#scorch x ofc

[vodika-vibes]

Here Comes The General

Summary: Scorch is not having a good time. Sev is missing and presumed dead. Boss is on Coruscant. Fixer is on Naboo. And he’s here, playing flying monkey for a man he’s been planning on killing since the day they met. Unfortunately for Scorch, Hemlock has well and truly bound his hands.

Pairing: Clone Commando Scorch x General Rynn (OFC), mentions of Delta Squad x OFC

Word Count: 1218

Warnings: None

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni @imabeautifulbutterfly @kimiheartblade @mire-draws-things

A/N: I have Rynn on the mind, so you get a Rynn and Scorch story. Wherein I fix what happened to Scorch at the end of TBB. Yes, I have requests, but I need a break from requests for a little bit. Sorry.

Scorch slams his fist against the panel next to the stark metal door separating him from Rynn. He only gets an hour each week to spend time with her, and he knows he should be grateful, but he’s not.

Every time he comes to see his Rynn, he leaves angrier.

The door slides open, and she looks up, a small smile crossing her pretty face, though it does little to draw his attention away from the stark bruises marring her face and arms.

“Scorch,” She still smiles when she sees him, and his heart swoops affectionately. 

“Rynn,” He steps into the room, and the door slams shut behind him, not that he minds in the slightest. Scorch tugs off his gloves and tosses them to the side, along with his helmet, as Rynn stands and steps towards him.

His hands immediately move to cup her face, gently tilting her head so that he’s able to examine the dark brown bruises better, “I’m okay,” She reassures.

“They hit you.”

“Hemlock hit me,” She corrects, her own hands coming up to press against his cheeks, “You’ve lost weight.”

“Yeah, well—” Scorch scoffs, “It’s not like anyone here cares about the health of a clone.”

“Oh, Scorch,” She sounds so heartbroken that Scorch wants to cry.

He smiles at her, and leans in to press his forehead against hers, “There’s no need to say my name like that.”

“You deserve better,”

“We both deserve better,” He corrects quietly. Scorch moves his hand so that it’s brushing through her short hair, “I tried to talk Emerie into letting you have a headscarf, cyare. But they won’t allow it.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” He brushes his lips against a bruise, gently enough that she doesn’t even flinch, “Your religion is a huge part of who you are.”

“My religion is more than a headscarf, Scorch.” Her voice is soft, “My religion is just as strong here in prison as it was on the Nightwing. Stronger, even.”

He sighs softly, “I know that. I do. It just feels wrong.”

“Well, they don’t exactly have the moral high ground here, no.” She replies with a small smile.

Scorch’s fingers move to the collar around her neck, thick and clunky, with a flashing red light on the front, indicating that the bomb is active. “I wish…”

“I know, Scorch. It’s going to be okay.”

“How do you know?”

“Because,” She stands on her toes and glides her lips against his, “I have faith. Faith enough for the both of us.”

“But…Sev—”

“Is alive. I know. And Boss and Fixer are just playing by the rules until we can be together again. This bomb,” She taps the collar with a short fingernail, “ensures the cooperation not only of you, my love.”

Scorch makes a face, “When we reunite, I’m not going to be allowed to touch you for days.” He bitches quietly, “I can already hear Fixer saying ‘Well, you had her all to yourself for months, so deal with it’.”

She laughs softly and presses her forehead against his chest.

Slowly, he smoothes his hand down her back, but before he can say anything, the cell door slams open, and he sighs quietly, “Times up.”

“Just for now, Scorch.” She lightly pulls herself from his embrace, and she walks over to pick up his gloves and helmet, “Back to work.”

“Back to slavery, you mean.” Still, Scorch slowly pulls his gear back on, until he’s fully kitted out again. 

Rynn smiles at him. Soft, warm, and loving, and he rolls his shoulders. It’s all for her. He will do anything to keep her safe and alive, even if it means working with the enemy. 

“Love you, Rynn.”

“Love you too, Scorch. I’ll see you in a week.”

He turns on his heel and heads out the open cell door. “Yeah.” It’s not enough. It will never be enough. But he’ll make do. He has to.

Scorch watches, amused, as his younger brothers from Clone Force 99 raid Mount Taniss. He watches as Hemlock confronts them, and he watches the oldest of them…Hunter, he believes his name is, punches Hemlock.

And then something interesting happens.

A small device, roughly the size of his palm, falls out of Hemlock’s pocket and slides across the floor.

Hemlock scrambles for the device, but Scorch gets there first. He picks up the device and examines it, uncaring of the blasters aimed at him from his younger brothers.

“Scorch!” Hemlock shouts, “Return that at once!”

He knows what this device is. This is the device that controls the bomb around Rynn’s neck. He’s seen it enough times to recognize it on sight.

Scorch meets Hemlock’s gaze, and quickly destroys the device before dropping the pieces on the floor.

“You—”

Scorch doesn’t allow him to finish as he curls his hand into a fist and slams all of his weight into the punch. Hemlock staggers back, his hand flying to his face. Scorch doesn’t think twice before shooting Hemlock twice in the head.

Execution style, Rynn used to call it.

His younger brothers hesitate and lower their weapons, “I thought you were working with him,” One of them, the one with goggles, says accusingly.

“Believe it or not, vod’ika, there are many ways to force someone to do something,” Scorch absently examines his blaster, “ways that have nothing to do with the damn chip they put in our heads.”

“So nothing has forced you to work for him?” The biggest member of the squad demands.

“Did I say that?” Scorch turns his head when there’s a rumble and the ground splits open on the other side of the room. He straightens and pulls his helmet off, hooking it to his belt, as Rynn lifts herself out of the hole she made.

She lowers herself to the ground and looks around for a moment, a bright smile crossing her face as she sees Scorch, “Have you seen my lightsaber?”

“Fraid they destroyed it, cyare.”

“Well, that’s rude of them. I guess I’ll have to make do with my spare.” She steps around some broken pieces of metal and allows Scorch to swing her into his arms, and press a light kiss against her lips.

“The Empire and rudeness go hand in hand, cyare. You should do something about that.”

Her smile is vibrant, “Oh, I intend to. As soon as I have all of my boys back. I assume the Nightwing is here somewhere?”

“Hidden. Safe and sound. Just like you ordered.”

She beams at him and presses her hands against his cheeks, “You follow my orders so well!”

“When I want to.”

“Of course.” Her smile softens, “Let’s get out of here, hm? We need to get to Sev.”

“Yes ma’am,” Scorch sets her down and motions towards the exit, allowing Rynn to take the lead. He pauses before he leaves and sends a comm code to Tech, “Here. It’ll connect you to the Nightwing. If you should need it for any reason.”

And then he’s gone too, following Rynn out the hanger door.

Scorch has no idea what comes next. Though, based on the small smile on Rynn’s face, she not only has an idea, she even knows how to pull it off. They just need the rest of their family back.

[creatively-cosmic]

some of my demons (in my head)

[maddie0101]

Skinny Love Series (Thomas TMR x FEM OFC)

Summary: Blake introduces herself to the greenie, but suddenly she gets a memory back. She’s never had one till now. Why now and why does it involve the greenie?

Warnings: underage drinking, cussing

Word Count: 2,425k

➭ Previous Chapter ➭ Series Masterlist ➭ Next Chapter

Blake slaps her hands down on her thighs, pushing herself up as she lets out a breath. "I'm gonna go watch the fights—wanna come with?" The brunette girl stands, looking to her best friend.

Minho scoffs as he turns his head to the fighting. "To watch these shanks get their asses beat? Hell yeah." He says excitedly, pushing his own hands onto his knees to stand.

As Blake and Minho approach the circle, her emerald eyes spot Newt and the greenie walking their way. "No...no one wants to be a runner." Blake hears Newt say to the newbie.

Blake rolls her eyes as a smile spreads across her lips. "Aw—come on, Newty—it's not that bad..."

The blonde and the greenie turn their heads to Blake walking in front of them, raising a jar of Gally's moonshine to her lips as she smirks at the two. The greenie watches the girl intently as she strides over.

"Yeah, but It's dangerous." Newt throws the girl a slight smile.

"Someone has to do it." Blake says with a shrug.

Newt rolls his eyes in response as his hands settle on his hips.

"Hey, you voted for me to be a runner, you shank!"

"Yeah, because you're faster than almost everyone here!" The blonde exclaims with a smile, pausing for a second as he brings his finger up to his chin, thinking. "Well, except for Minho."

Blake rolls her eyes at his playful banter.

"Hey, if it weren't for Minho—you would've run straight into the maze on your first day."

"Yeah, but I was almost there."

Blake and Newt laugh as they remember the girl's first day in the maze. The greenie stands off to the side, shifting his feet as he stands beside the two.

Newt's eyes flicker over to the greenie, which he forgot was standing right next to him. Quickly, the blonde clears his throat. "Oh—Blake, this is the new greenie."

Blake's eyes flicker to the boy—getting an even better look at him up close; he's even more attractive from a few feet away.

The small girl shakes out of her thoughts as she throws her hand out for the greenie. "Hey, I'm Blake."

The greenie seems to snap out of whatever daze he is in also—quickly reaching to shake her hand, "I—uh.. don't know my name yet."

As their hands make contact, both brunettes feel a jolt of electricity shoot throughout them—making the two slightly jump.What the hell was that?

"T-that's —okay, we know you as greenie for now." Blake says, offering a small smile.

Awkwardness fills the air as the two gaze into each other's eyes. The girl quickly clears her throat again—attempting to get rid of the tension. Newt stands off to the side with his hands on his hips and a smile plastered across his face in amusement.

Newt has never seen Blake act this nervous before. Ever. She had been nervous and scared the first day she came up the box, but nobody had made her this nervous.

"You'll get your name back—"

Blake flickers her eyes to the side of the computer to see a boy sitting at a desk in front of her. His face is a bit blurry at first, but she can make out his facial expressions.

His lips tug into a smile as he notices the girl's eyes landing on him. Her own lips pull into a smile of her own as she quickly smiles back before turning her head back towards the computer—hiding the heat on her cheeks.

"Hey, Blake?" She hears him say. His voice is soft toward the girl as she looks back up to the boy. Their eyes connect as Blake sees the familiar brown her emerald had landed on.

But, their moment is quickly interrupted by guards storming into the room right towards her.

The girl jumps in her seat, frantically looking around—frightened. The guards stop at the girl, reaching to grab her arm and dragging her up—and out from her desk. The boy across from her stands up suddenly, pushing his chair back as it rolls behind him, not caring if it hits anyone on the way. Worry and terror flash across his features as he tries to push his way to her. The guards catch onto his shoulders, holding him back as he screams at them angrily.

"Hey!" He pushes the guard, but the guard's grip strengthens on the boy, holding him into place.

"Blake. Come with us." The guard orders, grabbing Blake's upper arm and dragging her away.

As the girl stumbles in his grip, she turns back to see the boy. His face finally becomes clear.

The greenie.

"Thomas!" Blake screams, trying to break free of the guard's grasp.

Jolting out of her weird daydream, Blake returns to reality—seeing 'Thomas' and Newt watching her with their eyebrows raised.

"Blake, you okay?" Newt quizzes with a worried expression plastered on his features.

"Sorry—I-I just got a little dizzy..." Blake says as she gestures to the jar in her hand, "Gally's moonshine has me feeling a bit queasy today."

So that’s where I’ve seen the greenie from—I knew him? Should I tell him his name? Wait—that would be awkward and weird...he’ll get it back in a few days.

"I gotta find Min. See you later, Newt." Blake says awkwardly as she quickly walks past the two boys still standing there.

Blake briskly makes her way over to Minho, grabbing onto his wrist as she leads him away from the other runners.

"I need to talk to you." Blake's voice says in a serious tone.

Minho's eyebrows furrow in confusion, following the girl to the edge of the tree line. As they near the edge, Blake halts them as she lets his wrist go, turning around to face the boy.

"Min, I had a memory come back." Blake's voice came out shaky and serious, causing Minho to only further his brows at her in concern.

Her bright green eyes scanned the boy's face before following behind the boy— making sure nobody had followed them.

"It was of the greenie... I— apparently knew him..." Blake finally reveals.

A brief moment of silence follows.

"What do you mean— 'you knew him'? Who is he?" Minho asks as his eyes scan Blake's concerned features.

The boy's hands plant on his hips as his frame leans toward the girl, keeping their conversation as low as possible.

"I don't know, Min...Look—all I can remember was sitting across from him at some desk...one minute he was about to say something—and the next guards dragged me away—probably to this hell hole."

"So you think y'all were—" Minho starts to conclude her theory.

"No!— at least—I don't think we were. " Blake trails off before returning her focus, shaking her head

"Anyways, that's not the point. As I introduced myself to him, I shook his hand—and suddenly, I get the memory back for some odd reason!" Blake exclaimed.

Her eyes hold onto Minho's as his expression mirrors hers.

The boy lets out a sigh. "I don't know... maybe...y'all knew each other, and it kickstarted your memories."

"Minho. I'm serious. I have a feeling he is the reason I am in this place—and I don't know how or why, but—" Blake's eyes flick over Minho's shoulder, glancing at the attractive boy.

The greenie stands beside Newt, still conversing with the blonde as his head turns to the two runners. His honey-colored eyes connect to hers as Blake's heart jumps a beat at his gaze.

"In my memory—he went to tell me something or say something but was stopped by the guards that started dragging me away. He looked guilty and sad." Blake said as her eyes glanced back to Minho, nodding her head over Minho's shoulder to the greenie.

Just as the runner's eyes flick back over to the boy—Gally sends a boy flying into him, knocking the greenie over. The irritated greenie pushes off of the ground to stand as Blake watches Gally taunt him.

Blake lets out a huff of annoyance as her hand grabs Minho's wrist to pull him with her as she walks.

"We will talk about this later. Gally's about to beat the holy shuck out of this kid."

As the two near the growing crowd, Blake releases her grip on Minho to push past the boys—seeing the newbie standing awkwardly in the middle as everyone chants— "greenie, greenie, greenie!"

Blake rolls her eyes at the crowd's antics, stepping next to Newt, who also isn't amused. The greenie's stance stiffens as his head turns back to Gally, nodding hesitantly at the taller boy's invitation.

"All right," Gally says, fixing his wristband. "The rules are simple, greenie—I try to push you out of the circle; you try to last more than five seconds."

The greenie's eyes scan the crowd formed around the circle— landing on Blake, who stands beside Newt with her arms crossed.

"Easy on the greenie, Gally" a boy from the crowd shouts, earning a chorus of laughs sounding from the crowd.

"Ready?" Gally asks, snapping the greenie out of his gaze. The boy's brown eyes shift from a gaze to a glare as they narrow at the tall builder.

Suddenly, the greenie charges Gally—diving forward.  His hands fling onto Gally's arms, trying to push him back, but the taller boy flings the greenie backward into the crowd.

The greenie lands on his side as his anger rises to his chest. Pushing himself up, his eyes land on the girl who stands on the edge of the circle, smirking.

"Come on, greenie!" One of the boys shout from the other side of the crowd.

The greenie turns his head back to the circle as he rushes towards Gally again, but Gally shoves the greenie back down into the sand.

The newbie coughs up sand as he slowly pushes himself up again, regaining his stance.

"Come on, greenie." Gally taunts, "We're not done yet."

The greenie stands back up—glaring at Gally, "Stop calling me greenie." The boy shouts

"Stop calling you that?" Gally questions, "What do you want to be called?—Shank?"

The crowd laughs as the greenie glares around the circle, growing angrier.

"What do you think, boys?" Gally asks the crowd as he spins around with his arms outstretched.

"Shank! Shank! Shank!" The crowd's chants echo

"Does he look like a shank?" Gally questions again but is cut short when the greenie tackles him. The two boys grunt and spin as they try to throw each other out, but Gally throws the greenie onto the ground again.

"You know what? I think I've settled on shank."

Laughter erupts from the crowd as the greenie circles the edge of the ring—grunting, the greenie charges Gally again, knocking the undefeated champ to the ground.

"Yeah! There you go, greenie!" Someone yells through the crowd's cheers.

Blake and Minho stand beside Newt, watching the scene with their eyebrows raised. Laughter erupts in the girl's chest. "Oh, come on, Gal—thought you were undefeated!" The girl taunts

The boy growls at the girl from the ground, pointing his finger. "Shut it, shuck face."

The greenie strolls closer to Gally with a proud smile plastering his face, "Not bad for a greenie, huh?"

The builder's nostrils flare with anger as the greenie reaches the builder. Gally takes the greenie off guard as he turns around, swiping the greenie off his feet.

The newbie's head slams against the ground with a thud as a chorus of hisses sound from the crowd.

"Ooooohhh, that's gotta hurt." Blake hisses

The greenie lays on the ground coughing as the pounding in his head was almost washed away—remembering something.

—"Thomas." He mutters.

"Thomas. Hey!" The boy repeats louder, rising from his position on the ground to stand.

"I remember my name! My name is Thomas!" He yells with excitement.

Alby is the first to react, pointing to the brunette boy, smiling, "Thomas!" He yells out

The whole crowd cheers for the greenie as they crowd around the newest glader. Frypan lifts a jar of Gally's moonshine to the greenie as he celebrates with the others, "Welcome home, Thomas!"

Minho turns his head to Blake with a lifted eyebrow as the two stand off to the side. Blake's eyes connect to Minho's as they watch the others celebrate.

The girl shrugs her shoulders in response to Minho's expression. Her suspicions about the boy are confirmed, well, most of them.

Pushing the anger and fear down her throat, she swallows a hard gulp before turning on her heels and heading back to the sleeping quarters. From the middle of the crowd, Thomas celebrates with the others as he turns his head back to where Blake stood. He had wanted to talk to her before—and get to know her some more, because she seemed familiar for some reason. Especially the little jolt of electricity he felt when they shook hands.

Thomas' eyes scan the crowd, searching for the girl before he sees her silhouette walking back towards the homestead.

His face drops from a smile to a frown as he watches the girl walk away alone.

"She'll warm up to you." A British voice sounds from behind the boy, making him jump.

Newt's hand lands on Thomas' shoulder as they watch the girl disappear. "She usually isn't like this, but I guess you've managed to get on her list."

Thomas turns around to face Newt as his eyebrows furrow in confusion—something he's been prone to lately.

"What list?" Thomas asks as the blonde raises the jar of moonshine to Thomas, gesturing for him to take it.

Newt laughs dryly. "The 'I don't like you' list. Whatever you did—"

"But I didn't do anything?—not that I know of..."

Newt shrugs as Thomas takes a sip from the jar, cringing at the burn.

"She doesn't take greenies all that well—considering she's been waiting for another girl to come up. I don't think it's you personally."

"Well, I don't know why she's taking it out on me."

"It's because you're new; everyone takes it out on the greenies. You'll get used to it... just prove yourself useful and make friends."

Thomas gulps another sip before handing the glass back to the blonde—turning back to where the small girl disappeared.

What did I do?

➭ Next Chapter

Author’s Note:

This series is complete. I am transferring it from Wattpad to Tumblr. If you would like to read the fic without having to wait on me to post the chapters, my Wattpad is: @Maddie5139

Also, if you would like to be tagged lmk!

[taeslarityy]

outage ༄ joel miller one shot (18+)

-> pairing: no-outbreak joel miller au x female curvy reader

-> word count: 4.3k

-> summary: after a citywide power outage, you're left to deal with the scorching texas heat. until, the well-respected neighborhood dilf — joel miller — lends you a more than generous hand.

-> warnings/tags: sarah is 10/11 so joel had her a bit older, power outage, texas heat, yes this is a warning because its not a joke, reader has a cat!!!, age gap (reader is 24, joel is late 40s), curvy/mid/plus size reader, brief fatphobia, reader has self-image/parent issues + is a lonely gal, fluff, SMUT (18+), unprotected piv, creampie, oral + fingering (f!recieving), squirting, body worship, brief ass play, daddy kink, big ole tits, spanking, spit kink, praise kink, a bit of belly bulge, cockwarming, pet names galore (darlin, sweetheart, baby, _ girl), joel has a huge dick (not canon!)

-> a/n: hi hi! i have been so anxious to begin writing again and currently have some wips that i am just not confident with. so when i saw the lovely @hellishjoel post her #hotdilfsummerchallenge, i was positive i wanted to join in! such a pleasure to be involved in this — thank you kylee for creating such a fun way for this community to get involved! as a curvier woman, i wanted reader to reflect that. because... joel miller is a handsy mf and loves to just grab himself some wide hips, thick thighs and phat tits <3 but ofc, this is can be for various body types. please please please, leave your thoughts and even constructive criticism! <3 DILF NEIGHBOR JOEL, YOU WILL ALWAYS BE FAMOUS!!!!

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. 

You release a groan of annoyance as the visual of your TV, coffee table lamp and humming of the refrigerator all flicker off into silence. The frills on your throw-blanket settle, as the ceiling fan no longer produces the small gusts of wind that have caused you to be rather chilly on this hot, humid and rainy summer night. 

When you made the courageous decision of moving across the country for a new teaching opportunity in Austin — you were never informed on the true brutality summertime unleashed onto Texas residents. More-so, you really had nothing to do but be caged up in the comfortable AC of your home. You’ve been here for roughly 14 months and the only "friends" you’ve made have been the 28 fourth graders you had the pleasure of teaching last school year. Tragic. 

Your coworkers, did not handle your arrival pleasantly. Young, beautiful, freshly-educated and determined. That’s what your grandmother referred to you as when you called her sobbing after your first week. Informing her that the seasoned teachers won’t even bat an eye at you, and when they do it’s a look of disgust. Whispering amongst one another. Like you were in middle school again, trying to befriend the popular girls. 

“I was foolish to think things could be different for me down here, so stupid of me.”

“Now listen to me, you are the most intelligent woman I know. More than anyone in this family. Bullies like that, it stems from an unknown jealousy and overbearing insecurity. Don’t let a few sour grapes ruin this outstanding career for you. Your students adore you already, and so do I. Just continue to be yourself and if that isn’t enough for them, so be it.”

Your grandmother always knew how to make you feel better. She had been instilling your own sense of confidence since you were a little girl. The only adult in your life to do so. If only her words were enough. Your coworkers just never let up. After overhearing them gossip about you during lunch break, you gave up your attempts indefinitely. 

“She really thinks she deserves a place here?”

“Look at her back rolls in that shirt…”

“She really needs to put that sandwich down.”

“Why is she so quiet? It’s freaky, honestly. No wonder she’s always alone.”

You’re not a stranger to being alone. You practically have been your entire life. Your parents never really bothered to form a genuine relationship with you, always so focused on your younger sister. She was the prettier, thinner, more impressive version of you. You have only had one best friend throughout your long 24 years on this earth. She was smarter than you and moved away from the timid small town you shared in Northern Maine, choosing an out-of-state university. So, being alone was a familiarity. You have made peace with it. But being lonely — that’s a whole other ball-park. 

The booming thwack of thunder startles you from your thoughts. Your sweet calico boy leaps from your warm lap and scurries under the dining table — tail puffed in fear. “Milo... it’s okay,” you whisper. He just gleams at you with his jet-black saucer eyes. Even you don’t believe your own words. You are not used to storms like this, and you didn’t really prepare. You read some articles online about stocking up: having plently of batteries, candles, non-perishable foods. Yet, you didn’t do any of that. 

Rubbing away the moisture from your damp upper lip — the heat inside your home already becoming unbearable. Deciding on a whim, you can head to a nearby hotel for the night. Unsure how long you will be without power and don’t wish to succumb yourself or your cat to the searing temperatures of the night. 

The rain has slowed down, as you feel the soft patter on your umbrella. Throwing your purse and water bottle in the front seat, you begin to dread unpacking all this stuff when you get to the hotel. Bags, cat litter, cage — scrutinizing yourself mentally and deciding you better fucking prepare for the next storm. 

“Where ya headin’ sweetheart?”

Your heart jumps at the deep smooth Southern voice that fills your thoughts at night. When your hands would find their way in between your quivering legs. Throughout the day. Pretty much all the time.

Joel Miller is the only person in this town that has ever filled the lonely void you can never seem to fill. When you moved to the quiet suburban street, he was the first to come greet you as you struggled to pull your mattress out of the U-Haul. Immediately lending a hand, and proceeding to lug all of your remaining boxes, furniture, miscellaneous items into your new home. 

“Pretty lady like you, shouldn’t have to lift a single finger.” He remarked when you blushed and assured him you could handle the rest, not wanting to be a burden. Even though the sweat dripping down your back was apparent and 5 minutes prior you had no idea how you’d be able to unpack the remainder of the truck. He then assured you — there was no way in hell you were being a burden. Words that were a rarity. 

Later that afternoon, he invited you for dinner at his home. You met his lovely daughter, Sarah. Where everyone learned that you were her new school teacher. What were the odds? 

Following that, seeing Joel was frequent. From parent-teacher conferences, backyard barbecues for the neighborhood, or even small intimate dinners with Sarah at each others homes. Sarah would even spend the night at yours on occasion. When Joel had a late night at the construction site, or when she just needed some girl time. You adored that little girl, and vice versa. 

You also adored the fuck out of Joel. 

So when you looked up at his porch, finding him in nothing but a pair of plaid pajama pants.. your throat went dry. His tanned skin gleamed softly from the street light — little speckled freckles adorned his waist in various spots. And that darkish grey hair on his chest and fat of his lower tummy that flowed underneath his pants. Your brain fuzzy at the thought of your face pressed against it as you swallow his cock. 

But you were not a fool. Joel would never express an attraction towards you. A man like that? He deserved the perfect woman. 

“Darlin’?” He speaks again, a bit louder. Disturbing your wandering thoughts. 

“I- I was gonna head to a hotel for the night, my house is too hot already. And I don’t want Milo to be uncomfortable.” 

Joel’s eyes wander down your body as you explain — the plush jiggle of your tits in that small tank. Nearly spilling out. Slightly damp from the rain or humidity. The chub of your tummy spills slightly from your leggings. A sight that makes his cock swell unbearingly. An act that occurs more often than not when he sees you or even thinks of you for the countless minutes of his day. 

“No way. Not gonna let ya drive in this weather. Plus, most hotels nearby are gonna be overbooked. I got the generator up n’ working, got the spare room too. You’re stayin’ over.” 

“No! No, Joel. I can’t.”

“N’ why not?” His hands have found his way to his hips, popping a knee out and giving you that classic dad glare. Not angry, but confused as to why you’re even protesting when he’s already decided. 

“I don’t want to intrude and I have Milo. You and Sarah are allergic.”

“Sarah left yesterday to stay with her mom in California for the rest of the summer. Besides, Milo loves me. I can handle a runny nose as long as I know the two of ya are safe.” 

To this, your stomach nearly flips inward on itself. You’ve never been alone with Joel in his home. Not for this long. The few times you’ve come over to help him with dinner before Sarah got home from soccer practice, have always been excruciating. Staring at him without worry. Watching his muscles flex through his t-shirts. Big hands chopping vegetables and plating food. His hand lightly touching your waist when scooting by. 

There’s no possible way you can survive a night in Joel’s home. 

But, he’s already grabbing his umbrella and walking over to you. He grabs your stuff from the car and tells you to go grab Milo. So, you do.

Joel slips on a t-shirt after he put your stuff in the spare room, disappointedly enough. You nearly told him to keep it off, but held your tongue. You made yourself comfortable at the island barstool as you typed up some early lesson plans, Milo at your feet. 

He patters over to Joel who is now leaning against the counter, brushing against his leg. He then leaps onto the granite and purrs against Joel’s arm. 

“Psst! Milo get do-“ you beg, embarrassment coloring your cheeks. 

“S’ okay, sweetheart. He’s not botherin’ me,” Joel attempts to settle your nerves. Petting Milo’s soft fur and scratching under his chin, that special spot all cats love. “Can I get you anythin’ to drink?” He nods towards the coffee he’s brewing. 

“Coffee would be nice, thank you.” You beam at him. Joel’s heart skips a beat every time your cheeks puff up ever so slightly when you smile at him. It’s something he swears is the most endearing thing about you. Of course, he’s only ever shared that with his daughter. Who begs her father to just take her favorite teacher on a date already. 

Joel grabs some sugar and oat milk from the fridge, your favorite. He learned from the few breakfasts you guys had shared. A bit of sugar and a nice gulp of milk softens the dark roast color in the mug, he slides it over to you as he grabs his plain black coffee. 

“You remembered!” You giggle slightly at the Number 1 Dad title that adorns the mug, taking a sip. You moan at the taste, exactly how you like it. 

“Of course I did, darlin’.” You almost hate how easily those pet names roll of his tongue. You summed it up as his southern hospitality, figured he calls any woman those special names. “So, you ready for this new school year?”

An icky feeling settles in your stomach. The thought of returning to the painful and toxic work environment you can only escape when you’re with your students.

“Not without my Sarah girl,” you swiftly change the subject towards the one person he can talk hours about.

He smiles proudly at her name. 

“Ya know, she still all mad that you wouldn’t flunk her so she could have another year with ya.” Both your laughs quickly fill the empty house. 

“Well, even if I tried to, that girl is too smart for her own good. She should skip a grade in my opinion.” You state, and you’re truthful at that. Sarah Miller is as intelligent as she is quick-witted. 

“Yeah, she gets it from me.” At that you roll your eyes playfully. Typing something up before closing your computer and taking another sip of coffee. “Although I love boastin’ over her, I guess I meant are you excited to go back? They treat ya good there?” 

Joel watches the color drain from your soft skin. Realizing he touched somewhere that might be too personal. Too raw. “M’ sorry sweetheart, shouldn’t have asked.”

“No- no uh, you’re fine. Um, honestly? No. I’m not excited. The staff there aren’t exactly the kindest bunch.” You confess, slight unease crawling over you. 

Joel’s eyes scrunch in confusion. Mind blank on how the kindest soul he knows, could be surrounded by complete opposite. “Whatcha mean?”

You sigh letting the anxiousness settle a bit before speaking again, “they hate me. I don’t even know why, really? I have tried my hardest to get them to accept me but nothing seems to work. Whether it’s jabs at my appearance, teaching style, they’re never satisfied.” Your eyes are burning slightly, haven’t confessed this burden you constantly carry to anyone. “If it wasn’t for your daughter and my class, and… you.. well, I think I wouldn’t have made it through. I try to be strong, I try to be everything that people expect from me but it’s just so hard, Joel.” At that, the fat tears begin to stream down your face.

Joel was frozen in shock. Or maybe anger. Protectiveness. He wanted to hurt the people who made you feel like this. The least deserving of any pain. He sets his mug down and snatches you in his embrace. Holding your head with his hand, stroking your back with the other. He lets you sob almost uncontrollably into his firm chest. 

“I just hate being so alone.” You whisper, clutching onto him. You can’t even be embarrassed anymore, you’re so overthrown by his scent, his comfort. Comfort you’ve not felt in so so long. 

Joel kisses your temple softly, "promise you're not alone, sweet girl." He nudges your head to look up at his own sorrowful expression. His thumb running over your full lips, a bit swollen from your teeth biting down on them in an attempt to muffle your sobs. "So beautiful." He murmurs as he leans down to place a kiss on your left cheek, his lips skim over yours before he places another on your right.

Joel just barely hears the whimper from the back of your throat when that feather light skim happened. He leans back half an inch, staring into your glossy eyes. "Tell me not to, and I'll let you go upstairs and get some rest. Tell me, sweetheart."

It feels like a whole minute passes by. The soft patter of the rain, the smell of coffee beans from each others breath, the same slow breathing that overwhelms the little space between you both.

Desperation.

Your fingers tighten on his shirt, "don't let me go upstairs, Joel."

Joel smashes his mouth into yours, his guttural groan flying into your soft whimpers. The softness Joel expressed a moment ago is long gone. This kiss is messy, teeth-clanking, tongue inside your mouth. Like he wants to devour you from the outside in. He releases your lip with a pop.

He threads his thick fingers through the base of your hair and yanks it back gently, tongue on your neck. Biting the skin there. "You're so soft, baby. Just need me to mark ya up, is that right?"

You nod as hard as you can despite his harsh grip on your locks.

"I need you to use your words, sweet girl. Let me know what you're thinkin'."

"Everything you do is okay. I want more. I need it all. Please."

"Oh baby, cm'ere," he wraps your lavish thighs around his waist and hoists you into his arms. Easily. Like you're just the most delicate thing he's ever held.

As he walks to his bedroom, you smile into his neck. Arms wrapped over his shoulders, hand rubbing ever so softly at his greying curls. You bite at the skin under his ear and he gives your ass a huge squeeze. Groaning at how his big hands barely hold all the meat there. He couldn't wait to touch and gnaw at this body he loved.

At the foot of his bed, he taps your leg as if telling you to get down. You stand in front of his massive overbearing figure, staring up at him lustfully. You grab the bottom of your compression tank top and pull it over your head, revealing your unsupported chest. Your heavy tits fall a bit.

"My god," Joel falls to his knees in front of you, face nearly level with your pebbled nipples. Both his hands grab a fistful of each, rolling them in his palm. Your sweet noises fill the room and he swears he might've just came in his pajama pants right there. He takes his teeth and bite at the fat above your leggings, licking and sucking at a sensitive part of you. Literally and figuratively.

Joel abandons your chest to yank your leggings and panties down in one move, coming face-to-face with your prickly oozing pussy. He can't restrain himself much longer, spinning you around he pushes you down into his mattress.

He spreads your ass open with both hands, the chub of your lips open ever so slightly as the slick between them strings together.

"Perfect cunt." That's when you feel the chill of liquid spat right onto your puckered hole, dripping down to your clit. He leans in, tongue catching the tangy mixture of your slick and his saliva, right on your throbbing clit.

You screech into the sheets, so turned on from his actions. As he licks up to dip his tongue into your hole, one hand that's holding you open sneaks up your back, to your neck and yanks your head up.

"Nu-uh, let me hear you, baby girl." He demands as he pauses to throw his shirt off as fast as possible — not wanting to leave your cunt for too long without the warmth of his mouth.

He sloppily makes out with your cunt as it clenches and unclenches under his tongue, his beard prickling at your skin. Like he wants your scent all over him for as long as possible.

"Ohh daddy, more more," you whisper hazily, hand reaching back to grab his head desperate to have him as deep as possible.

Joel stops as he processes your choice of title. "What was that, darlin'?"

You freeze at his serious tone. Just now realizing what you've called the man. "Oh my god, I'm s-" Joel grabs your wrist and pins it against your lower back — thick middle and ring finger hooking into you with no warning. Your wetness aiding in the rapid slide of them.

He spits on your puckered hole again and abandons your wrist to land a harsh smack against your ass.

"Only dirty girls say that word, baby. Are you daddy's dirty girl?" He edges you on as he spanks you again on the opposite side. Hard. Unsparing. A side of Joel you've never seen. And oh, does it make you feel that coil tightening within you.

"Mmmm yes yes 'm your dirty girl, daddy!" You groan loudly, eyes swelling with fresh tears. But not tears of pain from earlier, pleasure.

Joel's fingers fuck into you harder, thumb now rubbing at your clit as he leans forward to prod his tongue at your asshole. "Cum for me, my nasty sweet girl. Drench my face. Let me taste you even more." He halts his fingers knuckle deep, hooked inside your cunt as he presses into that spot on repeat. Like he's stroking it out of you.

That's all it takes for you to silently scream as you squirt all over his lower beard covered face and your thick inner thighs, that nearly squish his head from how hard you're coming. Joel just keeps himself situated, never letting up. Allowing you to completely let go and rut back into him, telling him you need more.

"Thaaat's it, my good fuckin' girl.” He praises as he kisses your cunt and ass, he leans over your face capturing your lips in a kiss so messy and depraved. “Open that mouth.” Spitting roughly onto your tongue with a groan as you taste your sweetness that he knows he will forever be addicted to. No chance of recovery.

He ruts his thick bulge into your ass as you whine needly.

"Really want you to fuck my face, now." You beg, hand reaching down to grope him through his loose pjs.

"Mmmmm," he murmurs as his hips keep rutting into you. "Tonight is about you, baby. M' gonna stuff your tight cunt so fuckin' deep you'll feel it in your throat, don't worry." And with that promise, he releases himself, throbbing cock slapping against his lower tummy. You flip onto your back just to see it and your eyes widen at the sight before you.

You always knew it was huge just from perception, but god. It's thicker than your wrist, and looks like it would prod into your cervix. Painful even. Joel senses the worry on your face as he pushes your legs back against your chest. Admiring the way your stomach folds into itself, soft roll after roll. And the thickness of your inner thighs lays heavy. He just wants to get down and feast on you again but he might die if he doesn't feel you wrapped around him.

"You're in charge here, sweetheart. Understood?" He explains as he rubs his fat cock head up and down your swollen slit — notching on your opening with every downward stroke.

You nod slowly, peeking down at the monster between your legs once more. He squeezes your ankle, subtly reminding you to vocalize.

"Yes daddy, I understand."

"Good." And with that, he pushes into your fluttering hole. Your eyes roll back immediately, head thumping onto the soft duvet. He pushes in deeper, barely halfway in and he sees your feet and eyes scrunch a bit. It almost feels like he could rip you apart. Maybe it's because you haven't been fucked in a hot minute — or maybe it's just that Joel is so fucking hung. More than any guy you've slept with.

“Deep breath for me, sweetheart.” He soothes you, as soon as he sees your chest fall — he slams the rest of the way in. Hips flush with the back of your thighs. Cock fully sheathed in your warm soaked cunt. Heavy brimming balls pressed against your little puckered hole. “You feel so damn good. Dripping for me.” Joel’s eyes close at the feeling of you hugging him so tight. He suddenly forgets the feeling of any other woman he’s pleased. Utterly devoted to you from here on out.

When he pulls out all the way to his fat tip — it notches on your opening. Like he has to put in that extra effort to fully remove himself from you. But he doesn’t, and starts fucking into you fully. Never half way, never pulling completely out.. but always making sure he reaches the end of you.

“Da- daddy oh, harder please.” You plead, squeezing his forearm at the overwhelming feel of him nudging your cervix with every thrust.

That confirmation of pleasure is all Joel needs to push your legs back even more — ankles by your head — and began a brutal relentless pace. Grabbing a fistful of your jiggling tit and messy hair, he pulls your head up so you can watch how he ruins you for anyone else.

“Ya see that, see how swollen your gettin’ already?” Joel questions as he holds your head perfectly to observe the slight lifted pudge on your tummy. Paired with the way his coarse hair rubs against your swelled clit — it’s a drool worthy sight.

“Cus’ your so big, Joel.” You sigh, eyes fluttering from the primal force he’s using on your body.

A smug grin flicks across his face at the view. Mind consumed by the most perfect woman. Eyebrows turning inward, the little lines between them deepening as you try to comprehend all the emotions in this moment. Removing his hand from your head, he finds your clit and swipes it upward. Over and over. Leaning down, he sucks as much of your breast into his mouth as humanely possible. Tongue flicking the pebbled area, coercing your orgasm from you. “Cum with me, baby.” His muffled command shoots straight to your filled core.

As he feels you spasm around his thickness, he stills balls deep. “There it is, baby…” Spilling his cum inside your warmth. Plugging you, keeping you full of him. Joel relaxes his body against yours, finding your mouth to kiss you gently. Sweaty foreheads against one another. Joel goes to push off of you, his comforting body heat about to be ripped away.

"No! Wanna feel you longer, please."

Your protest makes Joel's heart surge. "Of course, sweet girl." Wrapping his large arms around you, he flips you both so that your soft plush body lays above him. The new angle makes his spent cock nudge a bit deeper, you both moan at the faint squelch of his cum overflowing your cunt. "You're so perfect," he mutters.

Smiling into his full chest, you leave a swift kiss. "So are you. Thank you for this. For.. everything."

Joel's hands finds your back as he begins gentle strokes onto your supple skin, his head resting atop your own. "Thank you, darlin'. I want you to understand something, you might just be the finest thing that ever happened to Sarah and I. Y'know, she didn't really want to see her mom. Never had the best relationship with her. She just wanted to spend the remainder of the summer havin' ya over everyday to swim and all. That girl admires you more than anyone."

Eyes foggy, you shift to gaze up at him. "And what does her father think?"

Joel pauses briefly, rich brown orbs beaming into yours. "Think she's damn right. She didn't want me to tell you this, but she left so I could have some alone time with you — take ya out. Scolded me sayin' by the time she's back, we better be together." He laughs at the thought, you join him. Picturing that 4'9 ball of fire lecturing her father on the rules of dating.

"So, you're asking me out Miller?" You question with a heavy hopeful heart.

"Should've done it forever ago, darlin'." He confesses, placing a delicate kiss on your temple.

And with that, you place your head back onto the warm chest of the man you've craved your entire life. Realizing, ever since that day where he first greeted you with that sultry gentleman voice — you were never truly alone.

thank you truly for reading! let me know your thoughts below or in asks!! reblogs are greatly appreciated <3

[hoshigray]

Hey 🫶🏻 Can I request having sex with Sukuna when he is extremely jealous? Like reader is kinda popular and other guys always tryna flirt with her and shit (she is not interested ofc) So when Sukuna saw another man shooting his shot he needs to blow off steam by fucking you dumb 🤕 and he saying shit like “what a good little cocksucker, maybe I should record you and send this video to all those bastards, so they would know who’s dick you’re gagging on” 😭 I’m so sorry if this is too specific, feel free to ignore 😭

Love your works 🥰

𝐚. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: ofc ofccc !! and ty for loving my stuff~

⊹ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: Sukuna x fem! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - modern setting; you and Sukuna are college seniors - rough sex - fingering (f! receiving) - impact play (spanking + pussy slaps) - oral (m! receiving) - dumbification - choking - backshots + legs-up positions - degradation (cocksucker, dumb bitch, slut, whore) - overstimulation - clitoral play (pinching and swiping) - pet names (dove, little girl, princess, woman) - possessive behavior (it's sukuna, duh) - use of a phone; sexual photography and videography - heavy depictions of a blowjob - mention of tears and spit.

⊹ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.5k

“—Khaahh, oohhh!! Sukuna, pleasee, it hurts—Ahhhnn...!”

“Who said you’re in any position to tell me how to handle you, woman?… Fucking shit, you’re tight as hell…”

Everyone knows that you are off-limits. Knowledge of this fact is the bare minimum when dealing with the one known as “Sukuna’s girl” — no one should dare lay a finger or bat an eye on his woman. And yet, somehow, Sukuna continues to find strays that think this rule doesn’t apply to all. 

He saw it not too long ago today when a guy came your direction at the hall, concealing himself in the shadows to eavesdrop. The junior was dumb enough to invite you to some get-together, foolish enough to think he should even be speaking to the partner of the cold and intimidating Ryōmen Sukuna. 

You were the most popular girl in the class year — expected as Sukuna wouldn’t deal with someone who wasn’t [barely] on equal footing as him. However, unlike him, you carried a much kinder cadence. You greet others with sweet words, converse with professors in a mutual light, and engage with everyone with a compassionate and tranquil soul. — the complete opposite compared to your boyfriend. So, of course, it would be hard for you to turn away people when they come to you for guidance or opinions. 

In this case, you had expressed to the junior that you weren’t interested and had plans to study at your boyfriend’s apartment later. It wasn’t a complete lie, yet a respectful diversion that was expected of you and pleased Sukuna observing.

However, the dull-witted brat put his hand on your shoulder and continued to press on, emphasizing that you’d miss out on people wanting to have a good time with you. A ballsy thing to remark as if saying your boyfriend holds no priority over some boring party. Besides, the man had to stop the itch of coming out of the shadows to strangle the kid for laying his hands on you.

Nonetheless, you gracefully pushed his hand aside and apologized again for declining his offer before heading on your way. The situation was disentangled, both parties carrying on with their days. But that wasn’t enough to calm the salmon-haired man. 

Especially when you were in his apartment, protected under his gaze the entire time; you were sitting across from him at the coffee table while sorting through your coursework, unaware of the fixed look of his red eyes on your frame. Because all he could do was look at you, replaying the interaction from earlier today. 

It all angered him deeply — how the junior said your name so casually, the laughs you shared with him, and the touch on your shoulder. Everything from that moment added fuel to the fire scorching in his gut. He couldn’t relax, knowing there were still imbeciles who had the gall to act so familiar with you, his princess. 

The twitch of his brow couldn’t cease, same with the bounce of his knee – his nerves having an inner battle of maintaining a low profile. And being the caring piece in this relationship, you noticed. You blinked up to where he sat, “Is everything okay?” 

Of course not, woman. As much as he wants to put all the blame on the guy, Sukuna felt that you also played a part in this charade. To him, you were just as worse as that fucker. How could you, his precious dove, allow such trash to be so close to you? Allowing that thing to touch you was such an insult to him, downright disrespectful to the man you call your boyfriend. And the fact that you didn’t think of telling him — believing that you could keep this as a small matter insignificant to his awareness — left a sour taste in his mouth.

In his philosophy, Sukuna knew you were in the wrong as well. And for that, you would also have to be dealt with by him, to be reminded of your place in all this.

“Ohoooo! Ooof!! ‘kunaaaa, your fingersss…! Too fast, please slow—Daaahhh!!”

He’d smack your wet cunt, forcing you to grip his satin sheets. You’d instantly try to close your legs, but Sukuna wasn’t having any of that, quick to pinch the skin of your inner thigh to correct you. 

“Dumb bitch,” he throws insults, void of caring that you were on the brink of tears. He brings a hand to your throat, resulting in you gagging from your circulation being cut off. “I told you to keep those legs open. First, you let some fucker touch you, and now you can’t obey me when necessary? Do you enjoy disrespecting me like this?”

“Ahck! I–hic–I’m sorryyy,” he could feel you clench on his fingers, gripping them as if you refused to let them go.

It humored Sukuna, who effortlessly removed his digits to give your slit another harsh slap that made you gasp for air. An action proved difficult with his whole right hand constricting your airways. “Are you? How can you be sorry when you’re latching onto my fingers like a slut?” His hold on your neck goes tighter; your hands claw at his forearm, a desperate plea that doesn’t sway him. “Say it like you mean it, Y/n.”

“Khh..Ahh—Please, forgive me, Sukuna…!” Your apology came through wheezes, tears now welling up to fall on your pretty face, yet you knew it wasn’t enough. “I should have…Never let that junior tou—Mmmph! …Touch me… I’m your princess, only yours.”

A pink brow is lifted, but his expression remains unchanged. With one last slap to your leaking chasm, Sukuna lets go of your throat for you to cough and gasp as much air as you can. While you do that, he removes his turtleneck and unbuttons his dark jeans, bringing his briefs down to spring his erection out before lying back onto the pillows against the bed headboard. “Prove it then,” his voice has you turn to listen. “Suck me off the way I like it.” 

You are in no position to resent him, crawling towards him on all fours and immediately going to work. Your tongue greets his reddish-pink glans with swirls, licking his frenulum and nibbling on the skin before taking the head to your mouth. You lather his cock with your spit as you bob your head, hallowing your cheeks to take in every inch while your hand glides up and down his shaft. 

“Nnmph, fuck,” Sukuna groans at the feeling of your feverish sucks of his cockhead, your hand stroking him while you tend to him with your mouth feels too good. He peers down to watch you suck hard on his tip, and you return his gaze with a hooded look while sucking on his balls, causing him to hum. You then bring the tip back into your lips, making raunchy noises as you take his girth and lick his precum. 

“Heh, what a nasty little girl,” he comments after you exude a trail of spit onto his dick before hurriedly slurping him back inside your warm mouth. “I outta take a picture of you…No, a video is better.” He’s pleased to see your watery eyes twinkle with dread when he pulls out his phone from his jean pocket. He slides to open the camera application, “Maybe I should show that fool how such a good cocksucker you are for me.”

“S–Sukuna, please, anything but—Mmmm!” Again, no one said you were in a position to speak out of turn. Hence why, your boyfriend grabs your cheeks roughly with a single hand. Crimson eyes pierce through your fragile skin, and your figure fills with fright within milliseconds. 

“What did I say about giving me orders?” His tone is enough to send shivers down your spine, his nails denting your cheeks. “Does my woman want me to expose them for the filthy whore they are? Cause I couldn’t care less if I one day start leaking these shits and have your reputation crumble in seconds as a lesson.”

A tiny bit of you wants to believe he wasn’t serious; however, the single tear shed from your unblinking eyes tells a different conscience. You reply with a shaky breath and a quivering lip. “No, Sukuna...Please forgive me.”

He releases your chin with a push of the thumb. “Then get back to it, dove.” The sweetness of that pet name wasn’t present as he smacked your cheek with his length. You listen to him, taking him back into your throat with a euphoric mewl while cupping and kneading his balls. He sneers and presses the record button, “Just like that, princess.”

And don’t think that it ends there — because it doesn’t. 

“Ahhhnn! Oooooh, my God, ‘Kuna..’kunaaaa, I can’t—Ahahnn!”

“—Nngh, that’s right, Y/n; scream for me…Fuck, this tight ass pussy…”

Sukuna now has your face down ass up, pinning you to the satin mattress by the shoulders and hammering his bare cock right into your messy cunt. Your cries are muffled by the sheets you bite into, tears streaming down hot cheeks as your boyfriend plows himself deep side your core. The commotion coming between your sexes fills his bedroom outside of the squeals that bounce against the walls.

Your figure jolts with every thrust, Sukuna’s pelvis smacking on your ass that stings with hot skin after taking onslaughts of slaps from his hands. Your clitoris, exhausted from the constant tweaks and pinches, rests with the cool air treating the sore button. Sweat is covered all over your nude body, evidence that you and your boyfriend have been going about this for a long while, and of course, you’re getting a bit fatigued and overly sensitive to his every touch. But you know he doesn’t care; this is all for your punishment.

Sukuna throws your butt another smack, having your vaginal walls instinctively contract around his girth. He hisses with a grin, “Damn, I love seein’ you like this.” His eyes trail down from your sweaty shoulders, following your spine and hips, down to your ass, where he sees the insertion of his dick being swallowed by you. Seeing the white, soapy ring shielded around his cock makes him bite his lip. “All sore and dirty for me…Mmmph, gripping on me like a slut, going dumb on my cock.”

His hips then propel erratically, having your howl with eyes shooting up. You were too far gone to think of proper thought, with your brain churned into mush and your head pounding nonstop. The heat on your face is just as unbearable as the throbbing sensation down south. Your trembling legs try so hard not to give in and slump, yet you can’t lie; you’re tired, sore, and sticky all over. 

“Nmaahh! OhhhJesussss, ‘kuna, pleaseeee, lemme cummm—Mmaahh!” Another smash to your ass, followed by a pinch to your clitoris to juxtapose with the slow strokes he uses to massage the delicate spots of your walls.

“Why do you think I should let you cum, woman?” He swipes on your clit, listening intently to the whines that climb higher with the brush of his finger. 

Your words come out in slurs, yet you must answer to him. “I’m shorryy, I didn’t mean to—oh, fuck…do you wrong. Yer the only man who can touch me, wound me,” You peer over your shoulder to see Sukuna, an action that has him release your clit and hear what you have to say. “And love me…just as I love you, and only you. No one else can have me like you…Hahhh, I’m yours, both in mind and body…” Salmon brows furrow as you continue. “I love only you and want only you to touch me, ‘Kuna..Please forgive me, I won’t do it again…”

He was already sold once you turned to look at him, you little minx. Your watery eyes suddenly struck his heart — you are the only thing in the world that could do that, his little dove. He can tell by your heaves and pants that you wish to rest, that you had enough of his lesson and want to be in his embrace. 

However, no unpleasant deed shouldn’t go unpunished. Within a second, Sukuna has you flipped on your back with your legs brought up to his left shoulder. He brings out his phone once again, swiping to put on the camera after inserting his length back inside you.  “Hey, princess,” he calls to you. “Why don’t you say hello to the camera for me? Want something to look back to.”

You gulp with a dry throat, sheepishly smiling at the camera phone. “Hello, I’m Y/n—Ooohh!!” He surprises you with more ruts to your chasm, clamping onto him as if your life depended on it. 

“Who do you belong to, Y/n?” He calls out to you with a steady breath, as if his pelvis wasn’t poisoning deep to grind your insides to evoke pretty moans to escape puffy lips. 

“Hahaaa!! I—Hnnph..I belong to Sukuna Ryō–hic…men…”

“Who does this pussy belong to, Y/n?” Ruts become harsher with every word.

“—Mmoohhh, fuuuhuck, it’s yours, only yoursss,” you voluntarily take up your legs and hold them from behind your knees, bringing them to your chest. “Me and this pussy belong to only Sukuna, no one else can touch me…!”

Sukuna pans the phone down to the union of his dick, moving to and fro from your slit. The white essence painting both sexes was making an erotic mess, strings of his come covering his girth with every push and pull. He chuckles to himself. “This right here is all mine, ya hear?” He looks at you to see you nod your head hurriedly. “Don’t you ever forget that, understand?” You nod again, clenching around him when he drops the phone and leans towards you to place his hands on yours.

It’s here that he finally finishes with you, pounding his hips into you as hard as he can. Your voice gets higher and higher, your headache getting intense with the ruts on your cunt. And with how he stretches and grazes your walls? Jesus, it was terrible to control yourself, your orgasm increasing by the second. “I wanna cumm, ‘kunaaa, let me cum on you, pleaseee….!!”

“Heh, desperate to tighten some more for me, huh.” He adds more weight onto you, forcing you to submit to him. You shudder under his bow, “You may now cum, dove.” 

As if on command, you let yourself loose and allow the climax to finally be free, wailing during yet another crescendo as your vagina flutters around him for the fourth time that night. And Sukuna relishes the feeling of you tightening on him, doing excruciating slow strokes to enjoy the moment. 

“Hmmm, that’s it, just like that…Remember this, princess,” He bends down to lick the tears on your cheeks before kissing them. “Know your place.” He then brings the phone back up to close this session.

“Now smile for me.”

requests/thirsts are open hehe~ 🧸

© 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲2024 – reblogs and comments are wholeheartedly appreciated ☆ header edit done by me, dividers by @/benkeibear.

[slaytheusurper]

⭑ Redamancy ⭑

Masterlist

Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x Sister!reader

A/N: Based of scene in Domina if ykyk, also don't know if I like this one yet because it was written in the middle of the night :)

Warning: NSFW, 18+ mdni, making out, catching aegon getting sucked, oral (f receiving), vaginal and creampie (ofc).

Summary: During a brief walk at night you catch your eldest brother in a comprimising position with one of the servants. He obviously has to be a good brother and show you what that pleasure feels like.

Word count: 2K

It was a cold, breezy summer night. The temperature finally had dropped after such a scorching day. You twisted and turned in your bed, sleep didn’t come easily to you lately and it was affecting your daily duties. After a while you gave up, throwing the sheets of your body, your long silvery hair fell down your side. Your feet touched the cold stone floor beneath you and you walked over to your chaise, where your robe was draped over.

Maybe a walk would clear your mind. Now clad in your thin white nightgown and robe you slipped in some shoes and opened the door of your chamber. Your personal guard Ser Arryck immediately stood straight and asked where you were heading off to at such a late hour. You explained your insomnia and told him you’d go for a walk around the Red Keep. Nothing to worry about, you wouldn't go out or leave without guards. So you started your walk, shivering slightly at every breeze that flowed through the hallways. 

Deep in thought you didn’t notice you had wandered close to your eldest brother’s quarters, your mind on if you should perhaps alert the maesters of your troubles. But you quickly snapped back to reality when you noticed there were no guards around. How could they possibly leave Aegon’s chambers unguarded at night? Maybe you should check up on him, usually he is quite the night owl and you often went to him when you couldn’t find sleep, sharing some wine and a laugh with him.

You always had a good relationship with your brother, you were the youngest daughter of the King and Queen and one year older than Aemond. He always told you you were his favourite despite his sister-wife Helaena. But you knew Helaena didn’t have much interest in Aegon either. But what you didn’t know was how much Aegon liked you. He always knew he shouldn’t act on his desires, instead taking them out on servant girls and whores at brothels but every time he finished with them it was your name he muttered as he came.Your name he moaned and whined as he fisted his cock at night. 

Tonight was no different, it seemed his desire for you was worse in the summer, when you wore thinner, more exposing dresses to fight off the heat. As you approached his door with your fist raised, ready to knock you stopped at the sounds of soft moaning coming from his chamber. It didn’t sound like he was in trouble or pain but he was clearly awake. Curiosity took hold of you and you opened the door as silently as possible, you didn’t want him to know you were here just yet. Peeking inside you could see Aegon lying on his bed with a servant girl between his legs.

You could hear his soft moaning and groaning as well as the sucking noises of the servant girl. Clearly she was pleasing him, you could feel the jealousy as his panting became more frequent. You don’t know what came over you but you silently opened the door to fully reveal yourself. Aegon's eyes snapped to your barely clothed frame and made eye contact with you. Sitting up straighter his hand held the servant girl in place. The erotic sight of him, getting pleased while looking at you made you pant along with him. Your breath shortening as his mouth opened to speak, but he didn’t. 

Only moans left his pretty lips and they grew louder the longer he looked at you. Your chest heaving as you could feel the pleasure yourself. Thighs becoming wet, pressing them together for relief. Never had you felt this way. Aegon started to almost choke on air as he gave out some final groans. Then stammered out your name as he finished inside the girl’s mouth.

You finally realised what was happening and turned on your heels to run back to your chamber. The amount of times your mother had warned you about the sins of pleasure whirling through your mind. When you had reached your chamber Ser Arryck bid you goodnight as you went to sleep that night with an ache between your thighs. 

The next couple of days were filled with tension and shame. You felt like everyone knew what happened, what you had witnessed. Of course this wasn’t true but you were terrified of what Aegon was thinking. It also didn’t help that your mind uncontrollably went back to that night. The sounds he was making sounded so heavenly. And you couldn’t help but picture yourself in the servant's place.

Four days later it was another cool summer night. You were reading in bed with some candles still lit so you could make out what was written on the pages. You stopped mid sentence as you could hear chattering outside your door. Oh no, Aegon…and? Ser Arryk? This couldn’t go well. Your heart skipped a beat at the sound of some soft knocks on your door. “Come in.” You softly called out. 

Aegon stepped inside your chamber, a chalice of wine in one hand and two cups in his other with of course a big grin on his face. Like he always had when wine was nearby. “What did you say to Ser Arryk?” You were too curious not to ask. “Nothing to worry about sister, just if he could leave us a private moment. For some well needed���sibling time.” Aegon smiled as he put the cups down on your side table and immediately filled them. 

A content sigh leaving his lips as he brought a cup over to you. Grabbing his own as well, he joined you on your bed. Of course your mind instantly had to go back to that night. “Aegon I-” He cut you off before you could say more. “Don’t.” He looked hungrily at your chest. “You know what you saw- and heard. And I know what I saw, I saw how you looked at me, how it turned you on.” He smiled and took a big chug of his wine. 

It encouraged you to drink some as well. Knowing that the alcohol would make this easier. It always seemed to be for Aegon. “However I would be willing to bet you don’t even know what that means. But you know what pleasure means, don't you sweet sister?” He put his cup on the side table and went to sit closer to you. Putting your wine cup aside yourself, you also closed the book laying in your lap. “I guess I do. But it is a sin, mother said so. Septa Luelle said so.” 

You didn’t even look at him. Book now on the side table as well. “Did they now? And what would they know about us Targaryens? We don’t answer to gods nor men. We do whatever we want. So if we want to give each other pleasure, we will.” He pulled the covers of your legs and moved next to you. His hand grazing your lips as he made you look at him. Both of your breathing getting heavier.

Finally he gave in and forced his lips on yours. Both drunk on wine and desire. You tried to keep up with his movements but after a while you could feel his wet tongue sliding across your bottom lip. Not quite catching up on what he wanted, he caressed your breast through your thin nightgown. And as expected, you gasped which gave him a perfect excuse to entwine his tongue with yours.

With some time you got a better grip on how he wanted you to kiss him. How to mimic his movements and find your own rhythm. His hands were starting to wander more, getting more impatient by the minute. He parted his lips from yours, allowing the both of you to catch your breath. “Do you know how many times I had to pay extra to get a silver haired whore. Just so I could pretend I was fucking you? But now, you are finally mine to ruin.” He rasped.

He positioned you to lay down as he himself got on top of you. You could feel something hard poke your thighs. Aegon mouthed and nipped at your neck, desperate to touch every inch of you. “Let me show you exactly what it felt like, let me show you true pleasure.” He groaned in your neck, hands already busying themselves with hiking up your nightgown and removing your smallclothes.

Aegon's lips went down and as he got closer to your already slick cunt, the more you felt like you were about to explode. The effect this man had on you was beyond words. No man could ever make you feel this euphoric and he knew it too. He wasted no time in devouring your cunt, lapping and sucking at your core. Making you gasp in shock, this new sensation was so mind numbing and electric, that you couldn’t even think about who could hear you outside your door.

“Aeg- please- it feels so weird-” You panted out as Aegon had no intention of stopping. He flicked his tongue faster over your clit and you had to grip the sheets beneath you to feel some type of control. The only things coming out of your mouth now were chants of your brother's name and moans. 

Mere moments later, he added a finger inside you. Your tight cunt sucking him in deliciously, making him groan at the thought of putting his cock inside you. With his expert finger and tongue he had you screaming his name in a final plea and made you see the heavens themselves. 

You were trying to calm down, to process what just happened. But Aegon was ever impatient and removed his clothes as fast as he possibly could. When he had also removed his small clothes, you finally really laid your eyes upon him. His chest was a perfect mix of muscled with a little belly from all the wine. But what made your eyes widen was what hung between his legs- or rather stood. 

“That is my cock, my love. And it will make you and me both feel so much pleasure.” Aegon grinned as he saw your lips curl into a smile. It was thick and veiny, precum dribbling from the tip. “Please Aegon, take me. I can’t wait any longer.” He captured your lips with his as he held his cock by the base so he could guide it inside you.

His tip sliding through your folds to find your entrance. He groaned at the sensation, his tip entering your tight hole. You grimaced at the feeling, it wasn’t extremely painful but wasn’t pleasant either. “It will feel better in a moment, I promise. I would never hurt you.” He kissed your lips at that and slowly slid deeper inside you. Not being able to control his own moans. 

He stilled at the hilt and waited for your cunt to accustom to his thick size. He never stopped kissing and assuring you. For such a lust filled, drunken prince he was awfully kind to his favourite sister. Once he got the okay from you he started to slowly move, hissing at the feeling of your walls around him. He had never felt more blessed and happy in his life.

As your moans grew as well he started to lose composure, pounding into you faster and harder. Chanting your name while he buried his face in your neck. Your own arms wrapped around his back as your legs wrapped around his lower back and ass. Letting out stuttered moans and gasps yourself. “I’m not going to last long in your perfect cunt sister-” He groaned. The vibration of his voice against your neck adding to the sensation. 

And he was right, mere moments after his movements faltered and he filled you with his cum with one last moan of your name. The white spend filling you up. He gave two more soft thrusts to really empty himself and then rolled off of you. Letting out a content sigh, he looked at you. Your silver hair splayed out, still a fucked out expression on your face. And he never thought you more beautiful.

[milliumizoomi]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐇𝐄...

☆彡SUMMARY.; Things I believe he would do in a relationship that you’d (us.. all of us..😭) would find attractive

☆彡FEATURED.; ARMANDO ARETAS x READER

☆彡TROPE.; Established Relationship

☆彡FORMAT.; HEADCANON

☆彡GENRE.; FLUFF + SUGGESTION + A TINY BIT OF ANGST

☆彡WARNINGS.; mature language, mature actions, a lil bit of Armando’s toxicity shining thru, brief mentions of choking (not in like he’s gonna kill u type of way😭) brief mentions of violence, a little bit of spoilers ahead.

☆彡NOTES.; heyyyy thank u guys SAURRRR much for the love on the last Armando work I posted, I’m glad so many of yall liked it and I will continue to post and write about him 🫶🏽. (And yeah I took that picture on the middle so be free to save.. cause whew lord..). I hope you guys enjoy this one😛💕.

REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED🫶🏽.

[IN PUBLIC]

✬ Armando would keep an eye on you, especially since he’s not a very trusting person to most

✬ He’s like very aware of the space you’re both in so he’d keep you at least within arms reach of him if it’s just a regular kind of day

✬ And he’d also do that thing where if he wants you to move, he’ll grab your waist and either shift you to where he wants you to do, or he’ll do that just to pass behind you

✬ And he a quiet person so instead of using many words, he just stares and expects you to know what he’s thinking

✬ If a situation arises where you’re doing something that he thinks you shouldn’t be doing, he’ll simply clear his throat and stare and he knows you should know what he’s thinking

✬ also this man has no filter whatsoever, so if you’re talking, it doesn’t even have to be to him, you could be taking to his dad or something and he’ll just blurt out some of the most insane stuff in either Spanish or English

✬ (like he did to that girl when he called her fine)

✬ like if you say “im so hot” on a day when it’s scorching outside he’d def say stuff like “I definitely agree” or some shit like that just to embarrass you

✬ He’d also stare at your lips while you’re talking to him, especially if you’re mad at him

✬ and openly stare at your body too

[ON CASES || MISSIONS]

✬ you don’t even have to be in a relationship for this one but just watching him fight

✬ Each movement of his is so effortless and he just looks good each and every time

✬ He’d also probably see you staring and raise an eyebrow at you and tell you to pay attention

✬ would tease you on missions definitely

✬ especially if it’s a mission together

✬ only a bit tho cause he’s very focused on missions

✬ makes you be his backpack on his motorcycle

✬ he’d adjust your hand to where he wants it when riding the motorcycle

✬ drives it with one hand and occasionally taps at your leg with the other

✬ and if he has time, he’ll teach you to fight like he does

[IN PRIVATE]

✬ in private he’s definitely an attitude fixer

✬ if you do something to piss him off he’ll probably just stop talking all together until you apologize

✬ when that happens tho he furrows and raises his eyebrows a lot while clenching his jaw as a way to not get too annoyed with you

✬ curses in Spanish a lottttt

✬ and when you’re being bratty or rude to him, he’ll literally grab you by the neck and bring you real close to his face then say in your ear “arregla tu actitud antes de que yo la arregle por ti..” (fix your attitude before i fix it for you..)

✬ ofc he’d do that in public too

✬ I feel like he’d be a bit clingy when alone because he doesn’t like pda, so he waits until it’s private and will literally grab all over you

✬ he cooks shirtless (idc it’s true and yes he can cook🤚🏽)

✬ has told you the most mundane every day things in the sexiest voice ever

✬whistles when you walk in a room

✬ and slaps your butt regularly (sue me ik he does🤚🏽)

✬if you’re sleeping in the same bed there’s only two places he’ll sleep, on your butt or on your stomach (no in between 🤷🏽‍♀️)

✬ uses that same condescending voice on you to tell you what to do, when you’re wrong, or to stop acting up

eugh I love him sm🥹

[foundtherightwords]

Fallen Empires - Chapter 2

Pairing: Geta x OFC

Summary: Having done the unthinkable to secure his throne, Emperor Geta rules with ruthlessness and paranoia. Now, after escaping an assassination attempt, a badly injured Geta is saved by Daphne, a young widow, who takes him back to her remote village without knowing his true identity. As Daphne nurses the former emperor back to health, attraction blooms between them, and Geta discovers a soft side he didn't know he possessed. But can their love survive his thirst for revenge and his desire to reclaim power?

Chapter warnings: none

Chapter word count: 4.2k

Prologue + Chapter 1

Chapter 2

He was burning up. He had gone through the Styx, so this must be Phlegethon, the river of fire that coils around the Earth and flows into the depths of Tartarus. Would that he was in the Lethe, so he could forget all this pain. The twin blades in his shoulder and his ribs were back, and the awkward position of his body only exacerbated them. He was face down, sprawled across some sort of chair or saddle, which lurched and jolted underneath him like a boat over a fierce river. This confused him, for there was no boat across the Phlegethon, only the fiery current that burned the souls of sinners.

And he could spy those souls now, dark shapes that emerged from the flames and rushed at him, trying to drag him down with them. He thought he recognized one of them, a young man who struck him as particularly familiar, even in silhouette. And behind this young man, thousands and thousands more. His victims. But that made no sense. If his victims were here, that meant they were sinners and he had done right to kill them. So why was he here as well? Why were the flames licking at his head and his neck and his body, burning, scorching? And if he belonged here, why were his victims suffering along with him? Who was the righteous?

A jolt of pain shot through his torso, taking his breath away, and he came back to reality. Light was shining into his eyes, hurting them, though it was firelight or sunlight he could not tell. He couldn't lift a hand to shield himself or turn his head away from it. His limbs and even his eyelids appeared to be made of stone, so heavy they were, and a fog had settled over his brain, blurring everything and robbing him of any control over his mind and body. More than anything, it was this loss of control that frightened him. He had always been in full command of himself, and to be unable to speak or move was a terrifying form of torture he wouldn't wish even on his worst enemy.

Then the lurching stopped, and after some violent jolting, he found himself lying on hard ground, on his side, which made breathing less painful. He opened his eyes and saw flames. This really was the Phlegethon then. A dark figure crouched by the fire. One of those lost souls? Charon? No, there was no Charon. No Phlegethon. Only the stream. A horse. And a woman. And those green, green eyes. He couldn't see the eyes of the dark figure, whose face was hidden under a cowl.

The figure moved toward him. An arm slipped under his shoulder, lifting him, which hurt, and he felt a cup pressed to his lips. He closed his teeth against it and turned away, instinctively. He never drank or ate anything without having his taster test it first. But the cup followed his mouth.

"Drink it," a soft voice said. "It will make you feel better."

Better, meaning he would be well again, or better, meaning he would be dead and no longer in pain? He wasn't sure which would be preferable. That terrible burn of anger during his flight had been replaced by a creeping, nagging fear, brought on by his vision of the Phlegethon, and he was afraid that, should he recover, those ghosts in his dream would become too tangible, too real.

"Drink it," the voice repeated, a touch more impatient now. "I haven't gone through all the trouble to rescue you only to poison you. Drink."

He couldn't argue with that. And either way, he was too weak to fight off the cup. He unclenched his teeth, a bitter dose was poured into his mouth, and soon, darkness obscured everything.

But even in this darkness, the ghosts, the lemures, refused to leave him be. The darkness splintered into a million pieces, and each piece became a shadowy spirit that circled him, howling in his ears, clawing at him with their sharp talons and teeth, like a swarm of harpies, and he was too weak to drive them away. Some pieces of darkness coagulated into a bigger, human shape. It was the same figure of the young man he'd seen in the river of fire, now moving toward him with deliberate, inexorable steps. He curled up, trying to shield his eyes from its vengeful stares, but as it often happened in dreams, he found himself unable to move. It moved closer to the fire. Now there was nothing to prevent him from seeing its face—only there was no face. Above the neck, there was just a blank slab of skin, no eyes, no nose, no mouth, nothing at all. Yet somehow, as this abomination bent over him, Geta could still feel hatred radiating from it, like a heat wave over the desert.

He lashed out his arm with a feeble cry.

Something—or rather, someone—caught his arm. A hand slipped into his, a small, cool hand, soft of skin but firm of touch, and a gentle voice murmured something in his ears. The lemures and the shades were driven back, faded away. The dark became as it used to be in his childhood, friendly and restful, and he slept.

That was how it went for the next few days, though in truth he didn't know how much time had passed. Things happened in flashes and flickers, like shadows surrounding a campfire. He would open his eyes and see the dark figure stirring the fire, and a cup would be pressed against his lips, sometimes containing the bitter drink, sometimes containing something else, more palatable. Then sunlight would be hurting his eyes and he would feel coarse hair under his cheek and an animal smell in his nose. The pain in his shoulder and his chest was back, but he was grateful, for it helped him stay awake and avoid the realm of Hades in his dreams. But sometimes the pain was too much and he would slip into the world of darkness and ghosts and fire again, until that soft hand, that gentle voice, and occasionally those green eyes as well, brought him back.

He thought it would never end, this torturous journey with the brief rests that didn't bring much reprieve at all and only worsened the misery. Perhaps this was his punishment in Tartarus, just an endless, painful journey in a guttering dark that led nowhere at all.

At some point, the jolting worsened, and he felt himself sliding off the saddle, until someone caught him and righted him, wrenching a groan of pain out of him. They were going uphill. Then he was half-dragged, half-carried into a thicker darkness, and, thank Jupiter, there was no more bumping or jostling after that.

The journey was over, though the fire in his body, the pain, and the ghosts remained. More liquids were poured down his throat, something slightly sweet, something savory, like a broth. He felt better and then he felt worse. When the fire threatened to burn him, the bitter drink was brought out again, which sent him into a heavy, dreamless state of unconsciousness that was worse than even the ghosts. If he had been able to talk, he would have told whoever was looking after him to stop, to find him those hands and those eyes, which could help him much more effectively than a thousand bitter doses, but the mysterious Hippocrates remained inexorable, and the medicining continued.

Things swam into his view and took shape—a rough wall, a crudely made table, a small window, and a dark, scurrying shape. His mind knew them to be real, even that dark figure, who moved in a human way that was far different than the lemures of his nightmares. But before he could grasp them and form a picture of his surroundings, they were gone again, slipped back into the fire and the darkness. They came back though, more and more often, until one day, the fire finally cooled and the darkness receded. He opened his eyes and saw, clearly, not Hades, but a small, bare room—little more than a cell, really. He searched himself. He was dressed in a linen undertunic, coarse but clean, and there were bandages, smelling pungently of vinegar and some sort of herb, around his torso. His shoulder and ribs still ached, dully, and then sharply when he tried to move, and he was still lightheaded, but his mind was clear for the first time in days.

He sat up, stifling a groan, and discovered that he was lying in a low bed, on a lumpy mattress and pillow stuffed with what felt like raw sheep's wool, and covered with linen sheets. A tiny window gave the room its only source of light. The wooden shutters were closed, so only a few scattered rays came through, but they were enough to show him mud-brick walls with a door set into the far end, earthen floor smoothed by years of footsteps, and all the furniture, which consisted of the bed, a table, and a trunk. His cloak and belt were hung on a nail on the wall, and his boots stood underneath, but there was no sign of his tunic or his dagger. An earthenware jug and cup sat on the table.

So this was where he was. The picture he'd only seen in snatches and fragments was now whole at last.

The sight of the jug made him realize how thirsty he was. He reached for the cup, but his arm was weak as a newborn's and fell short. His hand dropped onto the table, rocking it, and the cup fell over with a clatter.

The door opened. Light poured into the room, momentarily blinding him. A hooded figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the light. Geta's heart seized as the old superstitious fear came creeping back. Was it Thanatos, coming to claim him at last? Then the figure moved into the room, and he breathed more easily. It was a woman. He peered at her, trying to see if she was his guardian spirit with the green eyes. She lifted a hand to pull down her dark mantle, revealing a long, thin face with sharp features, accentuated by dark hair smoothed back over her brow into a simple knot at the back of her head. Her eyes were green, but they were a muted, pale green, nothing like the brilliant, calming green that had saved him from his nightmares. Could she be the same woman?

"You're awake," the woman said in Greek. Her accent was strange, though it was Syrian or Arabic, he couldn't tell. "Feeling better, I hope?" He tried to match her voice to the murmurs he'd heard in his sleep, but couldn't remember what it had sounded like. He only remembered being soothed by it.

"Who are you?" he asked. His voice only came out as an incoherent rasp. Seeing him struggle to swallow, the woman rushed forward, picked up the fallen cup, poured some water from the jug into it, and held it to his lips. The water was cool and sweet. He gulped mouthful after mouthful, almost without stopping to swallow. As the water slid down his throat, his chest unexpectedly tightened in pain, and he spluttered, spilling water and spit everywhere.

"Slow down," the woman said unnecessarily. "Your wounds are not yet healed."

He coughed and coughed, feeling as though his torso may tear open. It was a long time before the coughing subsided and he lay back on the bed, exhausted. By Jupiter, had he been reduced to such a weakling that a sip of water could hurt him so?

The woman put the cup to his lips again. He took smaller sips this time, letting the water cool his parched mouth and throat.

"Who are you?" he repeated. His voice was still faint, but at least it was audible. "Where am I?"

"My name is Daphne, I'm a healer," the woman said. "This is my hut. I found you floating on a stream in the Balikh Valley and brought you back to my village."

The Balikh! That was near the border between Osroene and Syria! By Jupiter, how long had he floated in that stream? But at least they spoke Greek here, that meant he was still within the Empire and hadn't strayed over to the Parthian side.

"My knife?" he demanded, not caring how brusque he sounded. His chest hurt so much he could only speak in short sentences, politeness be damned.

"I put it away, so you won't injure yourself or others." She glanced at the door, and that was when he noticed a strip of linen tied around her face, covering what looked like a cut. Had he done that?

"Give it back," he said.

"You've no business wielding a knife in your condition."

"Give me my knife!" he growled, and fell into another fit of coughing.

The woman looked at him critically for a moment, then she heaved a sigh of resignation and went into the front room. She returned a moment later with the dagger, still in its sheath, holding it strangely, like one would a kitchen knife, not a weapon. She handed it to him and quickly moved away, as if afraid he would spring out of bed and attack her.

"There," she said, "though I must say there is absolutely no need for it here. You're safe."

Safe? He was far from safe. Even as his body writhed and trembled from pain, his mind was clearing up fast, and memories came flooding back, vivid without the nightmarish haze that had veiled everything during his fever.

He remembered everything now. The march from Edessa to Carrhae to visit the temple of Sin, the Babylonian moon god, to pray for victory in the upcoming war with Parthia. The stop by the side of the road, overlooking a ridge, so he could relieve himself. The sound of furtive footsteps on the gravel behind him. "I've told you men not to follow," he'd grumbled, not bothering to turn around. "I need no attendant just to take a piss." Then the white-hot explosion of pain across his shoulder, spinning him around. The face of his attacker swam in front of his eyes, twisted in hatred. Martialis. One of his most trusted guards. Martialis had been pestering Geta to grant him a centurion position, but Geta had refused, preferring to keep a man he could trust close by. That had been his fatal mistake... or near fatal.

In the shock of the moment, somehow, Geta had had the presence of mind to pull out his own dagger and bury it Martialis's neck with one hand, while with the other hand, he'd grabbed at Martialis's knife as it stabbed into his chest, toward his heart. He had stumbled backward, rolled down the ridge, and then there was a dark, blank space in his mind, only broken up by snatches of memories like an unfinished mosaic—the painful staggering across a rocky landscape, the stream, Charon, the fire, and that hellish trip... He tried not to think of the ghosts.

"What happened to you?" the woman asked. "Was there a battle?"

Clearly, she believed he was a soldier. Good. He had no intention of persuading her otherwise. How lucky it was that he now preferred the simple clothes of a soldier to the elaborate imperial garb he'd once been used to. His intaglio ring, carved with the eagle and wreath that symbolized his power, was still on his finger, but the woman didn't recognize the image. No one would, save for those who were privy to seeing it on the seals of official documents.

"No battle," he said. "I was—attacked."

"By whom?"

He gripped the knife, finding comfort in its weight in his hand, thinking how ironic it was that the dagger that had meant to kill him was now his only weapon. How much should he tell her? He thought of Martialis again. The man couldn't have acted alone. The journey to Carrhae had been spontaneous, suggested by Macrinus, the praetorian prefect, who believed such a visit would bolster the army's failing morale and prepare them for the renewal of their campaign against Parthia. Whoever wanted Geta dead would have had to plan the assassination for a long time in order to seize this opportunity. Martialis didn't—hadn't had it in him—to seize such an opportunity, much less to plan and scheme. That was another reason why Geta hadn't wanted to make him a centurion. He didn't think Martialis would have made a good commander. A soldier through and through, a follower. Then who could have whispered poison in Martialis's ears and turned him against Geta, against his own Emperor?

He motioned to the cup, and the woman obligingly put it to his lips again, before retreating a safe distance away. "How far—are we—from Carrhae?" he asked.

"Five or six days' walk, over the hills. Is that where you came from?"

He shook his head. "Going there," he said. "From Edessa." It was a known fact that the army had been wintering in Edessa; it should be safe to tell her that much.

"Why were you marching on Carrhae?" the woman inquired. "Those two soldiers said the Parthians weren't going to attack us, but I don't like the looks of them. And they mentioned nothing about Carrhae."

This was new. He lifted his head. "What soldiers?"

"They were asking around for you," she said. "The day after I found you. But you said to hide you, so I told them I've seen nothing." She peered at him closely. "Was that wrong?"

So they had been searching for him. But why only two? Why weren't they tearing up the entire province to find him?

"What do they—look like?"

She described them, a rat-faced blonde and a dark-haired one with a scar. "To own the truth, they didn't seem too concerned about finding you," she added.

Geta didn't remember such men from his retinue. That raised his suspicion. He believed the army was loyal to him, but sending only two, seedy-looking and apparently incompetent men to search for him didn't inspire much confidence.

"Did they say anything else?"

"They mentioned someone called Martialis."

So they knew. Of course they had to know; the knife to the neck was enough to kill the traitor, and once they saw Martialis's corpse and discovered the Emperor missing, they should come to the right conclusion immediately. And yet—

"What's the date?" he asked.

"Three days past the ides of April," the woman said, and again he felt a shock. It had been eight days past the calends of April when they set out from Edessa. So for ten days he had been missing, yet there had been no widespread search, no outcry. It confirmed his suspicion that there was a conspiracy.

Who could it be? Could it be Artabanus IV, the Parthian king, wanting to dispatch him by subterfuge rather than facing him on the battlefield? Could it be someone hired by a disgruntled Senator, or by the entire Senate, who was tired of emptying the Empire's coffer for his wars? Could it even be a follower of his brother, someone he'd missed? He had too many enemies to count, and thinking of them made his head pound and his chest hurt. He dropped back on the mattress with labored breaths. One thing was clear: regardless of who was behind this conspiracy, he was in no condition to do anything about it.

The woman, the healer—he hadn't caught her name—was still peering at him. "I understand if you do not wish to tell me what happened to you," she said stiffly. He could tell she was not used to formal speeches. "But I cannot in good conscience let you perish here if there is help and better care elsewhere. If there is anyone you wish to send words to, let me know. The commander of your legion, perhaps, or a magistrate?"

There were only two people he trusted—Macrinus in Edessa, and his mother, currently in Antioch. But before he knew who wanted him dead, it would be too risky to contact them, lest the missive fell into the wrong hands. No doubt Macrinus was even now rousing all forces for a search, and Macrinus would know to proceed with the utmost caution. If the Parthians or any enemy of Rome got wind that the Emperor was missing, it would be the end of the Empire. 

"No," he said at last. "It's best that no one knows I'm here. But if you hear of any talk in your village, you are to inform me immediately." He heard the commanding note in his voice, and realized a simple soldier shouldn't be speaking thus. "I mean, I would be obliged if you let me know of any news or rumors," he corrected himself.

The woman still hesitated, and he thought he understood her concern. "See me through this," he said, "and you'll be handsomely repaid for your trouble."

"I don't need your payment," she said, sounding offended.

He snorted. "Do you heal people out of the goodness of your heart then?"

She ignored his jab. "All I need to know is, will I be in danger for taking you in?" she asked. "Either from you, or the men looking for you?"

He lifted himself up, with difficulty, to look at her. Seeing him struggle, she rushed forward and put her hands under his arms to help him. Her hands were strong, capable. He remembered how they had reached for him through the darkness and the fire and brought him out of hell itself. She had saved his life. And no matter what people called him, tyrant and murderer and worse, let no one say that Publius Septimius Geta was an ingrate.

"You won't come to harm," he said. "I swear it, by Jupiter and Minerva and—"

She shook her head. "I don't need your vow, just your word."

"Then you shall have it."

The woman fixed her gaze on him, her eyes piercing and inquisitive, with none of the softness he remembered from his dreams. But it had to be the same woman; who else could it be? All that nonsense about her eyes being greener than the hills of Caledonia must be the imagination of his fevered brain, no more. And it was nonsense. The hills of Caledonia were a hostile place, cold and craggy and full of hiding Picts waiting to drop boulders onto his men and bury axes in their skulls, not the place of rest and peace he'd dreamed of at all.

The woman weighed his word and seemed to decide that it was good enough. She eased him onto the pillow and got to her feet. "Can you tell me your name, at least?" she asked.

A simple question. He could have given her any name, any at all. Yet the question nagged at him. He had been born Publius Septimius Geta. He had become Severus Antoninus upon his father's ascent to the throne. He had been Caesar and Augustus and Domine. He had been called, both in friendly jest and in sneering mockery, Tarautas, after a famously violent gladiator. Now, he had no idea who he was.

"Romulus," he said eventually, thinking of the first king of Rome. The one who had struck down his brother and built an empire. The one who survived. "You may call me Romulus."

The woman frowned slightly. He held his breath. It was a common enough name, with no connection to his own. Did she suspect something? He put his hand under the pillow, closing his fingers around the hilt of the dagger.

"Just Romulus?" she asked.

"Romulus Publius," he said before he could stop himself. Perhaps it was foolish of him to use his praenomen, but then again, he thought to himself, it was common enough.

Thankfully, the woman raised no further questions or comments about his name. She merely nodded and turned to the door. Geta let out a small, almost imperceptible breath of relief, and released the dagger. 

"I didn't catch your name," he called after her.

"It's Daphne," she said.

"Like the tree?" he asked, puzzled.

She smiled. "My true name is Nysa, after my grandmother, but she called me Daphne because I was always climbing her laurel tree as a child." Her face softened at the memory, and for a moment, Geta could almost recognize the guardian spirit from his dreams.

"Rest," she said. "If you need anything, I'm right outside." She went out, closing the door behind her.

Geta put his head on the pillow and tried to relax. Rest, yes. That was what he needed. Revenge would have to wait.

Chapter 3

Again, I'm sticking with historical facts by keeping Macrinus's office as praetorian prefect, which he held during Caracalla's reign.

Taglist: @sheneedsrocknroll92, @justnobodynothingmore, @barcelonaloverf1life, @myotakureprieve (if you want to be tagged, let me know!)

[toska-writes]

Clone commandos request if possible. 😁 Could you do delta squad. where on a mission they get captured along with the Padawan, and get protective when they try to separate them or interrogate them.

So i thought about writing a fic based on todays bad batch episode (but I need to get some of the requests done- if you wanna request some Wolffe *wink wink* that’s ok)

“Got your back”

Summary: a mission goes south with the delta squad but they have your back

Paring: The delta Squad/ republic commandos x padawan!reader (PLATONIC OFC)

Warning: slight mentions of injury and imprisonment nothing too bad… the most scary- not proofread

Word count: 1688

Notes: Delta Squad fics are not my “most popular” but ones I always do so much for and I don’t know why

Also I swear to god someone asked to join the Taglist but I can’t remember nor find it so let me know!

"Can you focus for one second Scorch? EVER?" Fixed screamed through the comms, you could see his tense movements from a mile away as the squad ducked once again behind a wall.

Boss could only nod this head, he quickly spun around from where you, Sev and him were hiding to shoot an incoming droid.

"Sorry Scorch I can't defend you this time it's not looking good." You spoke between gasp of your own breath, the adrenaline from the long hours fighting wearing on you and the whole group.

Sev leaned heavily on Fixer from where you could see him, though Scorch as of now was doing a good job covering them.

"Boss," You yelled over the hiss of a smoke bomb going off- the contents of which were going in your eyes and making you cough. "I'm all out of ideas here."

The comando spared you a glance for a second, you feared what his face would have looked like if his helmet was discarded.

Boss looked down at the padawan for a moment. A thin cut ran along their cheek way too close to their eye for Boss’s comfort. He watched their head whip around looking through the fog desperately before a huge bang went off.

After a moment of slight ringing Boss felt the bump of another person against his side. The padawan looked around frantically for the force of the bomb before looking up to the comando.

In a more solemn voice they asked. “Boss what are we gonna do?”

Boss thought about their options then. Backed into the corner of what should have been an abandoned outpost, on of their men injured and the rest ready to collapse from exhaustion. He as a leader thought he was better than this but Boss felt as if he walked his squad right into this trap.

“The missions easy enough for us.” Boss had said only hours before. A knot sat in his stomach but the team needed an easy mission, a break from their last fiasco with the bugs.

He’s never been more wrong in his life.

While he was lost in thought, Boss nearly missed Scorch sliding up next to their leader, his panicked voice tried to fill Boss’s ears.

For a moment the other comando didn’t realize the trooper in yellow was talking until Scorch made a shhh gesture with his hand.

That’s when you noticed it too, the complete lack of noise. No more clanker chatter or blaster bullets from each side. Just the low hiss of the fog that didn’t seem to die down.

You opened your mouth to say something before the unmistakable scraping of metals filled your ears.

“Rollies! get down!” Scorch shouted pulling you and Boss to the floor with him. About 5 Droidekas emerged from the smoke…. Lucky you guys.

“Scorch handle them.” Boss yelled using his hands to signal something at Fixer and Sev at the speed of light. His gruff tone scratched your ears but you all seemed pretty fed up at the situation.

Blaster bullets were blocked by your lightsaber left and right until the next words made your heart drop all together. “Out of hand grenades sir.” Scorch ripped his blaster out now but the shields were too strong on the droids.

“Down the hall!” Fixer yelled as both He and Sev passed the 3 of you, a way out hopefully planned.

You felt them before you saw them, you tried skidding to a stop before turning into the next hall as a hand shot out to grab Boss.

“Shit.” Was the only thing you could say, before they could question what you meant a group of comando droids emerged with guns drawn.

“You’ve got to be joking me.” Sev rasped out, his arm shook while he tried to lift his blaster up and fire. The tiredness leaked off of him though you were sure it did for everyone.

A ring of blue light hit the wall behind you. It didn’t make sense though, comando droids weren’t the type to show mercy.

Your lightsaber flashed along the darkened walls trying to keep the nimble droids away, why couldn’t the separatists just send the normal clankers.

Once again the hall was engulfed in a think smoke. You heard more blasters going off but you feared you were getting more and more disoriented. After a moment you heard a sickening thunk next to you and you assumed the worst.

In the blink of an eye you felt the blast hit its mark and half your body go limp. Unlike the bulking clones you were with it only took about 2 hits before you were out.

•✩•

Boss was the first one to awaken. His head bobbed around and his eyes fluttered open. Boss reached his hand up only to finally realize that his armor was gone.

He laid there for a moment, confusion laced his face. What had happened to him? To them….

In a split second Boss shot up to a sitting position , which his head greatly protested, and looked for the rest of his squad.

Relief was one of the best things in the galaxy in this moment. In the dim light of the ray shield keeping them in Boss could count the 3 other comandos and the form of their padawan knocked out next to Scorch.

Sev still looked bad as now Boss could get the full view of his gash along his side- the blacks on all of the men seemed to be tattered.

Boss observed their surroundings for a moment before giving a light tap to Fixer on the foot. When that didn’t work the first time a much hard kick was implemented.

Fixer gasped awake along with Scorch after a “friendly” tap from the clone comando.

I didn’t take Scorch long before he leaned back against the wall and groaned, clearly he knew the situation at hand.

Boss could only stare for another second at Sev, guilt rummaged through his insides as he helped his injured brother up ultimately waking him as well. This was his fault and Boss couldn’t shake that.

“Fixer start working on those bindings.” Boss ordered unable to keep his gaze on the unconscious padawan. Clearly to the eyes of their captors the Jedi was the bigger threat.

Sev hissed for a moment now finding a new brother to lean on.

You came to with the feeling of someone’s exposed hands brushing against your arms. The pounding in your head was present but the blanket of confusion was much scarier.

“Thanks for joinin’ us.” The unmistakable voice of scorch chimed in. Your eyes strained against the darkness but you could tell what the problem was.

The cool metal hurt your wrists as Fixer fiddled with them muttering a small apology every once in a while.

Boss’ low voice filled the cell, plans of just how they would get out to fight another day. Your eyes scanned the worrisome group.

Scorch sat fidgeting with his hands trying desperately to listen but you could see the worry in his eyes as clear as day.

Fixer sat in front of you cursing and apologizing but he just couldn’t seem to do anything useful without his tools and data pad.

Sev’s eyes closed everyone once in a while and you could see the fight to remain in the moment, though his scowl never seemed to be wiped off.

And finally Boss. His voice was level and low just like the countless other times you heard him give directions, however this time was different. He knew this wasn’t in their favor and he was worried beyond belief.

Someone had to stay strong for them all.

Your heartbeat beat out of your chest, a dull throb started in your temples the feeling seemed vaguely familiar.

“I think someone’s coming.” For the first time you were unsure in the force. Fixer faltered for a moment before meeting your eyes. “It’s probably these. Messing with you.” He shook the bindings.

Though to your surprise, and relief in a way, someone did make their way down the hall. Boss spoke out quickly as you averted your gaze, sweat started to form on your brow.

“We need a medic.” It was hard to call it pleading despite where Boss said it from his position on the floor, but it was definitely more of a demand.

2 masked figures approached though they seemed to ignore Boss all together.

“We need the Jedi.” The cool voice stated only once.

Everyone seemed to freeze for a moment unsure about which group would make the first move.

“Get up.” Was demanded at you and you glanced around meeting Boss’ eyes for only a moment before you gripped onto the sleeve of Fixer.

The ray shield was down now and the larger figure stepped in. “I’m not asking again”

“Like kriff they’re going with you.” Scorch stood in front of you now. His full height filled up their line of sight.

“Move clone.” For a second Scorch was pushed back that was until Boss stood as well and shoved their captor away from his brother.

Before the other could react with their blaster Scorch was all over them. Fixer taking the hint that their time was now scrambled to get their other brother still on the floor.

Your eyes were blown wide with the loud alarm that was set off. You felt someone grab your arm as you were still in a little daze.

“I hope you didn’t think we were really gonna let them take ya.” Scorch said as the group rushed down the halls.

You thought about that for a moment, had there truly been something to worry about while you were surrounded but the Delta Squad, your brothers?

A smile broke out of your face and Scorch seemed to get your reply.

“I hope you know.” Scorch called over his shoulder. “You’re never picking the missions by yourself again Boss.”

An angry yell was heard from somewhere behind you replacing the fear in your body with a laugh. “You were the one to pick the bug mission Scorch!”

______________________________

Taglist:

@arctrooper69 @thereforepizza @padawancat97 @pb-jellybeans @floffytofu @verybadatwriting @solstraalaa @ray-rook @gregorsmissingarmor

[intheorangebedroom]

Tonight you belong to me, a drabble

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. Set before chapter 2. A sliver of those early days in room number 2.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange besties 🧡 Nonnie this is for you 🧡 Unhinged but not unbeta-ed thanks to @frannyzooey who is the angel that watches over my gothic ass with her kind heart and genius brain. My anatomical heart beats for you, Kelli 🧡

Word count: 3.6k

[prev] * [series masterlist] * [next]

Drabble: Wrecked

“I’m gonna fuck your ass, now. Stop me.”

Before you lost count, there was a first time. And a second. And a third.  

And before all of it, there was this one time. Nothing short of a humiliation. A suggestion you’d offered, a shy and clumsy attempt at understanding Adrian’s perfunctory physical contacts with you. Not exactly a lack of interest, more of a tepid enthusiasm. Intercourse performed in the dark, his body clinically clean, his ministrations dejectedly proper. 

You’d been dating for a little over two years. Adrian being five years your elder, and a well-traveled man; you were acutely aware of your inexperience and had thought your lack of practice was to blame.  

You’d searched for ideas, for clues, in loud and colorful magazines, descending into a tunnel of shame catered to you on the internet in private windows. 

You’d gathered your strength and all of your courage, and you’d asked him if he’d like to try something else, something different. 

His cold answer sliced through your chest, scorching your skin from the neck up. 

The glaring horror in his eyes, the disgust curling down his thin lips. 

“Don’t be crass, Lee. Women like you don’t do these sorts of things.”

Women like you. 

This had been your first clue, perhaps. If women like you didn’t perform such acts, then other women had to. 

And then, then there was him. 

“I’m gonna fuck your ass, now. Stop me.”

Wrists bound to the headboard, black zip ties biting into your flesh, your fists balled the dirty bedspread.  You gasped into the pillow, a strangled moan, in a stranger’s voice. The voice of the woman you were allowed to be in room number 2. 

You were exhausted. Exhausted and sore from coming too hard and too many times, with your arms outstretched in front of you, your shoulders bent at an odd angle, and your ass perked up. And you struggled to make sense of his own endurance as he kept you in this position, kneeled behind you, eating you up, relentless, insatiable. 

You could have asked for a reprieve. You could have simply said, Stop. When you were not mewling through another release, that is. 

But you were high, high on pleasure, all lightheaded and weighed limbs, only coming down to soar through another orgasm. High on his unrelenting hunger for you, on the way he used you, on his commanding desire and his obscene irreverence. 

The vibrations from his primal grunts rippled from your core to your neck, and whenever your breathing slowed down, you could hear the slick sound of his thick fingers sliding along his stiff cock. 

The wet glide of his tongue, licking you from clit to hole in broad, pointed stripes. His plush lips wrapped around your swollen bud, sucking harshly. The tip of his tongue flickered and, dipped into your cunt to lap at your walls, his face buried between your cheeks, the sharp ridge of his nose a dangerous tease over your tight ring. 

Another release violently quaked through you and you lost balance, and his large hand caught you, splayed fingers furrowing into the swell of your ass to keep you upright.

The mattress moved as he straightened up, smacking his lips. His large palm crashed over your cheek with a loud crack. 

“I’m gonna fuck your ass now. Stop me.”

He bent down again, and sucked hard on your asshole, working saliva into you, as your guttural moans poured into the pillow. 

You felt him move behind you, and he spat on your asshole, once, twice, thrice, smearing his spit around it, pushing his finger in to the knuckle, quickly adding a second. Your cunt clenched at the pleasure-pain sensation. You pushed back into it with renewed strength, and your flesh gushed through his splayed grip on your cheek as he drew you in. 

His fingers slid out of you, quickly replaced by the blunt tip of his cock, and you heard him groan as he sucked on the digit. 

“Fucking taste good all over.”

The obscenity of it all sent a powerful wave that shook your body, uprooting your whole world. The transgression felt like a vengeance. 

He pushed in, slowly, with a low and drawn out grunt, and he stayed there, stilled, deliberate, throbbing inside your tight hole. He let you and your body and your entire life adjust, to the impossible size and meaning of him. 

—

The second time, you begged him for it. 

The room was plunged in darkness. The rectangle of sky beyond the curtains a friendly pitch black. 

Resting prone on your stomach over the rumpled sheet, your head tilted to the side and your arms a loose curl around the pillow, you were lost in the contemplation of the dramatic ridges of his sharp profile, the steady rise and fall of his chest, as he laid on his back next to you, eyes opened, facing the ceiling. 

What thoughts lived inside of his head?

He turned to face you, hard cold stare, soft sad eyes. Glaring crease and silent questions. Are you real? What’s your name? How did you think this was gonna be? How do you think these things go?

Between your lungs, the wild creature stirred, stretching its paws, clawing at your rib cage. 

Your eyes glimmered, a wanton, wanting glow, a fever and a fire. The need to feel alive underneath him. You could tell. You could see their light reflected on his face. 

He moved over you, covering your body with his, forcing the air out of your chest with his weight. 

Your grip on the pillow tightened as his face dived into your neck, warm breath fanning over your thin skin, a welcome constraint, the musky smell of him everywhere around you. 

Like a tidal surge, like a rippling ocean, his body began moving, a steady pace, an hypnotic rhythm, undulating over yours. Skin on skin, sweat to sweat, scent to scent. His hardening cock slotted in the cleft of your cheeks, as he snaked a strong arm between your stomach and the mattress. Nimble fingers parting your folds, where they found you soaked. 

He huffed smugly into your neck, rippling body, tidal ocean, submerging waves. 

“What do you want?”

The question painted your vision crimson. Crimson like blood, like a revolution. 

A grating sound scraped your throat raw, a gasp, or a sob, a life’s worth of apologies and hesitation. 

“Tell me what you want”, he asked again, tapping into the strength of his rippling motion to arch your back into him.

“I want– I want you,” you blurted.

“Where do you want me?”

Clenching your eyelids, you pressed your face into the pillow, for fear of crying. For fear of saying it, and being granted it. For fear of opening a breach. 

Holding your breath, you bucked again, and his low, husky chuckle grazed your ear. 

“You can’t even say it, can you?”

“Please, Frankie,” you begged, “please, I can’t–”

“‘S okay, I’m gonna give it to you anyway,” he said, spreading you open with a shove of his knee behind your thigh. 

—

The third time, he wrecked you. 

He’d walked into the room in a different kind of rush, something in the way his lips latched to your skin that had you thinking that, maybe, what moved him tonight was sheer desire for you. 

He got you naked before you had a chance to draw the yellow curtains closed, and laid you sideways across the bed, over the bedspread. Assertive movements, arranging your docile body with ease and deftness. 

He undressed leisurely under your gaze. The diffuse amber hues of the quaint side lamps drew dancing shadows of gold on his shifting body, highlighting his breadth, the dip in his collarbone, the plane of his chest, the strong round of his shoulders. Saliva pooled into your mouth when he slid his denim down, revealing the thickness of his thighs, the telling tenting of his underwear. Unhurried, he watched you watch him, pulling himself out of the black boxer briefs, stiff and thick and ready for you. He walked to the side of the bed, readjusting your position, so your head hung a little from the edge, and you caught yourself licking your lips in anticipation. 

In a teasing glide, he traced your parted lips with the round tip of his cock. Eyes drifting shut, your tongue peeked out, catching the dribbling stickiness of his arousal. You moaned, head spinning, dizzied by your hunger, and reached back with both hands to anchor yourself to his body, skimming your hands to the back of his thighs, palms brushing along his hair. 

Tipping your head back, you opened your mouth, his dense muscles twitching. 

He breathed hard, through his nose, and there was that word again, that one word in Spanish that you’ve never quite caught. 

He thrust into your mouth, slowly, trembling muscles under your palms, and you squirmed on the slippery fabric of the bedspread, brain buzzed out with the heady scent of his sex. Wrapping your tongue around his cock, you took it all in, his taste, his girth, his warmth, his weight. The throbbing stiffness, the impressive length. 

He dragged his cock over your tongue, in and out, and your cheeks hollowed around it, greedy and eager. 

He paused at the close of your throat, nudging tentatively, with unusual gentleness, and you breathed in deep before tilting your head further back, urging him in. Fingernails sinking in, nearly breaking his skin. 

“Alright, then,” he gritted, curling a hand on your nape, and he pushed inside your throat down to his base, brisk and sudden.

So much. He’s always been so much. Yet never quite a match for just how much you want him, everywhere inside you. Your grip tightened as he started fucking your throat in earnest, a relentless, punishing pace, the wet, explicit sounds of your pooling spit filling the room. Eyes watering, you eased your throat, staving off the reflexive caving of your chest, breathing in through your nose, and took the unrelenting shove of his cock. 

He bent down over you, his large hand a loose wrap over your neck.

“Shit,” he groaned, feeling your neck full to bursting with his cock, “fucking shit, you feel so fucking good.”

His words stirred something heavy down your core, something coiling hot and slow, swirling like lava, and your hips swirled along with the searing stream of it, as it flowed down your walls.

A few more strokes and he pulled out, a thick string of saliva threading your lips to his cock. You gulped loudly for air, before you could let out a disgruntled moan. Chest heaving violently, you made to sit up on your elbows before his voice halted you.

“Don’t move. Stay like this.”

He rounded the bed. You watched him with glassy, teary eyes, eyelashes glued with clumps of mascara, as he stood at your feet, prompting your legs open with a tap of his hand on your ankles. Climbing on his knees onto the mattress, he settled his massive figure between your parted legs. 

At his back, the dark rectangle of the window enhanced the breadth of his chest in chiaroscuro. Your eyes grew wide at the sight of him, sitting straight on his knees, erect and mighty before you. His skin painted gold by the tangerine light, a shin of sweat glinting all over him. His tousled curls a mass of dark waves, the depthless black oceans of his eyes. 

A pagan idol, a sacrificial offering at his feet. 

The reptilian rippling of his lean muscles as he skimmed his hands along the back of your legs tore something open inside your chest. The wild creature hissed and spat, fierce and untamed, and white noise filled your ears. 

“Oh god,” you whispered, no more than a faint thread of a voice, laced with lust, in the still silence of the room.

His gaze found yours, stern and threatening under his creased brow, and for one terrifying instant, you thought he might ask you again, What do you want?

The corner of his plush lips pulled to the side, a predatory grin, and you felt bound to him, forever and beyond, with no will to escape, and no intention to leave. Your heart swelled within your chest and inside your mind, the clear vision of its anatomical shape and design as it thumped loud and frantic, pumping blood of crimson through your veins, vessels, and arteries. Your eyes widened as his trailed down to your pulse point, down to the valley between your breasts, and you knew, you knew with unsettling certitude that he could see it too, he could see it through your flesh and skin. Your swollen heart in its anatomical shape, your coursing blood, your pumping veins. 

He pressed down on your knees, spreading your folds with a lewd sound. His eyes traveled back up to your face, you might have been crying, for you felt stray tears rolling down your temples. 

Your mouth parted, and you smiled around a silent plea, a soundless invite. The crease in his brow shifted, ever so slightly, a pleading arch mirroring your need.

He ran his knuckles along your seam, and a quivering breath rushed past your lips. 

“Stop me,” a murmur, and you shook your head No over the dirty bedspread, your hair catching at the synthetic fabric. 

He sunk a finger inside your heat, pumping in rhythm with your pounding blood, and you tried chasing it with your hips, but behind your rib cage, your swollen heart was too heavy. 

Thick, sticky slick leaked down your folds, dripping into the cleft of your ass, onto the bedding. Straightening up, he used it to coat his length and lined himself up at your entrance. Slowly, he thrust in and you watched, subdued, unable to move, his dark, feverish gaze trained on your cunt, fixed on where he was splitting you open, his thick cock a snug glide along your walls. 

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs as he drew you in over his lap, your hair sprawled out above your head over the bed. He kept you there, hips tilted up, as he rocked into you steady and slow, sinking in deeper and deeper with each deliberate stroke, seemingly entranced by the motion, just like you were transfixed by his eyes, until he reached so deep the pleasure turned to pain. 

You moaned with discomfort, with relief, too, and at last, his eyes flickered back to your face. His fingers burrowed into your flesh as he pulled you in closer, grinding against your spread hips, letting you feel every vein and ridge of his cock, the nudging of his head at your cervix, the coarse hair at his base scraping the tender flesh of your lips. 

Another teardrop spilled down into your hairline, and this time, you voiced it. 

“Wreck me.”

Rebuild me anew. 

For a fleeting moment, the pleading arch of his brow lingered on his face, before his carnivorous grin obliterated it. 

He released the grasp on your thighs, just enough to nudge you away and pull out of your heat, before his clutching hold over you tightened again, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your tight ring. 

“Frankie,” you moaned, nodding.  

Arching off the mattress, you linked your ankles over the small of his back and his answer was immediate. He drove himself forward, brutally breaching you there, nearly doubling over with the strength of his shove and you whimpered loudly, wincing, head thrashing back, fingers frantically scrabbling for purchase. 

His groan tore through the white noise scrambling your brain and you lifted your head to see him. 

He was still, an eerie kind of stillness, like a wild beast locked on its prey, a testimony to a practiced self-restraint, his forehead beaded with sweat, and his teeth painfully clenched, lips curled over them. 

You willed yourself to relax, for your body to relent and your mind to let go, but he was too much, too thick and too stiff and too fucking gorgeous, a beaming god of gold, blinding, breathtaking, dangerous to behold. 

He pulled out just a little, before pushing in again with a louder grunt, a droplet of sweat rolling down his temple into his sideburns. A slow rocking motion he repeated, again and again, hips swaying into you, readjusting his hold, an arm hooked under your thigh. 

Pleasure surprised you, flooded you through every sense. Full with him, slack under his gripping touch, the coppery smell of his sex filling your nostrils, his taste on your tongue and his grunts in your ears. The vision of his shifting, gleaming chest. 

“Touch yourself,” he said. 

A demand, but you were already torn open for him and what more could you do? What more could you give? Your mind couldn’t comply. But your body, your body sent a tremor down your spine, raised the thin hair on your arms, slick leaking down your seam.  

“You can do as I say or you can stop me, but I won’t be repeating myself,” he husked. 

You swallowed thickly, limbs like lead. 

His gaze softened imperceptibly, as did his voice when he added, “Gonna give you everything you want.”

At first, it was a tentative touch. A shy and shallow reenactment of what you would sometimes do in the dark, behind the secrecy of the locked bathroom door, until shame would take over, and you’d have to stop yourself.

The pad of your middle finger glided over the swollen bud of your clit and you clenched your eyes shut. There was too much light, and Frankie’s boring gaze on your face, and you were so wet, wet and still leaking, and the embarrassment had your skin burning and your chest constricted. 

The rolling of his hips resumed, sending jolting waves of pleasure radiating to the confines of your body. Of their own volition, your fingers started stroking, drawing circles in rhythm with his movements as he picked up the pace. 

Women like you don’t do these sorts of things.

Adrian’s voice rang out in your ears and your eyelids flew open to Frankie’s silhouette towering over you, shifting shadows of gold, predatory grin. A beacon and an anchor.

You plunged a finger inside your heat, and his grin widened when you gasped.

“I feel you,” you breathed out, “I feel you inside me.”

“Oh fuck, yea,” he groaned, darkening eyes and stretching lips. 

Releasing your thigh, he knocked your hand off and thrust two thick fingers where yours had been, overwhelming you instantly. He stayed there, fucking into your ass harder, reveling in the snug drag of his cock, eyes locked on your face. You were a fever, cheeks, neck and chest on fire, beads of sweat mixing with tears of pleasure, and your fingers reached for your clit again, pressing fast, shameless circles over it.

“Look at you, fucking look at you,” he panted. 

Women like you don’t do these sorts of things.

“So fucking beautiful. Fucking look at you.” 

Women like you. 

“Gonna watch you make yourself come while I fuck your tight ass.”

Women like you. 

He thrust in hard, down to his base. 

“Oh god,” you keened, cunt fluttering, walls collapsing around his fingers, a high like no other seizing your every nerve, a powerful swell, a blinding shock. Your body lifted and crashed, eyes rolling to the back of your head, legs trembling, slick pooling down thick and sticky onto his hand. 

“Oh shit, I can feel you coming, you’re gonna make me come, shit.”

He pulled out with a pained groan, clutching your hip to a bruising point, pearly ropes of come spurting onto your spread cunt, and you sunk into the mattress, landing somewhere beyond contentment, beyond rapture. 

His ragged breathing echoed in the room, reminding you to take in some air. With half-lidded eyes, you tried focusing on his anchoring figure. You wished for his body to cover yours, for the reassurance of his skin, for a wrapping embrace. You blinked away more tears, grinding your teeth, chewing down on your pathetic needs and emotions.

Women like you. 

He looked up at you and your transparency was unbearable. You retreated, folding your arms over your quivering chest, shutting your eyelids, your swollen heart and all of your hopes, burying your face into the dirty bedspread.

Women like you. 

He jerked your body back into the room when he slid a finger inside your cunt, soft sad eyes, hard cold stare trained on your face. Pushing his come into you, lacing his spend with yours. Leaning forward, he propped his hand onto the mattress next to your head, and brought his finger to your lips. 

There was a beat, before you could open up. An endless stretch of time during which you stared back at him, tore between need and pride. 

Gonna give you everything you want.

A bead of sweat dripped from the pebbled skin of his neck into the dip at the base of yours. Your lips parted, tongue curling around the sweet and tangy taste of your release and his. Reaching back, he collected some more, bringing his fingers to his plush lips. His eyes on yours throughout all of it, the thrusting, the licking, the working of his throat. 

It was over in an instant. 

He got up, cold air hitting your body, and started gathering his clothes. You lied there, sprawled, silent and limp, on the rumpled bedding. With your combined taste on your lips, your aching, swollen heart, and the wild creature lapping blood between your lungs. 

Wrecked.

****

[mrsevans90]

Puppy Love

Captain Syverson x OFC Emma Miller Part 1

Summary: Austin Syverson has returned to Texas after retiring from the military and starts his own contracting business. Syverson is used to being alone and thinks he prefers it that way. While at work he stumbles upon an injured and abused puppy. When he meets the new veterinarian in town, Emma Miller, he is immediately smitten with her. It turns out Emma has some baggage of her own. Will they be able to make it work? Or is it just a case of fleeting puppy love?

Pairing: Henry Cavill as Captain Austin Syverson x OFC Emma Miller 

Word Count: 3,502

Warnings: Abused animal, domestic violence, stalker ex-boyfriend, mention of nightmares/PTSD, smut in future chapters.

MINORS DNI! Must be 18+

I do not authorize any copying/pasting, stealing of my work, or using my words as your own. 

This story is not beta’d. All mistakes are my own.

A big thanks to @shellyshellshell for encouraging me to write this story!

A/N: I am an imperfect person who makes mistakes. All that I ask is to please be kind and if you enjoy it then please comment and REPOST! I appreciate any love, comments, and reposts more than you could know. Thank you for reading! 

*Syverson POV*

It’s certainly difficult to leave the cool air conditioning of the house to head to work when the weather forecast predicts another scorching Texas summer day where the humidity makes your clothes immediately stick to your skin. It’s nothing I’m not familiar with having grown up in Texas my whole life and then spending two tours in the desert before returning home. You’d think I would move somewhere cold, but the south is all I know. I certainly couldn’t leave Nana and Pawpaw either. After finishing my last tour, I came home and bought an empty house in disrepair and spent the better part of a year ripping it to studs and rebuilding. I was really struggling with returning to civvy life after spending the majority last ten years in the sand pit. Originally, I had just planned to fix up my house so that it was comfortable and hell, livable, until I discovered what I wanted to do outside of the army. Remodeling my house taught me that I really enjoyed working with my hands and building things. I guess you could say taking a broken, outdated home and making it beautiful and functional again really resonated with me on a deeper level. I was lucky to leave the army with only some mild PTSD and nightmares. Hell, I had all of my limbs and was alive which is more that I can say I deserve. Staying busy helped me cope so after working towards getting my contractor’s license, I decided to start my own company, Syverson Contracting. It was still a small operation with only about seven employees including my cousin Alex, but we got by just fine.

After getting ready for the day and sipping on my cup of coffee on the porch with my German Shepard, Aika, I put my boots on and headed to the truck for the first day on a new worksite. Like usual, I called Nana on the way to work to check in. My grandparents lived about fifteen minutes away from me, but I still called to check on them every morning and make sure they’re doing alright. As I drive, Nana starts chattering all about how her friend’s granddaughter is single and I should be looking for a good woman to marry and settle down with. We’ve had this conversation umpteen times before but I can’t seem to get it through my stubborn grandmother’s head that it’s useless. I’ve been burned by too many women in the past as a young and naïve man and I just don’t want to bring someone into all of my problems. Yes, I go to therapy at the VA to help with my PTSD but it still doesn’t stop the sleepless nights and nightmares that immediately send me back to wartime in the desert. As much as I’ve always wanted a partner in life; a beautiful wife to come home to, a couple of kids and the proverbial picket fence, I just don’t see how it could be in the cards for me now. I’m too fucked up. Nana of course would never understand and I certainly don’t want to drag her into it so I just listen to her drone on and on about some chick named Susanne and then tell her that I’ve got to go.

After speaking with my team and giving instructions for the job, I went to Alex’s flatbed truck and we all started unloading the materials. The home we were working on was owned by a young couple expecting their first child. It was a simple job, replacing the flooring throughout the house, building a shed in the backyard for lawnmowers and other garden tools, and repairing some dry rotting siding near the fireplace. The great thing about my team is that I could get them started and didn’t have to micromanage them. After several hours in the walloping sun, we all broke for lunch. After cooling off and reenergizing at the local Wendy’s, we all headed back to the house to continue our work. Since I was used to being in these weather conditions, I decided to head out toward the edge of the woods in the backyard and start building the garden shed. When I went to lift up some of the plywood, I was beyond shocked to find a shaking and filthy little tan dog who appeared to be injured and terrified.

“Shit. Heya buddy, I ain’t gonna hurt you. It’s alright pal. Let me take a look atcha.”

As a true animal lover, I was immediately enraged. Someone had intentionally abused this poor defenseless animal and either abandoned it or it was able to limp off to the woods. The little male pup, couldn’t be older than a year was bleeding from four different wounds on the side of his sand colored body. The second I scooped him up, he was whining and cowering in fear.

“You’re alright little man. I’m gonna take care of ya. Let’s see if we can getcha to a vet.” I call Aika’s vet office and unfortunately there is no answer. Janet must still be taking her lunch break.

I see Alex walking outside to grab some of the flooring to bring inside and yell for him to come here.

“What’s up, Sy?”

“Just found this little guy beat to hell by the woods.”

“Jesus. What kind of bastards do that to an animal?” Alex ponders as he was looking at the injured and sick animal. 

“I’m gonna see if Dr. Robinson’s in. Hopefully I can get the little feller in today but I need you to run the site until I get back.”

“No problem, Sy. Didn’t she just have another kid? I’m not sure if she’ll be there but I know Jessica said something about them hiring a new vet so I’m sure someone will be around.”

The veterinarian’s office was only a fifteen-minute drive from the site so after giving the poor thing some water, I loaded him up and drove there.

On the ride over, he seemed to relax a bit and not shake as bad as he had been and I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

“Oh Austin! How good to see you! Did your Aika have an appointment?”

“Hey Ms. Janet, is Dr. Robinson in? It’s not for Aika. I found this guy by the woods and he’s been hurt something awful.”

“Heavens to Betsy! Poor little angel! Elizabeth is out on maternity leave but we’ve hired a new vet. You'll like her. Let me check with her and see if she can work you in.”

“Yes ma’am.”

A few moments later, Janet scurries back and directs me to an exam room with the little guy. I guess I could have just dropped him off and went back to work but my heart just couldn’t stand it. Hell, I fought to bring back Aika from Afghanistan because of how quickly I fell in love with her and she’s been the best dog ever. I can’t imagine leaving this little guy to potentially die from his injuries without a friendly face nearby.

*Knock Knock!*

The door opens and my heart stops at the same time. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen enters while carrying a clipboard and a stethoscope. She’s a petite little thing only reaching to my shoulders with long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, and crystal blue eyes that feel like they see straight to my soul.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Emma Miller. I hear you found this little guy in the woods?”

“Uh, yes ma’am. Hello there, I’m Austin Syverson. Yeah, I uh, I found him and he looks like he’s been abused.”

She smiles brightly and shakes my hand when I introduce myself and the moment I touch her soft skin, I can hardly think straight. Why the hell do I feel so jittery? It’s just a beautiful woman Sy. Get ahold of yourself. I tell her exactly what I found and she quickly starts examining him while speaking to him in a sweet voice.

“Hi sweet boy. You poor thing! I’m so sorry someone has been treating you so horribly. We’re going to take care of you, yes we are. You’re going to be good as new! I’m going to give you some fluids because you’re dehydrated little guy. Once we get some fluids in you, I’ll try giving you some food. How about that little man?”

I can’t help but smile as she baby talks to him while inserting an IV in his tiny arm and starting him on fluids. She examines the wounds more carefully before retrieving a pair of things that look like tweezers.

“If I had to guess, I would say this guy is about 10-12 months old. I suspect these wounds on his side are from a BB gun. Would you mind holding his head? I’m going to give him some pain relief in his IV to help him relax and then try and clean the area and see if I can remove them. We’re a bit short staffed at the moment with Dr. Robinson out and two of our techs calling in sick so I’ll need your help if that’s okay?”

“Fucking BB guns.” I murmur under my breath. Damn some people are just the worst.

“I’m happy to help.” I tell her quickly and take up residence next to the puppy’s head to hold him still.

“Thank you.” She replies quietly while concentrating on rubbing some brown cleaner across each wound.

I can’t help but watch her as she focuses on removing all four bb’s and placing them into a metal bowl. She’s so effortlessly beautiful and incredibly adorable as she works on the dog who seems to be feeling so much better with the medication and fluids that he has received. She sews up each wound quickly and efficiently. The pup seems to be almost as captivated by her as I am. When she’s done, he even attempts to wag his tail for her. Dr. Miller explains that he will need a flea and tick bath before she can dress the wounds because he has several fleas on him and she doesn’t want them getting into the incisions.

“Mr. Syverson, I hate to keep you from your day. Would you want to just come back for him in a little while? I have to do an exam on a yorkie with diabetes but then I’ll bathe him on my break and get his wounds dressed.”

“Sugar?” I ask.

“I’m sorry, pardon?” She responds a bit flustered.

I smirk as I see the blush tinting her cheeks. “The yorkie. Is it named Sugar?”

“Oh! Yes! Someone you know?”

“My grandma’s neighbor, Mrs. Clayton, has a yappy little yorkie named Sugar and I believe I overheard that it has diabetes.”

“Yes, well that would be her.” She smirks back.

“I don’t mind waiting with the little guy. Is it alright if I stay and help you bathe him? Since your short staffed and all?” I ask with my most charming smile.

Her beaming grin tells me all I need to know. “Sure, Mr. Syverson. Can you give me about twenty minutes?”

“Only if you’ll call me Austin or Sy. Mr. Syverson is my pawpaw.” I say with a grin.

“Alright Austin. I’m going to leave you with some wet food on the table for this little fellow, but can I trust you to only give him small amounts slowly? We don’t know when his last meal was so we don’t want to overwhelm his belly.”

“Yes ma’am.” I mock salute at her with two fingers and she giggles when she leaves the exam room. I swear the moment she did I was a goner. I need to find a way to hear that giggle more.

“Well little guy, it looks as though we are helping each other out, huh? You ain’t the only one broken and battered.” I say as I give the dog a small plastic spoonful of wet dog food that he almost swallows hole.

“What should I call you?” I hypothesize aloud while the pup continues eating sloppily from the spoon I’m holding.

“Since Dr. Miller here patched you up, how about Miller? We can call you Mills for short. What do you think about that? I like it.”

Emma finally returns to the exam room and is happy to see that the Mills has eaten the food I gave him and kept it all down. Due to the food, medications, and fluids he received you can already tell a slight difference in his demeanor.

“Let’s get you all cleaned up, shall we?” She says while carefully picking him up and carrying him to the back of the building before pausing. “You coming, Austin?” She asks.

God, I hope I will be soon. I think before I rush over to open the exam door for her and follow her to the back.

“You know, I’m breaking rules by letting you back here so don’t make me regret it.” She says to me teasingly as she carefully sets Mills into a large stainless-steel sink and begins to bathe him with medicated shampoo.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Dr. Miller.”

“No, if I have to call you Austin, you have to call me Emma. It’s only fair.”

“Well, Emma is a beautiful name so that will be easy. If you don’t mind my asking, where are you from? We haven’t had a new vet in town since Dr. Robinson came and that was probably ten years ago.” I watch as Emma carefully removes three ticks from his fur and want to outwardly cringe. Ticks are the devil’s bug.

“I’m from Alabama. I’ve only been in Texas for about a month but just started working in the office this last week.” She tells me as she very carefully continues to clean Mills.

“What brought you all the way out here? Did your husband get transferred out here or something?”

She side eyes my question with a smirk. “Nope, just the job. No husband or kids. No boyfriend either in case that was your next question.” She remarks sarcastically.

My stomach flips with excitement even though she caught on to what I was really fishing for.

“Well, I’m certainly glad you’re here. For Mills’ health needs of course.” I add quickly while gesturing to the pup.

“Mills?”

“Yup. Short for Miller, after the doctor who’s taking care of him.”

Her cheeks blush bright red as she runs a flea comb gently through his fur. “Well aren’t you just the charmer. I’m surprised Janet didn’t warn me about you. She’s been clueing me in on pretty much the entire town.”

“Ah, good ole’ Janet. She knows there’s no need to warn you about me. She’s known me since I was in diapers so that should tell you enough about my character if she didn’t warn you off.”

“That’s good to know. So, are you planning on keeping little Mills? Or are you wanting us to adopt him out once he’s all healed?”

“Oh, I plan on keeping him if that’s alright. As long as my girl, Aika, is okay with it I’ll keep him. Can’t imagine sending him off to a stranger after what he’s already been through.”

“Well, if your girlfriend isn’t on board with keeping him just let us know and we can see about arranging a foster for him until he’s able to be put up for adoption.” She says while stepping a little further away from me.

Girlfriend? Oh dumbass, you made her think Aika is your girlfriend.

“Aika’s my German Shepard. I don’t have a wife, kids, or a girlfriend either.” I said poking fun at her sarcastic comment from earlier.

Emma grins but just continues to rinse Mills off. She notices that one of his paws looks a bit swollen but she can’t find any cuts or wounds so she thinks it may just be bruised from trying to run from his abuser.

Once we get him dried off, I hold his head again for her to clean and dress the wounds on his side and I’m dreading leaving.

“So, I’ll need to see little Mills in 3 days to check his wounds and remove the stitches. I need you to clean and redress the wounds one time a day like I’ve shown you. I’ve got his medication and antibiotics here and a couple of cans of that wet food that you fed him earlier. I recommend continuing to feed it to him slowly so that his tummy doesn’t get upset. Nobody likes waking up to a dog throwing up or having diarrhea in the house. If he does okay with that food we can discuss increasing his food intake at the next appointment. Do you have any questions, Austin?”

“Just one. Can I get your number, Emma? You know, in case I have questions about your prodigy, Little Mills, here.” I add with a smirk.

“I’m sure you have the number for the vet’s office.” She smirks.

“That I do, but I’d like yours as well, please.” I ask with my most convincing smile.

“Alright, alright. Just don’t advertise it. The last thing I need is people like Mrs. Clayton calling me after hours.” She concedes with a giggle and I can’t help my boisterous laughter at the last part.

“Nobody wants someone like Mrs. Clayton calling them all the time. That woman would talk to a wall just to hear her own voice.” I hand her my phone and she quickly types her number and I save it under “Mills’ Future Mama” and smirk to myself.

I pay and make the next appointment for Mills and then head to the local pet store for a collar, leash, dog bed, and more dog food. Luckily, Mills sleeps on the ride home and I can’t decide if he’s finally realized I’m not going to hurt him or if he’s still drowsy from the effects of the meds he received. I head home and send Alex an update that I’ll be back at the site tomorrow.

When I get home, I bring everything inside before carrying Mills over to Aika and carefully introducing him. After the initial excitement wears off, Aika heads outside to the backyard and I’m relieved that she seems to accept him. She’s always been such a good dog so hopefully I can rely on her to show our little rookie around and teach him our routines.

I go about showering and eating dinner, but I can’t seem to get my mind off Emma. I obviously want to play it cool but she has infiltrated my mind to the point where I just can’t think of anything else. I know this is a bad idea but I can't stop myself. I decide to take a picture of Mills in his little bed and text it to her.

Sy: <attached image>

Mills’ Future Mama: I’m glad to see my namesake is adjusting to his new life. I take it that his sibling accepts him?

Mills’ Future Mama: Also, you’re lucky I opened that picture text. Typically receiving a picture from an unknown number is never a good thing 😖

Sy: Sounds like your mind is in the gutter or you have some seriously unhinged acquaintances, darlin. Aika has accepted him into the pack without hesitation.

Mills’ Future Mama: More like, men are nasty and will take any opportunity to send an unsolicited dick pic to even the most unwilling recipients. Glad you found the little guy. He seems right at home.

Sy: He is. You should come visit him sometime.

Mills’ Future Mama: Why would I do that when he’ll be in my office in three days?

Sy: Maybe to see his owner?

Mills’ Future Mama: I’d imagine his daddy will be the one bringing him back to my office though?

Sy: Alright then, how about I make you some dinner at my place? Say tomorrow at 5pm?

Mills’ Future Mama: Make it 5:30 and I’ll be there. Just know I’ll be sending your information to my best friend in case you try and murder me.

Sy: What type of people were you surrounded by in Alabama? 🤨

Mills’ Future Mama: I was actually in a super safe town. Just watch too many crime shows to make careless mistakes.

Sy: Smart lady. You can tell whoever you want, darlin’. I’ve got nothing to hide and I appreciate a woman who has some self-preservation skills.

Mills’ Future Mama: Trust me, I’m very skilled at many things. 😜

Sy: Damn woman, I’m trying my best to be a gentleman here. It’s not fair to tease me.

Mills’ Future Mama: Not teasing. Just stating facts. 🙃

Sy: Tomorrow can’t get here soon enough. Here’s my address. Any food allergies?

Mills’ Future Mama: Nope! I’ll bring dessert. I’m interested to test your cooking prowess.

Sy: You’re killing me.

Mills’ Future Mama: See you tomorrow!

Part 2

Taglist: @shellyshellshell @henryownsme @caramariehurst @beck07990 @mollymal

[huramuna]

banshee's lament - chapter 3.

aemond targaryen x stark ofc minor jacaerys velaryon x stark ofc masterlist prev | next

a former ward of alicent hightower and aemond's childhood companion, shera stark, returns to king's landing after ten years. ten years after the incident at driftmark that left her and aemond permanently disfigured. after so many years apart, shera and aemond are almost strangers. almost.

shera's voice sounds like blue diamond in this clip. a soft, dreamy whisper.

wordcount: 4.3k

@huramuna-fics - follow & turn on notifications for just my fic postings! no taglists right now, sorry.

content: smut, angst, fluff, disabled ofc, aemond being delulu & obsessive, major canon divergence, ofc has a service direwolf, i'm taking canon rules and putting them in a blender and taking a shot, arranged marriage, graphic depictions of violence

story playlist

Shera didn’t waste much time getting back to her chambers. She was overwhelmed, confused and overall exhausted— and the day wasn’t even over yet. She chewed on the inside of her cheek as she padded the stone to her rooms, hoping to the Gods, the old and the new, that someone wouldn’t stop and speak to her. 

“A bath, please,” Shera asked the chambermaids hastily once she reached her solar. “Scorching, as hot as possible. And… my oils, from my chest— if you please…”

They brought in the large copper tub and filled it with hot water, all the way near the top until Shera could see the wisps of steam billowing from it. The maids poured in vials of oil that she brought with her from Winterfell— lavender oil, rosemary oil and sweet honeysuckle oil. The concoction swirled into a lovely light purple color. 

“Will you need help undressing, miss?” one of the maids asked. 

“N-no,” she murmured. “Thank you— you may go. Return just before sunset.” 

Then she was alone. She could finally breathe. Wasting no time undressing, she shed her veil and choker and outer layers until she met the hard exterior of her corset. Fuck. Mayhaps she should’ve asked for help. Unwilling to call them back in, she grabbed a cheese knife from the small dining table near the balcony, slitting through the bindings of the corset like a lovely aged bleu. 

Moongeist nosed the latch to the balcony, prompting Shera to open it and let in the breeze from the sea. Nude at last, she all but jumped into the bath, which to her delight, was still scorching. She watched as the wolf sat on the terrace, nose poking out through the stone barrier. He took in the scent of the sea, the salty spray and lingering aroma of toiling waves— and of course, barked at a few seagulls. 

Her bones relaxed as she unpinned her hair, tossing the pins astray into the room— to either be stepped on later, or never found again. Shera let out an audible sigh, feeling her skin soften from the oils. This was the pinnacle of her days— she was very fond of baths and made her own bath oils. She loved the warmth, the enveloping heat of the water soothing her worry. It was like the most comfortable of blankets and she loved to get clean, to be clean. It was a ritual and a must for her to have a bath at least every other day. 

Her love for baths started because of Helaena, she supposed. When Shera arrived in King’s Landing all those years ago for the first time, she was a grimy and dirty child, wild to the bone, and detested baths. The maids didn’t know what to do with her, until they bathed Helaena and Shera together. They weren’t far apart in age at the time, Helaena being the polar opposite of Shera— but somehow she reeled her into normalcy. The princess would bring her wooden toys into the bath, much to the chagrin of her mother, and play with Shera, blow bubbles and tell stories. It was odd to everyone around them, as the two seemingly switched personalities when they bathed together. Helaena, usually a quiet child, would tell grandiose stories, while Shera would sit quietly, giving her complete and rapt attention to the princess. 

The girls bathed together until they were both eight and ten years of age respectively, but even then, they would be in the room with one another while they did— reading books out loud, gossiping, or just sitting in silence, enjoying one another’s presence. 

Shera’s undoubted companion in the Keep was Aemond, but she had a very close and special friendship with Helaena— a friendship that the both of them very much missed, subconsciously. It wasn’t as huge of a blow to Shera as losing Aemond, as the Lady of Winterfell and the Princess frequently wrote one another throughout the ten years apart. It was one of the only reasons Shera wasn’t completely mad. But, even so, letters can only do so much, can’t they? 

As much as she loathed this marriage and the ramifications of it… she would still be closer to her family, her real family, upon Dragonstone than in Winterfell. She laid in the bath until the water went cool, her mind wandering back to the encounter in the Godswood. Why would Daemon speak to her and with such a… driven attitude? What did he want? 

Her thoughts continued to flow, a finger tracing patterns in the mingling oils that lived atop the water. Did Helaena still like baths? If she so asked, would they be able to bathe together like old times? 

No– that would require… forgoing her veil and choker. Even if it was Helaena– she doesn’t know if she could truly bare herself to her– to anyone.

—

The hours stretched on until dinner, Shera pacing back and forth, working herself up to a point where Moongeist tugged on her sleeve with his teeth as an indication to calm down.

The maids who’d been assigned to her flittered around her like a flock of ptarmigan hens, pleading with her to let them dress her. She shied away from their touch, only allowing them to dress her in a new corset and skirts. 

She stayed in her veil, accentuating it with a few strings of pearls so mayhaps she wouldn’t look so haunting– a hope that always went unfounded, people found her so very terrifying either way.

Shera preferred to wear dark, muted colors and always had on some item of fur upon her; tonight’s being a gorgeous black and white mink stole, which Cregan had gifted her for her seventeenth name day four years ago. It was accompanied with one of her newly tailored dresses, one she sewed herself just a few moons ago and making some last minute alterations on the journey to King’s Landing. It was black lace, falling down to her feet and dragging behind her like a ghostly shadow. Coupled with a laced black veil, she looked in the mirror. 

The maid behind her glanced at her warily. “Are… are you in mourning, Lady Stark?” she asked timidly. 

“... no?” Shera blinked, taking in her appearance from her reflection. Ah. So, this is why people consist with the ‘Banshee’ title. Shrugging her shoulders, she wrapped the stole around her snugly

Letting Moongeist guide her to the dining hall, to which he followed the smell of roasting meats, she mentally prepared herself. Princess Rhaenyra was to attend, and with Rhaenyra was her brood of children and her rogue husband and the extended clutch of hatchlings– Baela and Rhaena amongst them. She felt sickly at the fact that she would be seeing the twins again, the former of whom was who disfigured her.

Walking into the chamber, the music was in full swing and everyone was already seated. Had she really been so late? All eyes turned to her and Shera scanned them with a bowed head, the tips of her fingers shaking as she locked gazes with Baela. A reminder of the pain that she’d caused, how she wielded the knife that cut Shera’s throat and blinded her in one eye. 

The wolf to Shera’s side let out the tiniest of whines, pushing Shera towards the table, and her seat between Helaena and Alicent– thank the Gods for small mercies. Although, she was directly across from Aemond, who hadn’t even blinked since she entered the room. 

“Oh, it's so good to have you here again, my dear,” Alicent hummed, taking one of Shera’s hands into her own. The queen was so warm, where Shera was cold. “It is just like old times, hm?”

“Beautiful pup, Shera,” Helaena whispered to her, a hand outstretched to Moongeist. “You see so well through him.” she cooed, a smile plastering upon her lips as the wolf licked her open palm.

“Yes… old times,” Shera responded softly, adjusting her veil. She looked to Helaena, who returned with a knowing gaze. “Hel?” she murmured, lower than usual. 

“Yes, dovey?” 

“… I’ve missed you dearly.” Shera whispered, offering her hand to the princess— to which they interlocked fingers. The two separately were considered touch-averse, with Shera shying away from touch and Helaena cringing at it. But the two had a deeper understanding of one another, it seemed. They always had, their bond only outshined by Shera and Aemond’s. 

But now, it’d be different, wouldn’t it? Aemond was a hot and cold mess to Shera— but Helaena welcomed her like no time had passed. It made her chest ache in a nostalgic way, tears threatening to spill. The good thing about her veil is that no one could see her cry. The whole day had been terribly overwhelming, taut with too many people wanting something from her, needing her to be someone she didn’t wish to be— is this how Helaena felt when she was married to Aegon? 

Tears did fall and Shera let them drip down her face, sinking and sliding from the mink stole to her legs. Helaena tugged on her hand. “Don’t cry, dragonfly,” she hummed. “Dance with me?” 

Shera blinked the tears away, even though they were replaced by new ones right away. “I… would love to. I will not be the most coordinated, though— will you guide me?” 

“Always.” the princess replied, pulling Shera from her chair and guiding her with a gentle hand to the space in the hall set aside for dancing. The music was lively and jaunty, with a lovely tune strummed from a fiddle, accompanied with a wooden flute. Helaena placed a hand on Shera’s waist, then kept their other hands interlocked. “Put your hand on my shoulder. I will lead— you can pretend I’m a gallant knight.” 

Shera snorted a giggle. “I do not want to dance with a gallant knight,” she mused as they began to sway. Helaena kept her upright and indeed took the lead, allowing Shera to stay close and follow her movements. “I want to dance with the butterfly princess.” 

“Ah, the butterfly princess!” Helaena cooed. “I suppose that can be arranged. What will that make you? Oh— my little wolf spider.” she giggled in return. 

It was the first time the entire day, mayhaps the entire fortnight, that Shera felt… happy. She felt weightless dancing with Helaena and felt like crying again— damn the emotions. “Please don’t leave me, Hela,” she murmured, almost silently through garbled tears. “I’ve been so alone.” 

Helaena led the dance off to the further corner of the room where they would have more privacy to speak, still swaying. “I wouldn’t leave you, Shera. The wolf spider’s been so alone— so alone in the cold,” she hushed. “Now you’ve come back to play with the dragonflies and the butterflies— but we must watch out for the birds, the black tailed magpies, and oh, the hawks and gulls, my sweet.”

“May I steal Lady Stark for a dance, sister?” Aemond suddenly cut in, so silent in his approach that Shera hadn’t even heard him at all.

“I don’t know,” Helaena looked to Shera. “Say the word, and I shall release a clutch of spiders into his bedchamber.” she whispered lowly, as if telling a secret. 

Shera cracked a smile. “It’s alright, Hela. If he is untoward, Moongeist shall bite him.” 

Helaena embraced her once more before giving her brother a mock threatening glance. Aemond swiftly replaced her, putting his hands on Shera’s waist. It felt… different. Different from how Helaena had them, and how Daemon had touched her earlier in the Godswood. It wasn’t friendly, nor slimy— it made her want to turn tail and run away, but it also made her chest warm, heart thumping like a rabbit’s. 

“My lady.” he greeted, putting one hand on her lower back to help her posture. “I do hope you won’t sic your dog upon me– yet.”

“My prince,” Shera responded, looking up at him. “Mayhaps I won’t, we shall see.”

“Does it haunt you? That they’re all here in one room?” he leaned down to whisper, swaying back and forth to the music, albeit a bit rigidly. He wasn’t nearly as good of a dancer as Helaena.

“I am always haunted,” she echoed, blinking slowly. She wondered if he could really see her face under her veil. He was looking so intensely at her and she was unsure if he was putting her together or picking her apart in his mind. “Are you?” 

“It’s an agitation, like a brood of mosquitoes.” Aemond answered gruffly, looking away from her now. He wasn’t telling the whole truth, she noted. His lone pupil wavered, looking everywhere but at her.

“Do you have nightmares about it?” she asked, fingers prickling under one of the buckles of his doublet absentmindedly. “I haven’t outgrown them. Not even after this long.” 

He scoffed. “Nightmares? I’m not a child.” 

Liar. Liar. Liar.

The servers interrupted as they began to serve the first course— Aemond helped guide Shera back to her seat. 

“Thank you for the dance.” she murmured as he pushed in her seat. 

“Hm.” 

The dinner continued, Shera staying quiet while she prodded at her food. She preferred to eat alone and only ate enough, slipping it under her veil to not seem rude. Cregan was having a jolly time down the table, talking the ear off of Jacaerys. Baela and Rhaena were whispering to one another, as were Rhaenyra and Daemon. Shera’s skin crawled as she stole looks at the four of them– the twins hadn’t said a word to her, nor did it seem they would, merely whispering like mice. Aegon had excused himself after the first course was served and did not return. Aemond remained staring at Shera the entire time.

Blinking, Shera stared back at him finally, raising her head to lock gazes with him. The subtle shift of her veil indicated she had cocked her brow, as if to say ‘Why are you staring?’

The motion wasn’t lost on Aemond, as they fell back into their own silent communications that they were so well versed in as children. He cracked his knuckles and rolled his shoulders, responding in kind, ‘You know why.’

Alicent stood up, “I would like to propose a toast– to the return of our beloved Shera, as well as the visit of her brother and warden of the North, Cregan Stark. I cannot imagine it was an easy journey, but we are so blessed that you’ve made it, especially to finalize something that has… been in the making for a few years,” she held up her cup of wine, to which everyone else held up theirs, including Aemond. “Princess Rhaenyra, Cregan and I have been in much talk of betrothals and the like. I would like to announce, formally, the betrothal of Shera Stark,” she paused, taking a breath, “And Jacaerys Velaryon.”

Shera’s breath caught in her throat, her nails sinking into the soft of her palm. She focused solely on Alicent, even if she could feel the searing brand of Aemond’s stare on her. She refused to look, she couldn’t— 

But her sole eye betrayed her, her head turning ever so slightly to gauge Aemond’s reaction. He looked like a statue, his lone pupil narrowed to a slit, like a dragon’s. His hands were placed together dutifully, but the veins near his knuckles were bulging with strain, the fervor of what could only be described as fury coursed through him. The look in his violet iris scared the hells out of Shera. ‘Twas only a moment they locked gazes, but she felt, she saw the barely contained rage, the burning of the city and beyond from Vhagar’s back— 

And then it was gone, as if the candle of ferocity had been snuffed out. He sat up straight, giving Shera one last eyebrow raise before turning his attention solely to his mother. It terrified her how quickly he was able to turn it off, to bury deep as if it never existed at all. 

Perhaps she had imagined it. Surely she did– he didn’t have such a volatile temper as a child, if she could remember correctly.

Clearing her throat, she raised her glass higher as Alicent finished the announcement, gesturing in Jacaerys’ direction, who did the same in return to her. She wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of living upon Dragonstone, nor did she feel she was fit to be the wife of Rhaenyra’s heir. But, ‘twas the way of things. 

She thought Jace, as he had insisted she call him, was well and fine. He was a bit taller than she with a boyish charm and curled brown locks. Their few meetings as adults, where he had so gallantly rode all the way up to Winterfell upon his dragon, he always kissed her hand and smiled at her. It was easy to forget that he was a part of her and Aemond’s maiming when she turned her mind off and became the little puppet Lady that she was supposed to be— but then she would wake up crying in the middle of the night, begging for them not to kill her—

“I would like to propose a toast,” Aemond’s voice cut through Shera’s thoughts like a sharpened blade, the horrid screeching of his swiftly kicked out chair causing her to cringe. “A toast— to our lovely banshee, and her strong husband-to-be. I do hope that Jacaerys is keen on sleeping on the floor whilst a dog warms his wife’s furs– and let us pray for Shera’s health once they ruminate over Dragonstone. Do you still get sea sick, my lady? I cannot imagine a wolf gaining sea legs any time soon.” 

“It’s none of your business, uncle–,” Jace countered, pushing back from his chair to stand.

“Aemond, don’t,” Alicent hissed quietly, gripping her goblet with an iron fist. 

“I’m merely expressing my joy for their coming union, mother. Seems the issue is a bit touchy, hm, Jacaerys?” Aemond’s mouth twitched into a toothy smile, but it was nothing of joy. It was like the open maw of a dragon, daring anyone to walk near, lest they be snapped into smithereens. 

Jacaerys walked a bit closer to Aemond, his hackles equally raised in a challenge. Shera’s observation of the two was quickly surmised; Jace was soft where Aemond was razor-edged. A fight between them would be of little challenge. The underlying rage in Aemond was apparent once more, simmering and bubbling in the pot, threatening to boil over and scald everyone within his reach. His words didn’t sound like he was about to fly off the handle– he was in complete control of every carefully placed barb, every pause in his speech was intentional for added dramatics, to piss off Jace– and Shera, it seemed.

“Do you really expect your nuptials to be fruitful, nephew? Have you ever seen her without her veil? I must say,” Aemond nodded his head toward Shera’s direction as he got closer to Jace, whispering in his ear as if not to let anyone else in on their conversation– Shera heard, though. “I’m quite curious myself– do you think that our dear cousin’s blade,” his lone eye looked to Baela, who was arm-in-arm with Rhaena, Daemon looming behind them like the Dragonmont itself, “Was sharp enough, for a clean cut? Mayhaps it’s a mangled mess under there. Best to keep the covering on for your wedding night, hm?”

“I dare you to say that again,” Jacaerys growled, his hand itching as he flexed and unflexed his fist. “You can say what you’d like about me, but you shall hold your tongue before my betrothed.” 

“Jace,” Shera murmured lowly, feeling for Moongeist as she got up from her own chair, shaking. The wolf pressed to her leg, guiding her to where Jacaerys was at arm's length. She put a gentle hand on his shoulder, whilst trying to quell the quiver of her bones, while keeping her eye upon Aemond. “‘Twas merely a jest– in poor taste… but a jest.” she had her head lowered diminutively, biting the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. Sure, the ‘jest’, as it was, hurt immensely to her already fragile psyche– but she had to keep a level head, especially here. 

Still holding his own goblet, Aemond’s nostrils flared as he watched Shera caress Jace, as if they were truly close. The tip of his brow twitched as he hardened his jaw, lowering his cup and proverbial feathers, remembering himself, remembering where he was. “A jest— of course. Though, I never was the jester of our group, was I? Once upon a time, it’d been you, Jacaerys.” the second son exhaled, eye still trained on Shera. But he approached Jace, hand outstretched. “Congratulations.” he said, his voice clipped. Once again, the rage had been shoved deep down and quelled for the time being.

Jace tentatively took his hand, nodding slowly. “Thank you, uncle,” he squeezed Aemond’s hand before pulling back. “You’re better with a blade than a joke, that is for certain.”

“Mayhaps we shall spar sometime, then?” Aemond suggested. Everyone in the room knew it was a chance for him to kick Jace into the dirt like he desperately wished to do presently. 

“Yes– on the morrow, uncle,” Jacaerys nodded. “Lord Stark should join us, yes? Let’s make a proper gauntlet out of it, then.”

Shera’s hand, in turn, retreated from Jace’s shoulder as she rested a hand on Moongeist’s head. Turning to Alicent, who looked on the edge of an anxious breakdown. “Thank you for the dinner, your grace. I am… feeling quite faint, so I fear I must retire,” Shera whispered, curtsying as best she could. Turning to Rhaenyra and Daemon, she bowed her head. “Princess, prince.” 

Rhaenyra gave a wry smile. “Feel better soon, dear.” 

Daemon said nothing, just nodding his head as his finger traced the rim of his cup. 

“Allow me to escort you, sister,” Cregan was at her side in an instant. 

“It’s not nec—,” 

“I insist.” 

It wasn’t a lie— Shera did feel quite faint from the events and excitement. Letting Moongeist guide her, she escaped the dining hall mostly unscathed, despite feeling a gnawing pain in the pit of her stomach. 

Keep the covering on during your wedding night– mayhaps it's a mangled mess under there.

“O-okay,” she responded monotonously, as if she wasn’t even in control of her own body, her own words. 

Cregan held her in his steady grip, guiding her out of the hall. He was quiet until they entered Maegor’s holdfast. “Dragons are quite tempestuous, aren’t they?” he began.

“… yes.” 

“Your childhood companion— the prince— he certainly had a lot of great things to say about you, didn’t he?” 

“… Cregan.” 

“Listen to me, Shera,” he said as they entered her chambers. “They’re not your friends— not anymore. They’re strangers to you.” 

“But—,” 

“They don’t know you anymore, they only knew who you used to be.” 

And you’re a shell of who you used to be. But that was left unsaid. 

“You shan’t waste your tears any longer on them, on him,” he continued. “And do not give me that look, don’t think I don’t hear you crying at night.” 

“Mayhaps I cry at night because you shoved me into something I am unfit for!” Shera shouted, her voice cracking, followed by a hiss of pain. Something I do not wish for. Jacaerys helped make me this way, Cregan. Don’t you care? Does it matter more than your fucking oath?

Cregan wanted to bite back, but instead furrowed his brow. “Are you alright? Shall I fetch a maester?” 

“N-no…” she whimpered, her voice broken and full of gravel. She pressed a hand to her throat, swallowing a cough. “… tea.” 

“Of course,” Cregan murmured, guiding his sister to sit on the loveseat near the fire. “I’ll get a maid… and… and the tea.” 

Shera nodded, watching him leave. She didn’t care for the pain, even if it felt like someone was dragging a brush of thorns inside of her throat— she felt like she was falling apart at the seams mentally, akin to her old mended dresses, the threads wilting and falling away. 

She felt lost. Lost in the fact that… she wasn’t sure she belonged anywhere. They thought her not cut out for Northern life from her delicate sensibilities— and she wasn’t cut out for King’s Landing for the same reason, except it wasn’t the physical environment, but the barbed tongues, the venomed words, the games of the mind. 

She didn’t belong. 

Would it even matter if she wasn’t part of the equation? Rhaenyra would get her alliance with the North somehow, Cregan would fulfill his oath, Jacaerys would have a number of other betrothal options. 

It mattered not that she was here. 

Didn’t it?

Keep the covering on during your wedding night– mayhaps it's a mangled mess under there.

Her jaw clenched all night as she nursed her tea to soothe her throat– but every other part of her was purely on fire. The one person in the entirety of this Gods forsaken world who knew what she felt, what she went through– the one other person who was there, who was on her side, who she… she lost everything for– was keen to jest at her disfigurement. 

She stood up from her chair, hours after Cregan had left her, throwing the porcelain at the wall. The teacup smashed into bits and pieces and she sunk her teeth into her own lip until she tasted copper. The kettle was next, hocked upon the mantle of the fireplace as it too, split apart. 

I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home.

Her damaged vocal cords mustered her wails they best they could, forlorn and haunting and low– 

Where was home? She wanted to go home, home– but she didn’t belong anywhere. Where was her home? 

The banshee yowled like a creature with a broken leg, echoing against the walls, ever enclosing.

[maddie0101]

Skinny Love Series (thomas tmr x fem ofc)

Summary: Blake and Thomas argue throughout the entire day, but there is something else between them that the two can’t ignore.

Warnings: cussing, sexual tension?

Word count: 2k

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𝘽𝙡𝙖𝙠𝙚 arrives back at her hammock, sitting down with her elbows resting on her thighs. Her hands clasp together by her mouth as her leg bounces. The girl's face etches with worry and confusion as her thoughts wonder to the greenie. So we definitely knew each other, and that was definitely a memory I got back. What are the odds? Is he the reason I was sent here?

Her foot stills as she tries to push her thoughts away. Blake wasn't good with change, usually—she would open the greenies with open arms and not be so closed off, but this one is different. Once they had shaken hands, Blake got her first memory back.

Why now?

Why him?

A twig snaps to her left, making the girl whip her head around to the boy— who the small girl had just been thinking about.

"You okay?" Thomas asks in a soft whisper

The brunette girl fixes her posture and clears her throat.  "Yeah, just drank too much...." Blake says as her eyes flicker from her hands to the greenie. "Why are you here?—Shouldn't you be, I don't know...celebrating?"

Thomas blinks at the girl's sudden mood change—she's aggravated for some reason.

"I uh..just wanted to make sure you were okay; saw you walking off..." Thomas says as he shifts his feet.

"Well, I'm fine, Thomas." The girl says, turning her head to the boy with a blank expression. "I'm going to sleep— so if you don't mind...I'd like to do that."

"Yep, got it," Thomas says as anger boils in his stomach.

Turning on his heels to leave, he quickly whips around to face her. "What's your deal with me?"

Blake shifts on her hammock as she turns her head toward the boy, scrunching her features. "Nothing—I just want to get some sleep." She says, shifting back over—away from the boy.

Thomas stands awkwardly in the same spot as his hands fall on his hips before running a hand over his face in agitation. Realizing the girl might be tired, he turns back on his heels.

That night, Thomas lays in his hammock, staring at the hut's ceiling as his eyes turn to peer at Blake sleeping.

What’s her deal with me?

The following day, Blake wakes up at her usual time, grabbing her set of clean clothes and heading to the showers.

It was a Saturday, meaning most gladers had the day off. Alby gives them one day per week to rest and help around the glade. They used to not have any days off, but Alby had noticed a handful of runners growing exhausted and ending up injured because of it. So he ordered the runners to relax for a day to avoid getting injured or worse. After all, they need as many runners as they can get.

Blake walks into the showers as she hears one of the faucets running. Min

The girl goes to grab one of the fresh towels. She throws it over one of the stall doors, placing her clothes onto the hook for her to grab—once she is done. The girl opens the stall door and turns the knobs to her preferred temperature—before realizing she forgot her brush.

"Shit," Blake curses to herself as she darts out of the stall—running over to the sink, she grabs her brush. Turning on her heels, the girl sprints back to the shower but slams into a...wall?

Blake's eyes widen as she realizes it, in fact, isn't a wall. Her eyes slowly rise to see the greenie staring down at her as his hands steady her waist.

Blake's eyes grow wider as she scans over the brunette boy in front of her. Holy shit. Although Blake wasn't particularly fond of the greenie, she couldn't deny how attractive he was.

Thomas stands in front of her only in a towel with a light smirk, tugging at his lips as he looks down at her. His brown hair falls over his forehead as water beads trickle down his face. Blake gawks at the towel hanging dangerously low on his waist.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer." Thomas teases with a smirk as he brushes past the girl.

Blake blinks, her gaze falling into a glare as she brings her eyes back up to his, scoffing at his newfound confidence: Oh, hell no.

"Who clunked in your cornflakes this morning?"

Her remark only amused Thomas as a slight smirk tugged onto his lips again. "Nobody, but it seems someone shit in yours last night."

Blake scoffs before she turns around and walks back to her shower, shutting the door.

"Fuck off, greenie," Blake says, anger flickering in her voice as she strips her clothes off.

"Why does everyone keep calling me that?!" Thomas grunts in agitation.

"Because you're the newbie." Blake explains as she throws her clothes over the stall door.

"Yeah, well—why doesn't everyone just call me by my name?" The boy continues, not able to hide the annoyance in his tone.

Blake laughs at the boy's agitation. "Well, greenie, technically, you just remembered your name last night."

Silence fills the room as Blake steps under the water, sighing as the water meets her skin.

"True, but why do you keep using 'greenie'?"

"Because I can... greenie. Now, please shut your shuck hole and let me shower peacefully."

Blake lathers her hair with shampoo as she hears the bathroom door slam shut, smiling to herself as she finally gets some peace.

Later in the day, Blake leans against a tree as she watches the boys bicker over a game of 'glader ball.' The boys all stand in a group arguing, most shirtless and sweaty from running.

Blake spots Gally yelling at Zart—who apparently made a "shit call." Giggling at the builder's agitation, Blake's shoulders rise up and down as she notes Gally's veins pop out of his forehead, throwing his hands up in question as he continues to yell.

Alby had decided to give the rest of the gladers the day off to celebrate the new greenie as some of the boys started the game.

The boys made up the game one day when one of the gladers found a ball that had come up in the box—It had started just throwing the ball around, and then— it turned into tackling. Soon enough, the boys made rules to play the game and even pulled some of the other gladers into refereeing to make the game 'fair.'

It was somewhat of an escape from the feeling of being trapped. It was a way to get everyone's mind off of the chances of not getting out and to have some fun.

Blake feels the breeze lift her curls away from her face as she spots Minho walking over with a smile etching his face.

Here we go...Blake smiles, rolling her eyes at her best friend.

"Hey princess, wanna come play some glader ball?" Minho asks as he stops in front of her with his hands on his hips.

"Not right now, Min. I'm relaxing."

"Oh, come on. A bunch of guys with their shirts off, and you don't want to be near them?" He teases as he throws his hands out in exasperation.

Blake rolls her eyes at his attempt. "It's way too hot, Min. I'm just chilling for now," the girl says with a pause, "and besides, I can observe the abs from here." She continues, smirking.

"Who? Thomas' abs?" Minho asks

Blake glares at the boy before her, "Min, really? I can barely stand the guy."

"You were literally gawking at him all yesterday! As soon as he came up from the box, it looked like you wanted to—"

"Minho! Don't you dare finish that sentence!" The girl growls

"What?" He smirks, knowing he hit a nerve.

"I don't like him like that, and besides, I'm just—stressed, okay." She says as she lifts her hand to brush her fingers through her hair.

"Want me to help? You know—release some tension?"

The girl's hand instantly freezes, and her mouth hangs open at the boy's comment, blinking rapidly in shock.

Blake grabs the shoe off her foot, throwing it at the boy in front of her. "Get out of here, Min! Shoo! You shuck face!"

Minho laughs as he dodges the shoe, his hands flying up in fake surrender as he turns on his heel to run back to the game—The runner notices a certain greenie glaring in their direction. Minho's smile instantly grows bigger, knowing he caused the frown on the greenie's face.

Later that day, the dinner bell rings throughout the glade, signaling to the gladers dinner is ready.

Blake gets up from her spot to make her way to the kitchen, spotting her favorite boys chatting at the table, well, all her favorites—except for the greenie.

Grabbing her plate, she slides down in her seat next to Minho. Newt sits diagonally from the girl, with Chuck on his left and Thomas on his right—leaving the greenie to sit across from the girl.

Blake rolls her eyes as she shoves food into her mouth. Minho holds in a laugh at Blake's agitation, knowing she isn't too happy with the newbie sitting at their spot.

"How's the day been treating you, princess?" Minho teases the girl as he breaks the silence, bringing his fork up to take a bite.

Blake glares at the boy, smirking; she opens her mouth to retort back at Minho's comment but sees Thomas holding in a laugh. Blake feels rage flow through her body as she tries to refrain herself from attacking him.

"What are you laughing at, shank?" Blake scolds

Thomas' laugh fades into a slight frown as his eyebrows raise. "I don't know what's got your panties in a twist, princess."

Anger bubbles inside the petite brunette as she narrows her eyes at the boy in front of her. In a split second—she darts over the table, grabbing the greenie by the collar of his shirt, making him stand up with her as she brings his face inches from her own.

"You don't get to use that nickname, greenie. Now sit back down and shut your fucking mouth before I do." She says, gritting her teeth. The small girl pushes him back into his seat as he tenses in shock. Thomas was taken off guard at that comment and honestly a little flustered.

Across the table, Minho can't help but chuckle as Newt sits beside the greenie, hiding his laughter. Thomas' jaw clenched, and his gaze hardened as he glared at her from across the table.

"How about we tone it down a bit—Shall we?" The British voice causes the girl to huff as she continues devouring her food.

Newt shifts his gaze between the two as they stare each other down. "What's the deal with you two anyways?"

"This shank is my deal." Blake snaps

Thomas' eyes burned into Blake's as the tension grew thicker—Blake flashed the greenie a quick smirk to push him even farther on edge.

Minho glanced over to Blake, scanning her features. He knew exactly why Blake was acting out. She's scared.

Thomas hasn't done anything to upset the girl...but the memory she got back scared her—even though she would never admit it.

"Well, you two need to make amends before you both end up in the pit." Newt says, cutting through the tense silence. "I don't know what happened—or why you don't like each other but—"

"I have my reasons." Blake cuts in, breaking eye contact with Thomas as she quickly grabs her plate, standing up.

Blake ignores Newt calling her name as the boys look between each other, confused.

Thomas' eyes lingered on Blake, every step she took until she disappeared from view. The boy sighs exasperated as his arms folded over his chest, leaning back in his chair.

➭ Next Chapter

author’s note

- The Skinny Love series is already complete. I am transferring it from my Wattpad to Tumblr. This is my first fic I have ever written. If you’d like to read the rest of the series without having to wait for updates, my Wattpad user is: @maddie5139 (linked in my pinned post)

- Also, if you’d like to be tagged lmk!

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

I'm Your Man - Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal x OFC - Chapter 5

Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 |-| Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19

AO3

Summary: Egan's first mission since Cleven's disappearance proves disastrous, leaving Frankie to clean up the damage he left behind

Warnings: Language, vomit, this one's angsty guys

Word Count: 4k

Tags: @mads-weasley @xxluckystrike @curaheehee @footprintsinthesxnd @dcyllom @storysimp @latibvles @love-studying58

The smell of cigarette smoke stung Bucky's nose, his warm breath fogging up the inside of the cockpit windows as he stared aimlessly at the early morning sky, dull grey gradually giving way to a vivid blue as the sun crept above the horizon. He had no idea how long he'd been sitting there, glaring at nothing, but this certainly wasn't his first cigarette, a pair of burnt-out butts on the floor by his feet a testament to this. It could have been sadness or anger that had driven him up here, but when the two combined it felt awfully more like numbness than anything else.

A sudden hammering against the glass broke his train of thought, dropping his cigarette in surprise as if left a small scorch mark on the inside of his trousers. Turning to his left, expression contorted in shock, he came face to face with Frankie, her furrowed brow only inches from the window after somehow managing to clamber up onto the wing without him noticing.

"What the- get down!" Egan cried, stomping out his cigarette before it could become a fire hazard.

"If that cockpit's full of cigarette butts now, I'm gonna beat your ass," She warned, her voice slightly muffled by the glass.

"...No," He shook his head, attempting to covertly use his uniform cap as a makeshift dustpan to clean up his mess, but when he looked back up at Frankie her eyes had narrowed at him. "What do you want?"

"Colonel Harding's looking for you. Personally, I just didn't want to deal with the smell after you drink and smoke yourself to death in here. I'd much rather you do it somewhere else, please."

A flicker of a smile crossed Egan's face, perhaps the first he could remember since he'd heard the news about Cleven. Half-empty flask tucked in his pocket, a hat full of ashes in his hand, he clambered out of the pilot's seat, weaving his way through the plane's interior to drop down out of the door. Frankie was waiting on the tarmac for him as his feet touched the ground, peering discerningly up at him. She swiped the flask from his pocket and took a swig for herself, giving a shrug of almost-approval at his choice of drink as she handed it back.

"I'm not gonna ask if you're ok," She frowned, yanking the cap from his hand and upturning its contents.

"Good," Bucky nodded, slinging an arm around her shoulder as they wandered back towards the jeep she had come in. "Weather report?"

Frankie glared up at him. He knew she objected to his participating in the next mission - it was only a matter of time before she actually tried to argue about it. Really, it was more a question of whether she was going to fight him, or try and take on the general. "Clearing up. D'you need me to drive you back?"

"If it was anyone else I might have said yes, but you... you're really bad at driving," Evidently she had anticipated this response, for her bike was already sticking out of the trunk, waiting for her to surrender the vehicle to him.

"Alright, one sec," Frankie gestured for him to turn and face her, surveying his appearance like she was a mother about to send her son off to the school dance. Reaching up, she tugged his tie straight, brushing a few flakes of ash from his jacket with the back of her hand. "Open," She demanded, and he opened his mouth without question, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Taking a whiff of the alcohol on his breath, Frankie frowned, and Egan found himself unable to utter a word before she shoved a couple of breath mints into his mouth with such force he almost choked.

"Gee, thanks," He spluttered, coughing. "Might choke to death, but at least I'm not gonna smell."

"I can't do everything," She shrugged, stepping away to grab her bike out of the jeep.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," Bucky drawled sarcastically, clearing his throat one last time as he slid into the driver's seat, the engine starting with a roar as he watched Frankie begin to cycle away in the rearview mirror.

It was barely beginning to rain, spots of cold water striking Frankie's face as she pedalled relentlessly, taking it at a somewhat leisurely pace for once, too distracted to sprint the way she usually would. They were running a mission today. They had run one yesterday. They had run one the day before. She was losing track of the last time she'd slept more than a couple of hours in a night, the constant missions meaning tougher, tighter deadlines for all her work. The fixes needed to be completed twice as fast, and it was becoming physically impossible to keep all the buses air-worthy as needed.

Lemmons and the others were already on site and working away as she arrived, a fact that lessened her anxiety ever-so-slightly. In the months since they'd arrived, her begrudging acceptance of the American mechanics had grown more and more willing - they'd proved their worth, their dedication, and she couldn't ask more than that.

"How many can fly today?" She called, abandoning her bike in the grass as she jogged over to the hardstand where Ken was working away.

"Still only seventeen," He sighed. "A couple need fixes to the return lines, but we just don't have time for any big repairs."

"I know," Frankie nodded grimly. "Daily missions are a nightmare, just pull through with what you can, they can't blame us for any of this."

His expression was tense, tainted with guilt. She could tell he was thinking of Cleven again. "Hey," Frankie urged, pressing a reassuring hand to his shoulder. "None of this is our fault." Lemmons nodded after a moment's pause, tilting his head to let his chin rest upon the spot where her hand gripped his shoulder.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

By the time the flight crews began rolling in in their jeeps, Frankie had grown so irritable that she swore her teeth would shatter if her jaw clenched itself any harder. The constant frustration of never being able to carry out the repairs she wanted, the ever-present worry that burrowed into her stomach whenever the pilots left, and the anger she felt at Egan for going with them, were all colliding in an explosive combination. And her fellow mechanics seemed to feel it - even Ken was keeping his distance.

Bucky's car slowed to a halt behind her as she finished up, and she turned to glare at him, a look he was sure he'd never seen crease her face before. "Now, Frankie," He approached with a plastered-on grin, seizing her by the shoulders as he tried to alleviate her mood with his own false joyfulness. "Why is it that we're only flying seventeen buses this morning? I hope Lemmons over there hasn't been screwing with your excellent work."

He had touched a nerve. Unfortunately for Egan, this realisation came a split-second too late. Before he knew it, there was a spanner jammed under his chin, as if she held a knife to his throat, her expression only made harsher by the remark. "Maybe if some people didn't force themselves in where they aren't needed we wouldn't have to pull everything together in such a fucking hurry, eh?"

"Ok, Frank, tough morning, I get it," He nodded, releasing her shoulders and taking a full step back. But he wasn't going to pretend her statement about him being unneeded hadn't sparked his own anger. "But don't take that out on me, I'll pass your concern on to Harding, and we'll see what he can-"

"The only thing I want Harding to get is a smack up the fucking head for letting you fly."

"This is war, Frankie, you think I'm gonna sit out because of what happened? I've never wanted this more than I do now!"

Without fully realising, their voices had begun to rise, argument audible to the other ground and flight crews nearby as they attempted to awkwardly go about their business.

"We both know you're not fit to fly - oh, or does a breakfast of whisky and cigarettes pass the military standard these days? You're burning the candle at both ends and you won't talk to me about it because you're embarrassed by how obvious it's become, John!"

"You really wanna go there? How 'bout we talk about how you spend every fucking night up here working until you drop, and the only times you don't is when you're drinking yourself to the same effect? How many hours did you sleep last night - or the night before, huh? Two? Three? Don't stand there and fucking lecture me about 'burning the candle at both ends'-" He lifted his hands in quotation marks, mockingly mimicking her accent. "- when I'm just following your example!"

Frankie didn't speak for a moment, but as Bucky tried to walk past her, she swivelled on her heel, yelling at him with such force that it was a miracle the entire bomb squad didn't hear. "Why do I have to lose my friend just because you lost yours?!"

He stopped dead in his tracks, stone-cold expression cracking for a second. "Frankie-"

Raising a hand to silence him, she shook her head. "No- you know what? Just fuck off. Get in your death trap and fuck off. At least I'll have one less mess to clean up when you don't come back. I'm sure Cleven will be so proud that his legacy amounted to that."

Frankie could tell she'd hurt him. His glare didn't falter, but she saw the way he flinched when she mentioned Cleven. If she'd been in a more forgiving mood, she might have apologised on the spot - taken it all back, promised she wanted nothing more than for him to return safe and in one piece. But she was tired and she was angry, and apologising was the last thing on her agenda. Hot tears were welling in her eyes as she stomped off, the clanging weight of her toolbox accentuating every step as she officially declared whatever happened next as Not Her Problem.

'Royal Flush' was the next plane along the runway, close enough so that every shouted word of Egan and Frankie's exchange had carried on the wind, the flight crew exchanging embarrassed glances as they tried to ignore the conversation they had suddenly found themselves privy to. Rosie had been about to climb in, but the sudden shouts had given him pause, waiting by the hatch as he watched on with a furrowed brow. Her boots thumped hard against the tarmac as she marched up to them, tools weighing her down on one side.

"Everything looks good?" She demanded, stopping in front of the plane, her usually jovial tone gone.

He frowned, concern twisting his expression. "Everything is - yeah - are you ok?"

Frankie's lip jutted out for a moment, and Rosie grew suddenly worried that she was about to burst into tears. Taking a sharp, shaky inhale, she nodded firmly. "Everything's great."

He slammed the hatch shut, gesturing for her to step underneath the plane's belly so that they were out of both sight and earshot of the rest of Rosie's Riveters. She did so, putting her toolbox down at her feet so that she could wipe away the tears that were forming with the heels of her palms. "I'm really tired."

Rosie almost laughed, a huff escaping him as she confirmed every suspicion he'd harboured about her unorthodox work hours. Lifting a hand to her cheek, he brushed her hair away from where it had stuck to half-dried tears. "Oh, honey," He uttered before he'd had a chance to actually consider the words, the pair of them brushing past the term of endearment without a second thought, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. "He's gonna be fine. Egan'll come back in a couple hours, and you can both apologise to each other, and everything'll be fine."

She sniffed sharply, nodding, and he chuckled as she reached up to tug the zipper on his jacket all the way up past his collar, the sheepskin brushing against his chin. "Don't get... like... shot, or anything."

He grinned, nodding affirmatively. "Duly noted. Nice pep talk."

Frankie smiled then too, thumping him in the shoulder like she always did when he teased her. "I'm not kidding," She chuckled. "If every person I'm seen talking to before a flight fucking dies people will start thinking I'm bad luck."

Rosie raised a brow at this, flicking away another stray strand of hair that had gotten caught on her eyelash. "Well... of all the ways to go, I'll take your weird bad-luck-magic any day."

She sniffed again, her eyes still red from almost crying. "Thank you," She nodded earnestly.

"Alright. I'll see you later?"

"You hope," Frankie joked, smile flickering for a moment as she realised the remark may have been in bad taste, but he chuckled nonetheless, opening the hatch and climbing up into 'Royal Flush'. As his head popped up in the belly of the machine, Rosie noticed his co-pilot crouched on the floor beside him, eyeing him with a raised brow.

"... What?"

"Jesus Christ," Pappy muttered, pushing himself to his feet and worming his way through to the cockpit.

"Pappy, what?" Rosie insisted, close behind him. The man batted him away, and he threw up his hands in frustration, sliding into the pilot's seat.

"This thing ain't as sound-proof as you think it is, that's all I'm sayin'."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Frankie squinted in the midday sun as she lay in the grass beside the runway, the tall grass blowing in and out of her peripherals on the cool breeze. The wait was always agony - the uncertainty, the sense of powerlessness, the surety that some of the men who had left were never coming back. It seemed word of her public argument with Major Egan had travelled fast, for as soon as lunchtime rolled around, there was George. She never bothered to walk all the way to the airstrip from the command centre, but today she had made the hike, a paper bag full of cheese and cucumber sandwiches in tow.

Lemmons sat silently, cross-legged in the grass as he enjoyed his lunch. "Thanks for this, ma'am, it was real nice of you," He nodded appreciatively, making up for his and George's lack of familiarity with polite flattery.

"Yeah," Frankie agreed, speaking with a mouth full of cheese. "Much better than the shit coffee and stale crackers we keep in the hut."

George furrowed her brow, frowning questioningly over at Ken. "No refrigerator," He shrugged, offering no further explanation.

Frankie ate with one hand, a difficult task when lying down, half of the sandwich filling falling out onto her chest. But her other hand was draped across George's leg as she painted her nails a subtle shade of mauve, scolding her whenever she twitched. When she was stressed, she smoked too much, and George had long since realised that the best way to curb the bad habit was to distract her with food, or to ensure her hands were indisposed. On a particularly stressful afternoon such as this one, it seemed combined efforts were in order.

"... You don't think Bucky hates me now, do you?" Frankie asked quietly, her two companions frowning down at her.

"What are you, twelve?" George snorted, carefully finishing off the edges of her thumbnail. "He'll get over it. Grown-ups fight, dear."

"You're both having a hard time," Ken added. "He's just blowing off steam, I don't think he meant any of it."

"I meant what I said. When I said it, that is."

"Once you got drunk and told me you wanted to rip my eyes out because I was too pretty - I haven't held it against you," George shrugged. "You definitely meant that at the time."

"I'm easily frustrated."

"Yeah, no shit."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

George's watch ticked steadily past the time they had expected the planes to return. She didn't return to work - didn't leave Frankie's side - sitting beside her in the grass, a deathly silence hanging over them as she began to pick and chip away at her freshly dried nail polish.

"They should have been back by-"

"Shh." Frankie interrupted sharply, an utterly dreadful sense of foreboding hollowing out her gut. She didn't realise how thoroughly she'd picked at her hand until her finger came away bloody. Where were they?

The sound of an engine rattling above made their ears prick, gazes locked on the same spot on the great blue horizon as a single plane came into view.

Just one.

Before she even realised she was nauseous, Frankie had vomited the contents of her stomach onto the grass in front of her. If none of them had returned, it could have meant any number of things. She knew exactly what one plane meant. She didn't even watch it land, just stared down at the stinking puddle before her as it soaked into the dirt.

In her mind, she had a choice now. When the time came to head over, she had to decide on who she was praying would climb out.

Bucky or Rosie.

Even if it was neither, it couldn't be both.

But then a second rumble sounded, and before she'd had time to look up and track its movements, another plane was pulling in, its wings jagged and torn, engines sputtering as it slowly descended.

'Royal Flush'.

A terrible, ragged noise escaped Frankie's throat, something between a sob and a sigh of relief. Scrambling to her feet, George thrust her half-empty flask of lukewarm coffee into her hand, and she downed the whole thing, the bitterness mixing with the acidic tang in her mouth, masking the smell of sickness as best she could.

Rosie hadn't even had time to register her approach. No sooner had he slipped out of the hatch did he feel the sudden crush of another body against his, her arms thrown around his neck, her hand in his hair, holding him steady. Suddenly he was breathing again.

He wasn't sure he'd ever held anybody so tight, relishing the feeling of solid ground beneath his feet as he wrapped his arms around her back, hands pressed so firmly against her skin that he could feel her rapid heartbeat beneath it, a desperate tether to life. She was breathing in his ear, his curls waving back and forth with it, and without thinking he reached up to pluck a piece of grass away that had gotten stuck in her hair.

Her breath didn't come easy - he could hear the laboured way she pulled in each inhale, as if a weight were pressing on her chest, keeping her lungs empty. When she spoke it was barely a whisper.

"Egan?"

Rosie shook his head ever so slightly, the guilt of what he knew he had to say eating away at him. "I gotta wait until after interrogation, I can't-"

Suddenly Frankie pulled out of the embrace, hands clutching either side of his face, forcing him to look at her. Her hands were gentle in the way they pressed against his cheeks, but in that moment it felt like a vice grip. That warmth he had become so fond of was gone, her eyes merciless, and Rosie knew in that moment that if he didn't tell her now she would never forgive him.

"He went down Frankie, they all- ... They all went down."

A horrible, agonising sound tore free from her throat, half whimper, half choke, and immediately she was blinded by the tears that filled her eyes. His fingers found hers, ever so gently prying her palms away from his face so that he could hold her again, pressing his lips briefly to her sweat-soaked temple. If he could, he would have stayed there for hours, for as long as she needed someone to be there whilst she wept. But he couldn't. For someone he'd known only weeks, walking away from her was suddenly the hardest thing he'd ever had to do.

Frankie didn't turn to watch him go, didn't spare a glance to the surviving Riveters as they climbed into the back of one of the trucks, whisked away to interrogation.

What the fuck could they say that wasn't already obvious?

She felt a hand press against her shoulder, and turned her head to meet Ken's gaze, his expression twisted with fear.

"Bucky?" He asked. The simple question was enough to undo her, and all at once Frankie burst into tears, accepting his embrace as he offered it.

Just fuck off. Get in your death trap and fuck off.

At least I'll have one less mess to clean up when you don't come back.

She couldn't breathe. Couldn't feel anything but a terrible, harrowing guilt, so heavy that it made her very bones ache. If she hadn't already upturned the contents of her stomach, she would have done so now, the desperate feeling of nausea left with nothing to cling to within her.

Frankie Bevan had lost people to war before. She had loved people and sent them away, and they had never returned. But not once in her life had she let them leave without them knowing she loved them. Not until now.

"He forgave you," She heard Lemmons murmur, his hand stroking her hair in that way her father used to soothe her when she got too mad - when the world got too heavy, too weighty for her hands alone. "He knew you didn't mean it."

She sniffed loudly, clutching at the dirty fabric of his coveralls. "He loved me, didn't he?"

"Oh yeah."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Rosie sat on one of the benches outside the interrogation hut, staring down at the cup of Red Cross coffee that warmed his hands. They had made too many cups. He had walked in and seen them, laid out row by row, and taken the first of the front row like he was supposed to - leave the rest for the others. But there were no others. And suddenly the bitter liquid was the least appetising thing in the world.

The bench's wooden slats creaked as someone sat down beside him. Frankie was sitting on her hands, staring blankly at a fixed spot in the grass ahead. Wordlessly, he held the coffee out to her, and she took it, the hot liquid scalding her tongue as she took a sip.

"Jesus," She sputtered, grimacing at the sudden pain.

"Still hot," Rosie said.

"Yeah, I noticed," Frankie huffed, sucking in cool air through her teeth to soothe the burn.

"Hey, I'm really sorry about-"

"Don't," She interrupted, shaking her head. "You don't have to do that, it's okay."

At some point during their flight, Rosie had sliced the skin along his hairline, droplets of blood drying and encrusting his forehead. Frankie put the still-hot coffee down, reaching up to brush his curls out of the way with her thumb. Her hand was still warm from holding the cup, and he felt the urge to lean closer.

"That hurt?"

"Nah. It's just a scratch - I don't even know how I got it."

She nodded, hand falling back down at her side. Neither of them moved for a moment, but when Rosie lifted his arm she seemed to get the message, leaning into his side, arms wrapped around his torso. His chin rested atop Frankie's head, the smell of her hair filling his lungs with each slow inhale.

"I don't know what we're supposed to do now."

[luvneymar]

feeling all domestic since it’s raining in my area, spending a day at home with ney baking together,skincare, matching loungewear, cuddles and exchanges of sweet words makes me feel some type of way

UTTERLY ORDINARY— NEYMAR JR

— SUMMARY: you attempt to bake cookies with neymar as you force him to do your skincare routine with you & who’s only goal is to distract you, romantically ofc.

PARING: Fiancé!Neymar x Doctor!Fiancée!Reader

CONTENT: fluff + neymar being a wimp + kissing + more fluff!

NOTE: pls ignore any spelling mistakes NOT PROOF READ!!!! I REPEAT NOT PROOF READ 🙏

“Ney baby, it goes on like this.” You giggled adjusting the sheet mask that was resting on his very handsome face as you sat on the counter of your shared his & hers bathroom wearing matching pyjamas with your fiancé.

“Ew, do you wear this every day? It’s so slimy.” Neymar whined trying to peel off the sheet mask not liking the feeling of a slimy wet paper sitting on his face. You quickly stopped him from doing so giving him a quick kiss so he would settle down.

“Do it for me baby.” You smiled at him wrapping your arms around his neck sending a sweet smile his way staring directly into his greenish brown eyes. Neymar smiled back at you wrapping his palm around the back of your neck pulling you in for a warm kiss.

“Mmh, you’re lucky I love you so much princesa. This is so uncomfortable.” Just as he finished his senesce a pound sung came from the other room signalling that the cookies you both were baking were done.

“Those must be our cookies, c’mon baby.” You slid off the counter & onto the floor taking your fiancés hand in yours pulling him down the hallway & towards the kitchen hypnotized by the smell of the chocolate chip cookies.

Once you both reached the kitchen you slid on your oven-mitts, opened the door of the oven and slid out the tray of freshly baked cookies. Neymar was practically drilling as he followed you like a puppy tho a bone.

“Okay honey, be careful they’re hot.”

Neymar hadn’t registered what you had said and dived right into the pipping hot cookies forgetting they were baking at 300°C just a few seconds ago practically scorching his finger.

“Ouch!” He hissed in pain “, jumping back from the tray waving his finger in the air squeezing it trying to numb the pain.

“Baby I told you to be careful!” You laughed between words pulling your hands out of the oven mitts as you walked towards the other side of the kitchen pulling the first aid kit from one of the cabinets.

You walked back towards where he was standing over the sink trying cool his hand down with freezing water from the tap. You closed the tap & pulled his stinging hand towards you leaving it to hand in the air as you opened the first aid kit.

“No lacerations, no swelling, looks like a first degree burn. You’re gonna be okay sweetheart.” You whispered as you examined his hand for anything concerning sighing in relief when you didn’t find anything.

You propped yourself on-top of the counter right beside the cookies that previously burned your fiancé & pulled his hand towards, turning your body to face the kit & pulled out the things you needed. “Turn your hand for me sweetheart.”

As you applied a wet towel on his burns cooling down the area before applying petroleum jelly on the skin you hadn’t noticed that Neymar was staring at you with a look of admiration & love watching you tend to his wound.

“You know I love you right? You’re my favourite person.” Neymar muttered turning his hand to help you apply the thin bandage around his hand like he’d just come back from some war.

“Why? Cuz I baked you cookies?” You chuckled continuing to wrap his hand not lifting your head to look at his lovesick puppy eyes.

“Yes. But I also love how smart you are baby, my little Doc Mcstuffin.” You both laughed at his comparison of you and an imaginary television doctor as you finished tightening his bandage you pulled him in for a quick kiss trying to make him feel better about his injury.

“So whenever you get hurt in the pitch future wifey can stitch you all up?” You pulled his body in wrapping your arms around his neck as you smiled at him.

“Mmh, exactly that baby, how did you guess?” He hummed wrapped his hands around your waist, careful not to apply to much pressure to his wounded hand.

“I just have a knack for these things you know?” You whispered pulling him in for a much longer kiss that involved a little too much tongue. His lips were warm & soft way to tempting for you to not give him a kiss.

His tongue swiped the bottom of your lip signalling you to part your lips & make way for his warm tongue to invade your mouth.

“Here try a cookie, they’re cool now.” You picked up a cookie from the warm tray and placed it on the rim on neymar’s lips pushing it into his mouth slowly so he wouldn’t choke, his hands were still on your waist as he chewed the cookie making different faces some good & some bad.

“Good?” You asked picking at the melted chocolates on the parchment paper, Beymar finished swallowing before radiant his half bitten cookie towards your lips for you to try. “They’re good, here try some.”

“Mmh! They are good.” You hummed out chewing the cookie as quickly as you can eager for another bite of the chocolatey goodness that was calling your name. As you bit into your 8 piece of a shared cookie you took the cookie from Neymar’s hand and placed it on the counter “Okay rate them out of ten.”

“Hmm 8.9?” Neymar tilted his head swishing his tongue around his mouth trying to savour the taste.

“No ten?”

“You’re a ten.”

You chuckled hearing his reply which made him chuckled with a cheeky look on his face,“You’re such a flirt, okay we can’t eat them all baby we gotta save some for later.”

Neymar’s hand slid around your body trying to take another cookie for the run but failing to be very slick with his mission.

“No more!” You slapped his hand away from the tray sliding it away from his arms reach, you loaded the cookies into the cookie jar arms wrapped around the tray in a protective matter. You both were down to 4 cookies which couldn’t be more frustrating seeing as how you started with 13.

“Go pick out a movie for us to watch. I’ll be there soon.” You sent him on a fools errand in hopes that he’d stop harassing you and your cookies. The fools errand work & Neymar has pranced towards the living room man spreading his legs all over the comfortable couch.

“Okay baby, why don’t we watch the new Aquaman movie?” He shouted out from the other room flicking between the different shows and movie options, you raised your eyebrow confused as you remembered seeing the trailer for it come out just a few months ago. “The one that hadn’t come out yet? How?”

You asked as you walked your way towards the living room placing your shared snacks in the counter as you made yourself between Neymar’s legs snuggling up to his warm muscular body.

“I have my ways.” He replied kissing your forehead before choosing the unreleased movie, his eyes never leaving the screen.

“Aw my future husband is a little internet scammer.” You cooed turning around to face him as you pulled him in for a short kiss by his cheek’s squishing them together.

“You know it baby.” He replied back smiling at you before reaching over towards the coffee table trying to reach the bowl of original chips you left on the counter & placed it into your hands as he wrapped his arms around your body creating some sort of cocoon of both of your you bodies.

[vacant--body]

stay with me pt 1

<Azriel Shadowsinger x OFC>

short story of one of our favorite bat boys.

warnings: heavy alcohol consumption, mentions of trauma, light smut, 18+ MDNI!!!!

part two, part three, part four, part five

✧˖° ✧˖° ✧˖° ✧˖° ✧˖° ✧˖° ✧˖° ✧˖° ✧˖° ✧˖° ✧˖° ✧˖°

The pulsing music at Rita’s felt like it was mimicking the rapid heartbeat in Ophiela’s chest. Every dip and sway that she was led into by strange males made her feel heady and dizzy. It felt like her feet barely touched the floor as she was spun into arm after arm, song after song. The three bottles of wine that her and Mor consumed before coming didn’t help either.

Like Nesta, dancing made her feel something. Less empty, less of a broken shell. Like the patterns she twirled into on the dance floor could somehow form the broken shards of herself back together.

From her place in the crowd she could spy her friends sitting at the permanently reserved table, playing a game of cards. All were focused on the current hand, throwing chips into the pile and cursing at each other. All except one pair of dark hazel eyes. He was almost invisible, tucked into the corner, his black leathers causing him to blend in even more. But beneath the swirling mass of darkness, Ophelia could see him.

Maybe that was one difference between her and Prythians most notorious spymaster. He was comfortable in the dark where no one could see him. But Ophelia was most comfortable under the blazing lights, where almost anyone could see her. Where she could paint a face was calm and happy, and no one would suspect a thing. They were almost exact opposites, but maybe that’s what attracted her to him.

Strong hands suddenly gripped her waist and she was being pulled against a hard chest, breaking her staring contest with the spymaster. The male laughed in her ear, saying something. But she wasn’t sure what he said, her head was swimming by this point. She danced with him for a bit before excusing herself and pushed her way through the churning bodies, making her way to the table.

Those hazel eyes were on her again, watching her hips sway to the music. Placing her hands on the table and leaning over, she shouted at them so they could hear.

“Does anyone mind taking me home?” Winnowing while drunk was a bad idea. She learned her lesson the hard way when she almost drowned in the Sidra. She didn’t want to end a few inches off from the balcony of the House of Wind and fall to her death. That would be embarrassing.

Feyra opened her mouth to speak but Azriel beat her to it, setting his cards down.

“I fold.” He told the table. “I’m ready to get out of here anyway.” He stood, his wings ruffling at the movement.

As the two made their way to the doors, Ophelia could have sworn she heard Cassian yelling that Az had a full house. There was no way he could have been on a cusp of winning for him to just walk out like that, Az was too competitive. She must have heard him wrong.

They walked out into the muggy summer night. It was scorching this time of year, the night time only a little more tolerable than the day. The light blue dress that Ophelia had on stuck to her in the most uncomfortable of places. It was a pretty dress, a little on the short side, but one that would now have to be thoroughly washed. It reeked of sweat and wine and unfamiliar males.

Azriel and Ophelia walked in silence for a bit, the sounds of distant parties and conversations being drowned out by the rushing water as they approached the bridge to the Sidra. She traced the amazingly carved detail with her fingers on the rails, before stopping and turning to look down at the water.

Azriel inhaled softly as if he were about to speak, but Ophelia cut him off.

“Did I tell you about the time I almost drowned in the Sidra?”

She glanced behind her to the Illyrian, whose stoic features wavered just slightly at her admission. Whatever he was about to say, she had stopped him. If she were being honest with herself, which was rare, she’d wish she had let him speak.

“Mor and I had a few too many glasses of Rhys aged wine,” She continued. “Didn’t think it would hit me that hard. When I tried to winnow home I landed face first into cold water. Sobered me up pretty quick.”

She turned around, gazing up into those damned hazel eyes. She expected to see some sort of amusement in his eyes, but all she found was worry.

“I could have taken you home that day.”

Ophelia shrugged. “Honestly, I think you were on a mission for Rhys. Plus, I wouldn’t want to bother you with my drunkenness.” She lifted her palms up to the sky, a smile twitching at her lips.

“I don’t mind your drunkenness.” That same smile creeping up on the corners of his own thick, lush lips.

Damnit.

Something had changed, shifted, between Ophelia and Azriel. For centuries, she had considered Azriel as a friend, a good friend. But almost three months ago, that had changed. She didn’t know what it was, or didn’t want to admit to herself what it was, but it happened. Az and her had been sparring early in the evening like usual. They were trying to perfect a new technique they thought of, when somehow Ophelia managed to knock Azriel on his ass.

He had stared up at her with such awe and bewilderment she thought he might have cracked his head open on the ground. When she helped him up his hands were clammy and hot, and he quickly excused himself from the session.

Ever since then, Azriel had been, well, nice. Not just the forced politeness she was used to when it came to the spymaster. He had been offering to help her, spending time with her scouting out the Autumn Court, which she knew he hated. It was strange, even Rhys admitted his brother's actions were strange.

Ophelia, snapping out of her thoughts, realized she had been staring far too long at Azriel. Clearing her throat, she looked away. She was glad it was hot out or else she felt like he might have called her out on the blush that was creeping across her cheeks.

“Do you mind?” She asked, lifting her arms out to him. “I’m ready for bed.”

Azriel nodded silently, and picked her up like she weighed less than a feather. She laid her head on his chest and squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the feeling of her stomach to drop once he took flight. Hearing the leathery snap of his wings, the ground whooshed out from underneath them. She sucked in a breath as his wings caught the warm breeze, spreading them out behind him.

Velaris was always beautiful, but Ophelia was convinced it looked the most beautiful from above. She watched as the streaming lights grew distant as they flew farther away from the city. It made her heart hurt to watch it go.

They flew silently towards the House of Wind, the only sound of Azriel’s wings occasionally flapping. She looked over his shoulder, the thin membrane of his wings looked so silky. Ophelia knew how prized an Illyrian's wings were to them. They would rather be dead than be without their wings.

Still, they looked so smooth and soft. Tentatively, she reached a hand out and lightly ran her hand across the cool skin. She heard Azriel gasp, and they dipped in the sky.

“Shit!” She squawked, nails digging into his neck. “Sorry! I didn’t think-”

“If you don’t want me to drop you, sweetheart, I wouldn’t do that again.” Azriel grunted. Something had changed in his voice, it sounded gruffer. She was so caught up in what just happened she almost missed it.

He had called her sweetheart.

Azriel landed on the balcony without any more close calls. Though Ophelia supposed she was to blame for that. He set her down gently and she smoothed out her dress, making sure everything was covered.

“I need a drink.” She announced, but mostly for the house to hear.

“You had about three bottles of wine, four shots of vodka, and a beer. You need more?” Azriel said from behind her, humor laced in his tone.

“Well, looks like someone was counting.” She smirked to herself. “But no, I need tea. Care to join?”

Sauntering into the kitchen, she saw the house instantly set out another hot mug and she picked it up, handing it to Azriel. “It’s my secret blend.” She smiled, picking up her own mug. Taking a small sip, she sighed contentedly.

She hopped up on the counter watching as Azriel did the same. “Jasmine, lavender, and chamomile.” He offered. “With a hint of lemon.”

Ophelia rolled her eyes, smirking. “I suppose being a spymaster you have to know the differences between tastes. Wouldn’t want someone to be poisoned, now would you?”

“No, it’s just what you smell like.”

Ophelia’s heart skipped a beat. She stared down at her mug in her now trembling hands. Desperately, she tried to think of a witty come-back. Something to diffuse to tension that was quickly building in the kitchen. She heard the clink of his mug being set down on the counter, and the shuffle of his boots as he approached her.

“Phia,” Azriel whispered. “Look at me.” Inhaling sharply, she did just that. She felt his hands grab hers and set the mug down, his eyes never leaving hers. His eyes were alight with swirling colors, his pupils almost covering his entire iris.

“Az…” Before she could get another word out, his lips were on hers.

Gasping at the electric shock that started at the base of her skull, making its way down her tailbone, she shuddered. Did she shudder because of that or because of Azriel, Azriel was finally kissing her? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer right now.

He broke away from her after a long moment, resting his forehead on hers. He was panting, they were panting. This time when Azriel tried to speak, she was the one to cut him off. Her lips slotted over his, her slender arms wrapping around his neck pulling him closer.

They were a blur of gnashing teeth and tongues, their breathing turning almost frantic. Azriel’s rough hands gripped her hips, pulling her even closer to him. Instinct kicked in and Ophelia grabbed onto his waist with her legs. Nothing but a few scraps of clothing separated them now.

Wait.

Azriel bit down on her bottom lip, a quiet moan rippled from her mouth. He pulled away, but not going very far. He kissed her cheek, then her jaw, then that spot right behind her ear. Ophelia moaned again, louder this time, arching into his touch.

She said she didn’t want this.

Azriel’s chuckled, his breath tickled against her overheating skin. He continued kissing down the length of her throat, and her hands found their way to his thick hair, tugging softly. Ophelia felt triumphant when he let out a moan of his own. Then, she was leaning farther and farther back so he could have easy access to her, gasping and moaning when he bit down just to soothe the sting with his tongue. His mouth was setting ablaze a burning path down her chest that she thought the coolest of waters couldn’t put out.

She wasn’t allowed to want this.

His hand came up to cup her breast through the material of her dress, his thick thumb swiping lazily over the peaked nipple. She was squirming now, her soaked core rutting ever so slightly against the very large bulge in his leathers. She wanted more, needed more. Needed to feel him in every way possible, to feel exactly what the honed muscles could do.

She shouldn’t want this.

Azriel finally pulled away from the assault he was levying against her front and his eyes found hers. “Sweetheart, do you-”

“Well it’s about damn time!” A voice boomed from down the hall.

Ophelia had never seen Azriel move so fast. One moment she was sprawled out on the counter top, the next Azriel had her behind his back, guarding her from being seen by Cass and Nesta, who had just caught them in a very compromising situation. A snarl she had never heard from Azriel ripped from his throat.

“Oh come now, Az! How many times have you walked in on me and Ness? It’s only fair I get you back.”

But she didn’t wait for Azriel’s reply, because she was already sprinting to her room.

She couldn’t want this.