places.” He met your gaze, his expression serious. “I swore an oath to protect you all those years ago. And though the world has changed, I intend to keep that oath. Your father would be proud of you, my lady.”

A warmth filled your heart at his words, and you reached out to gently touch his arm. “Thank you, Ser Barristan. Knowing you’re here brings me comfort. My family is gone, but you… you keep their memory alive.”

Before Barristan could respond, a soft voice called your name. You turned to see Sansa approaching, her steps tentative but her eyes bright with a mixture of hope and relief. She wore a simple gown of pale blue, her red hair catching the sunlight as she moved, a fragile beauty tempered by the shadows of what she’d endured.

"Sansa," you greeted warmly, opening your arms as she reached you. She stepped forward, allowing you to embrace her, her arms wrapping around you tightly, as if seeking solace in your presence.

“It’s so good to see you,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

You held her for a moment longer, a quiet strength passing between you before you stepped back, keeping her hands in yours. “I thought we might speak more openly here,” you said softly, gesturing to the secluded spot beneath a flowering tree. “Away from prying ears.”

Sansa nodded, casting a cautious glance around the garden, and you guided her to a stone bench, gesturing for Barristan to give you some distance. He took a respectful step back, his presence still within sight, yet far enough to allow for a private conversation.

Settling onto the bench beside her, you looked into Sansa’s eyes, your gaze warm and steady. “Tell me, Sansa… how are you, truly?”

Her composure wavered, and she lowered her gaze, her fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on her dress. For a moment, she was silent, gathering her thoughts, and when she finally spoke, her voice trembled with a mixture of pain and weariness.

“I… I don’t know how to answer that,” she admitted, her voice barely audible. “Every day feels like… like I’m holding my breath, waiting for something to go wrong.” She glanced up at you, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “It feels like I’m trapped, like there’s no way out.”

You reached over, gently placing a hand over hers, giving her a silent reassurance that you were listening, that you understood.

“There are times,” she continued, her voice breaking slightly, “when I think of home… of Winterfell. I close my eyes, and I can almost feel the snow, hear the sounds of the wolves. But then I open them, and I’m back here… alone, surrounded by people who see me as… as nothing more than a pawn.”

Her words hung in the air, a painful truth spoken with quiet resignation. You could see the toll it had taken on her, the way she seemed smaller, more fragile, as though the weight of her circumstances had pressed down upon her spirit.

“Sansa,” you said softly, squeezing her hand. “You’re not alone. I’m here, and I will do everything in my power to protect you. You are not just a pawn to me… you’re family. And family means something.”

A tear slipped down her cheek, and she brushed it away quickly, her gaze filled with a flicker of hope. “Thank you,” she whispered. “But… I don’t know how much longer I can endure this. Joffrey… he’s… cruel. I thought I knew what cruelty was, but he—” She broke off, her voice trembling with fear and anger. “Every moment I’m near him, I feel like a lamb before a lion.”

You felt a surge of anger on her behalf, a fire kindling within you as you looked at her. “Joffrey is a monster,” you said quietly, your voice filled with conviction. “And he’ll answer for his actions, one way or another. I will see to that.”

Sansa’s eyes widened, a mixture of hope and uncertainty flickering within them. “Do you really believe that?”

You nodded, your gaze steady. “Yes. He is not untouchable, Sansa. Remember that. And until then, you must hold onto your strength, even if it feels impossible. Your family is known for its resilience, its loyalty. You carry Winterfell with you, even here in King’s Landing.”

She managed a faint smile, a glimmer of the strength that lay dormant within her. “I want to believe that… to believe that there’s a part of me that’s still strong, still a Stark.”

You reached up, gently brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “You are a Stark, Sansa. You may not feel it now, but the blood of your family runs through you, fierce and unbreakable. And one day, you will find yourself again. Until then, lean on those who care for you. You’re not alone.”

Sansa suddenly lowered her gaze, a faint blush coloring her cheeks as she let out a soft sigh. “I’m sorry… here I am, pouring my heart out, when you’re the one married to Tywin Lannister,” she murmured, her voice laced with guilt. She glanced up, her blue eyes wide with concern. “Has he… has he hurt you?”

You felt the weight of her worry and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, offering a small, reassuring smile. “Sansa, don’t worry about me. I know how to handle Lord Tywin,” you replied softly, your voice steady. “It’s not easy, no. He’s a difficult man, but he’s… fair, in his own way. He values strength and purpose. He’s not cruel like Joffrey.”

Sansa’s brow furrowed, her fingers twisting the fabric of her dress. “I just can’t help but worry. You’ve always been so kind, so gentle. And Tywin… he’s…” She trailed off, as if struggling to find the right words.

You chuckled lightly, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “I assure you, Sansa, I am not as helpless as I may seem. The North taught me resilience, and that is something even Lord Tywin respects. He knows I’m not someone who can be easily broken or swayed.”

A small, grateful smile touched her lips, but her expression turned pensive, her gaze drifting as though lost in thought. “I think… I think Jon will be angry,” she murmured, her voice soft, almost wistful. “Once he hears what the Lannisters have done to us—to you.”

The mention of Jon stirred something deep within you, a warmth mixed with a pang of longing. Memories of Winterfell, of Jon as a small boy with wide, curious eyes, came rushing back to you—the boy you had taken under your wing, who looked up to you with trust and affection. You had been more than a guardian to him; you had been a mother, a protector.

“Jon…” you echoed, a faint smile crossing your lips. “He would be furious, wouldn’t he?” You could almost picture it: Jon’s jaw set in that stubborn way of his, his eyes dark with determination. “He has always been fiercely protective.”

Sansa nodded, her expression softening with a hint of fondness. “He adored you. You were the one who took him in when no one else would… When Father brought him home, Mother was… angry, but you didn’t hesitate. You cared for him as though he was your own.”

You met her gaze, a touch of sadness in your smile. “Jon was never a stranger to me, Sansa. I didn’t see a bastard or a complication. I saw a child, one who needed love and guidance. Winterfell taught us loyalty, honor, and kindness. He deserved that, no matter what anyone else thought.”

Sansa’s eyes shimmered with emotion, and she reached for your hand, squeezing it gently. “He’ll be forever grateful for that. I think… I think he misses you as much as he misses Winterfell.”

The thought of Jon, alone somewhere in the world, perhaps at the Wall as Eddard had once intended, filled you with a longing you had long buried. “I hope he knows he was always loved,” you murmured, your voice thick with unspoken memories. “That no matter where he goes or who he becomes, he’ll always be a part of me… a part of our family.”

Sansa nodded, her expression softened by understanding. “If there’s anyone who taught him love and loyalty, it was you. He’s stronger because of it. And I think… one day, he’ll find his way back to us, somehow.”

The two of you sat in a comfortable silence, the sounds of the garden enveloping you, as the unspoken connection between you—your shared love for the family you’d left behind—settled between you. You felt a renewed sense of purpose, a reminder that despite the path your life had taken, you still held onto the values of the North, onto the bond with those you loved.

Squeezing her hand, you offered her a small, reassuring smile. “We’ll hold onto that hope, Sansa. We’ll carry Winterfell with us, even here in King’s Landing. And together, we’ll survive whatever comes our way.”

Sansa’s smile held a glimmer of strength, her eyes bright with the quiet resilience she was beginning to rediscover. “Yes… we will.”

Jaime found Tyrion lounging comfortably in one of the lesser-used rooms of the Red Keep, a glass of wine in his hand and an amused expression on his face as he looked up, noting his brother’s approach.

“Tyrion,” Jaime greeted, taking a seat opposite him and reaching for a goblet of his own. He poured himself a drink, his gaze thoughtful as he swirled the wine. “You seem particularly cheerful today.”

Tyrion grinned, raising his goblet in a mock toast. “How can I not be? The prospect of our father producing little silver-haired Lannisters, complete with violet eyes, is amusing beyond measure.” He took a sip, smirking as he watched Jaime’s reaction. “Imagine—our own half-siblings, Targaryens by blood, yet Lannisters by name.”

Jaime chuckled, though there was a hint of unease beneath his mirth. “The image is almost absurd, isn’t it? To think of Father raising a child who resembles a Targaryen rather than himself.” He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “But honestly, I’m more curious about how we managed to bring her here in the first place.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. “Oh? I thought she’d been brought directly to Harrenhal.”

Jaime leaned back, folding his arms as he watched Tyrion carefully. “Not exactly. According to the reports, she was intercepted by our men as she traveled south, near High Heart.”

Tyrion’s eyes sharpened, his gaze turning contemplative. “High Heart? That’s an unusual route… Avoiding the main roads, no doubt, to keep a low profile.” He took another sip of wine, his expression thoughtful. “Why would she be traveling alone, and so far from any known strongholds?”

Jaime shrugged, though his expression betrayed his curiosity. “That’s precisely what I was wondering. She’d been staying far from the usual paths, as though she knew someone might be tracking her. It was only a stroke of luck that our men happened upon her party in the first place.”

Tyrion tapped his fingers thoughtfully against his goblet, his mind working through the implications. “She must have known, then. Known that someone—either Father or one of his allies—would be looking for her. Perhaps she thought she could outrun us or evade our scouts by staying off the roads.”

Jaime tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “Or perhaps she had her own purpose. High Heart is a place of old magic, or so the tales say. There’s talk of visions, of those who are touched by prophecy.” He paused, his voice dropping slightly. “Why would she go there?”

Tyrion’s smirk faded, replaced by genuine intrigue. “Perhaps she sought counsel,” he murmured, his voice almost to himself. “Some advice from those who can see beyond what the rest of us can.” He looked up, meeting Jaime’s gaze with newfound interest. “If she’s spent time at High Heart, she’s no mere play peace being moved at our father’s discretion. She’s gathering knowledge, perhaps even positioning herself.”

Jaime’s gaze was steady, contemplative. “If that’s the case, then Father might be in for more than he bargained for.” He looked down at his wine, his expression thoughtful. “She could be a more complex player in this game than he realizes.”

Tyrion chuckled softly, though there was an edge to his laughter. “It seems our new stepmother might have ambitions of her own, ones that extend beyond being Lady of House Lannister. Father may think he has her in hand, but the blood of House Targaryen is not easily tempered.”

Jaime nodded, his expression solemn. “True enough. But there’s something about this that doesn’t sit right with me, Tyrion. Father’s convinced that she’ll submit, that she’s a pawn willing to play her part. But if she was willing to risk the dangers of High Heart, of traveling alone… then perhaps she’s not as willing to be controlled as he believes.”

Tyrion’s smile returned, a touch of admiration flickering in his eyes. “Perhaps she has her own plans, then. Plans that might even rival Father’s. I must say, I find the idea rather… refreshing.” He tilted his goblet in Jaime’s direction. “To a stepmother who might keep even our dear father on his toes.”

Jaime raised his own goblet, a shadow of doubt lingering in his gaze. “To our Lady Y/N Lannister. May she prove as unpredictable as the storm she’s brought into our family.”

They clinked their goblets, the quiet clinking of glass a subtle acknowledgment of the complexity that had settled into their family, brought about by the union their father had so carefully engineered.

At Castle Black, the cold wind swept through the narrow corridors as Jon Snow made his way to Maester Aemon’s chambers, the sealed raven scroll clutched in his hand. The morning had dawned gray and bleak, and the chill in the air seemed sharper than usual, biting into his skin even through his cloak.

When he entered, he found Maester Aemon seated by the fire, his milky, sightless eyes gazing into the flames, as though he could see something far beyond them. Despite his blindness and frailty, the old maester held a dignity and presence that commanded respect. Jon cleared his throat gently, announcing his arrival.

“Jon,” Maester Aemon greeted, a soft smile creasing his ancient face. “Come, sit with me. I sense you have news from the realm.”

Jon approached, pulling out the small stool beside the maester and handing him the sealed scroll. “A raven came from the capital,” he said, his voice low, the words heavy in his mouth. “It’s… recent news.”

Aemon turned his head slightly toward him, reaching out his frail hand. “Good. Open it, if you will, and read it to me,” he instructed, his voice calm but eager.

Jon broke the seal, his eyes scanning the contents of the letter quickly, but the moment he reached the heart of the message, his breath caught. His eyes widened in disbelief, his heart pounding as he read and re-read the words before him. “No… it can’t be,” he murmured, anger and shock simmering beneath the surface.

“Jon?” Maester Aemon prompted gently, his brow creased in concern. “What is it? What news from King’s Landing?”

Jon’s voice was thick with restrained fury as he continued, his hands shaking slightly. “It says… that Lady Y/N Targaryen has been wed to Tywin Lannister.” He forced the words out, his voice tight. “She… she married him.”

Aemon was silent for a moment, his sightless eyes reflecting the light of the fire. Finally, he sighed, a sound laced with an old sorrow and a weary understanding. “Continue, Jon. There may be more,” he urged softly, though he clearly sensed the gravity of the news already.

Jon swallowed hard, glancing back at the letter, his anger simmering with each word. He continued, voice taut, “It says she was received in King’s Landing as Lady Y/N Lannister, to be seated beside Tywin at the high table. The realm… they call it a powerful alliance, one that will ensure House Lannister’s influence.” He nearly spat the words, his jaw clenched. “It’s… it’s disgusting.”

Maester Aemon sat in silence, absorbing Jon’s words, his face unreadable. After a long pause, he spoke, his voice heavy with understanding but also sadness. “Her destiny has been twisted to serve another’s ambition,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “But… I cannot say I am surprised.”

Jon looked up, frowning. “What do you mean, Maester?”

Aemon’s sightless eyes were distant, as though looking back through the years. “This… marriage is not the first time Tywin Lannister sought a union with her bloodline.” He sighed, his frail hand resting on the arm of his chair. “Many years ago, before Robert’s Rebellion, Tywin asked for her hand from King Aerys—to bring their houses together in alliance. Tywin saw strength, ambition, in her blood… but Aerys, in his madness, mocked the offer.”

Jon’s fists clenched, his voice tight with anger. “So that’s why she was sent away? Why she had to grow up in Winterfell, with no family of her own?” He shook his head, struggling to contain his rage. “And now they’ve… forced her into this. She doesn’t belong with them, with those—those Lannisters.” His voice was thick, barely restrained, a mixture of fury and protectiveness.

Aemon’s face softened, a trace of empathy crossing his ancient features. “Yes, Jon. That rejection sent ripples through the years. And now, fate has come full circle in a twisted way. Tywin has finally achieved what he sought back then, though in different form.”

Jon shook his head, his voice breaking slightly. “She was… she was like a mother to me, Maester. When no one else would, she cared for me, treated me like family. And now they’ve made her… into this.”

Aemon reached out, his hand trembling as he placed it over Jon’s clenched fist, his touch gentle, his voice filled with quiet strength. “Jon, remember… she is strong. Her blood is ancient, powerful. The blood of Old Valyria, of dragons. She has endured much already. Do not underestimate her strength, even in this.”

Jon’s gaze dropped, his voice barely above a whisper. “But it doesn’t feel right. She shouldn’t be forced to endure… to be bound to someone like him. After all she’s done for me, for all of us.”

Aemon nodded slowly, his expression resigned but compassionate. “Life often forces us into roles we do not choose, Jon. It’s a truth I have learned over many long years.” He took a deep breath, his tone laced with sadness. “Perhaps this marriage is a fate she did not want, but remember this—she is more than that. Her strength is her own. She will endure, as she always has.”

Jon closed his eyes, his mind racing with memories of you, the woman who had shown him kindness when he’d been a child alone in Winterfell, the one who had offered him understanding when he felt like an outsider. The thought of you in King’s Landing, surrounded by the Lannisters, weighed on him like a stone.

After a long silence, he finally spoke, his voice hoarse. “If they hurt her… if they make her suffer…”

Maester Aemon’s hand tightened slightly on his. “Jon, you must let her walk her own path. She has made her choices, and we can only hope she finds peace within them. Our duty here… remains with the Night’s Watch.”

Jon nodded slowly, the anger still simmering beneath the surface, but he forced himself to accept the old maester’s words. “I know, Maester,” he whispered, his voice thick. “I know.”

And as he rose to leave, he couldn’t shake the image of you—strong, resilient, and yet so far from the place where you belonged. The thought stayed with him, a heavy burden he carried silently, as he walked back through the cold halls of Castle Black

#game of thrones #a song of ice and fire #fire and blood #asoiaf x reader #asoiaf #house of the dragon #got/asoiaf #got x reader #got x you #got x y/n #got tywin #tywin lannister #tywin x reader #tywin x you #tywin x y/n #house lannister #house targaryen #legacy

205 notes · View notes