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bluerthanvelvet444 · 7 months ago

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‧₊˚♫ ⋅* ‧₊✮𝐓𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐫 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥✮‧₊˚ ⋅*♫ ˚₊⋅

Tate Langdon x fem!reader

tags: smut with a plot and some fluff.

warnings: obsessive behavior, kind of a switch!Tate, oral (f receiving), dry humping, p in v.

summary: Tate encounters a Tumblr girl. (Inspirated a lot by the song I linked under.)

character count: 12k.

full fic under the cut ↓

.⋆.‧⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. ✧˚₊‧⋆‧.⋆.

2014.

Tate had never really cared about looking ‘stylish’ or ‘fitting in’ when he was alive. He had his own style, which wasn’t trendy nor one of a kind just…his. He didn’t need anyone else’s approval to believe he was cool, mostly because the girls that were attracted to him were just as fucked up as him and the popular ones tended to ignore him.

Ironical how that changed in his afterlife, once he saw you. After dying, Tate’s time was spent either with the other trapped souls or by himself. Hardly ever people moved in the Murder House, and whether they did, they were a low-budget couple in their 40s. So Tate’s knowledge of the modern outside world was poor and lacking, especially when it came to his ‘peers’. That’s why when you first moved in the house, Tate was stunned, if not flabbergasted even.

You were struggling with carrying your heavy luggage, muttering curses as the wind blew your colorful hair in your eyes. The first word that came in Tate’s mind as he watched you from the front window was “cool.”

He spent the first days of your sojourn watching you from afar, admiring the way you acted. Tate found out the way you styled your outfits in the fashionable way, how you talked to your friends in slangs and how you spent your evenings taking pictures on your polaroid and on a glowing little box, that for some strange reason you called phone, to post (that’s the term you used) on a little blue icon marked with a white t. He didn’t know what was considered popular now, but he was sure you belonged in that category, judging by the way you looked and the way your pictures had high numbers under them whenever you uploaded them. He needed wanted to approach you, and the perfect opportunity showed up when he saw you type on your glowing box:

“PARTY in the MURDER HOUSE tonite!! >_< :33!!”

.⋆.‧⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. ✧˚₊‧⋆‧.⋆.

The house had never been so full of alive people having fun. The doors were open, colorful lights were shining and high volume music was blasting. Tate tried blending in, although the more he looked around the more he felt…lame. The drunk teens around him were all different from each other, and none of them matched his vibe. And he even wore his favorite sweater!

Still, he had nothing to lose, so he took a deep breath and searched for you in the crowd. Tate made his way past people as they pushed him to the left and to the right. It felt weird to be seen, to be touched. He found you circled by people asking questions about the house. Was it haunted? Were there ghosts? All of which you answered with a simple “No.”.

“Of course there aren’t any ghosts, I’m keeping them away from you.” Tate thought. Since he was too nervous to actually take a few steps and start a conversation with you, he figured he’d get some punch, just to loosen up a bit. He walked towards the punch bowl, and as soon as he reached to grab a cup, his hand met yours. You both grabbed the same solo cup.

“Sorry! You can have it.” You giggled as you let him take the cup. Tate blinked a few times, eyes locked to your bright smile, before grabbing the cup and filling it up. “Be cool, Tate. Don’t mess it up.” He thought.

“Uh. So…this is your party, right?” He gulped, eyes darting around the house as if he didn’t know every single inch of it by heart.

“Yes! Thought it would’ve been fun to host a party in a so-called Murder House. Plus, this house is giant, it gets lonely after some time…You live near here? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you.” You smiled.

“Oh…yeah. My name’s Tate. I live nearby.” Tate’s eyes trailed upon your figure, he had never been able to see you from so close. You simply nodded, sipping from your cup. He cleared his throat.

“You know…I used to live in this house.” He added nonchalantly, trying so hard to sound interesting.

“Really?! No way!” Your giggles rang in his ears.

“Mhm. You probably noticed some of my things still laying around in my bedroom. No one has stepped in since I last did.” He nodded.

“Oh, do you wanna see? Maybe there’s something you left that you want back.” You replied, slightly raising your voice so that it could be heard over the music.

“I uh-There’s no need t-” He was interrupted by you grabbing his hand and leading him upstairs anyways. You opened the door of the bedroom and kicked out a couple that was making out on your bed.

“Ugh!! I should’ve locked the door!” You exclaimed, closing the door behind you two. Tate looked around, some of your things were laying around, but it was mostly all his.

“Dude you left everything here!” You giggled. Tate forced out a chuckle, everything was of course still there, since he ‘lived’ there normally and never moved.

“Yeah, uh…Guess I left in a hurry.” He muttered awkwardly and grabbed some of his Nirvana CDs.

“There they were…!” He pretended as if he didn’t just play them everyday before you came.

“CDs? Didn’t you use an IPod or something?” You gave him a confused look.

“Oh uh…no, I prefer CDs.” He nodded, as if he knew what an IPod was.

“You don’t use your phone?” You asked, raising up your glowing box.

“No, I…don’t have one.” He gulped.

“Damn, how do you handle that? I could never live without Tumblr or Instagram.” You chuckled.

“...Yea, um…just not my thing, y’know?” He cleared his throat, trying his best to change the subject.

“Oh, yea. I’ve met some people like that. I envy y’all, y’know? Tumblr’s literally addicting to me. Can’t help it though, love when people comment nice stuff and see you as inspiring, y’know?” You chuckled, sitting down on his your bed.

“Uh…can’t really relate. I’ve always been pretty invisible.” He shrugged.

“Oh…you don’t seem so bad. I like the whole grungy vibe.” You grinned, pointing to his outfit.

“Oh- uh…thank you.” He hoped it was a good thing to be ‘grungy’...or whatever you said.

“Yea, looks good on you. Doesn’t really fit me tho.” You giggled.

“You’d look gorgeous in anything.” Was what Tate wanted to say, but he didn’t wanna push his luck too far, so he just forced a shy chuckle.

.⋆.‧⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. ✧˚₊‧⋆‧.⋆.

You spent something like 30 minutes just laughing and getting to know each other while laying on the bed. During this whole time, he couldn’t help but think about how breathtaking you were: your smile, your eyes, your body, your personality, your whole being. You were perfect. Perfect for him. He found himself to be completely mesmerized by you, he needed you to be his, he needed you to make him feel loved, alive. He wondered how you did it, how ever since the first second you spent next to him, his heart started beating for the first time since he died. His body felt warm, his skin didn’t feel so cold anymore, he started breathing again. He was addicted to this feeling, so he did the only reasonable thing he would’ve done if he was actually alive, he gently grabbed your cheek and pressed his lips against yours. Everything felt just better after he kissed you, as if after that whole hell he had been through he finally reached paradise. He felt even more surprised when you kissed back, your lips moving in sync with his. He moved to lay on top of you, balancing his weight so he didn’t crush you, his lips never leaving yours as his fingertips danced across your body. His tongue slipped in your mouth, swirling around yours in a passionate dance. He let out some deep throaty groans, he felt his desire grow as it coursed through his veins. He needed to feel you, so he deepened his kisses. When you moved your lips down on his jaw and then his neck, he almost lost it. He felt embarrassed for moaning so much and basically becoming a mess under your touch, but he relaxed as soon as he felt your lips curling up in a smile against his skin. He moved on to devour your neck, grinning as he felt you moan now. His hands gripped every inch of your body.

“You’re so…beautiful…” He mumbled against your skin, grabbing your breasts through the fabric of your shirt. He looked up at you while tugging at your shirt, silently asking for consent to peel it off of you.

“You can take off whatever you want...” You winked, giving him a cute smile. He immediately peeled off both his and your clothes, groaning at the sight of your body. His lips worked hungrily on your collarbone, leaving marks that will most likely turn into hickeys the next day, then placed kisses on the valley between your breasts, a tiny whine leaving him when his fingers failed at desperately trying to undo the clasp of your bra.

You giggled and helped him, throwing your bra somewhere on the floor. He immediately took one of your nipples in his mouth, suckling gently while looking up at you with those brown puppy eyes of his. You smiled and twirled a strand of his blonde locks between your fingers, soft moans escaping your lips. He kept switching between sucking your left then right nipple, his hand groping the one he wasn’t attacking with his mouth. He felt himself getting harder as he felt the warmth radiating from your body, so while his mouth worked wonders, he desperately brushed his growing bulge from under his boxers on your leg. He let out some needy whines, and he couldn’t help but mutter sweet words against your skin as he lowered down to trail kisses on your tummy.

“So perfect f’me…” His words came out muffled as he trailed his kisses down, pressing his lips against your inner thigh and then on the fabric of your panties. You moaned when his fingers hooked under the waistband of your underwear, slowly pulling it down, as his lips immediately worked on your clit.

“Ah…just like that Tate…don’t stop…” You moaned when he started to suckle gently, soft whines leaving his mouth as well. As he got more needy himself, his mouth lowered on your entrance, his tongue gently brushing against your wet folds, finally entering you after teasing you a slight bit. What you felt was pure bliss, unholy sounds leaving your lips every time his tongue sped up. When you looked down, you found Tate looking up at you with those brown doe eyes from between your legs, as he worked his magic. The sight only drove you to the edge, your moans getting louder as you came on his face. He groaned and cleaned you up with his tongue, making sure not to miss any single droplet of your cum.

“So good…you taste so fucking good…” He moaned into your ear, pressing wet kisses on your neck and collarbone.

“Wanna be inside of you…please? please let me…” He whined while rubbing his hard dick against your flesh. You nodded and just like that he didn't waste any more time, he abruptly pulled his boxer down, groaning as the cold air hit his shaft, and lined up with your entrance. While you were still coming down from your high after the intense orgasm, Tate pushed his dick inside of you slowly, moaning uncontrollably once he felt your tight walls clenching around him. You were relieved that this encounter happened when you threw a party, or every single soul nearby would’ve heard the throaty groans and moans leaving his lips.

“Mh…tight…so tight…so pretty-can I move please? I’ll be- ah…I’ll be careful-please-” He whined against your neck, as his blonde strands caressed your face gently. You agreed, and just like that he was thrusting in and out of you, first slowly, then at a steady pace. The room was filled with filthy moans, yours and his, and the repetitive sound of skin against skin, as your sweaty bodies were sliding one against each other. He felt like he was going insane as his mind couldn't help but focus on you and you only. Every moment was more pleasurable and he felt like he was closer and closer, so he muttered in your ear, still thrusting into you.

“Close…so close…don’t think i’m gonna last-ah…longer…please please please…want you to cum too…” He babbled as his brain turned into mush.

“Ah-! Mhm…m’close too…” You breathed out, feeling the knot in your stomach tighten even more.

“Please-mh…cum on my dick? yeah? wanna feel you..please…” He whimpered, he felt like he couldn’t contain his upcoming orgasm. You couldn’t even respond as the repetitive brushing of his tip against your G-spot drove you to the edge. Letting out a loud moan, you came for the second time while he was still inside of you. That caused Tate’s eyes to roll back, his groans only filling the room as the feeling of your cum dripping on his length and your walls squeezing it, was too much to bear. He quickly pulled out and came all over your stomach, then he collapsed next to you.

He spent the next moments cuddling up against you, thinking about everything. His hands were playing with your hair, and when he looked down he found your eyes closed and your breath steady. He smiled at the sight, wanting every night of his afterlife to end like this and determined to make that happen. He kept placing sweet kisses on the top of your head, while he wondered how he was gonna explain to you that he died before Tumblr even existed.

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taglist: @cxndiedvi0lets @angeldollw @doll3tt33 @marchsfreakshow @fear-is-truth @dykejugheadjones @happy74827 @evpeters87 @dont-look-behind @brightanshiny

a/n: rahhhh tate's such a loser needy boy. BTW spent sm time on this fic, I'm pretty proud of how it turned out!! hope you like it! this is for my tumblr girlies🩷

#Spotify #tate langdon #american horror story #ahs murder house #evan peters #ahs fandom #kyle spencer #violet harmon #james patrick march #kai anderson #taissa farmiga #ahs hotel #ahs asylum #ahs coven #ahs freakshow #2014 tumblr #smut #evan peters x reader #tate langdon x reader

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vagabond-umlaut · 1 year ago

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Sojourn In The Sun

Gojo Satoru x Fem!Reader; Arranged Marriage; Childhood Friendship To Complicated Feelings™️; Fluff; Angst; Canon-Compliant; Contains Manga Spoiler; Satoru & Reader Are So Cute, So Honest And So Kind-Of-Happy With Each Other Here– I Love Them!; Silly Jokes Are Their [& My] Coping Mechanism; Takes Place Between JJK 221 & 236.

Oneshot From Series: One Day, Three Autumns

"You. Baked. This. For. Me."

"No, Satoru. A stork flew in through ths kitchen window and dropped this bloody cake on that table."

"But don't they deliver babies or something? Plus, isn't that window a tad too tiny for such a big bird?"

"I guess, the stork must've dropped you on your head while delivering you to your parents, you know?"

A beat passes in response to your remark, before Satoru erupts into a fit of chortles and you shake your head with a huffed chuckle. Getting up from where you were hunched over the countertop, nibbling on an omelette and scrolling through your mobile, Satoru watches your face gleam in fondness in the late morning light, as you amble over to him.

Very messy hair. Ratty old clothes. Sleepy yet shiny eyes�� His cheeks hurt from the sheer joy bubbling in his chest at this sight before him.

"Seriously, sweetness? Storks?" he asks, lifting his arm then dropping it to wrap round your shoulders as you reach him and snuggle into his side – only to catch hold of the hem of his huge sweater, and squeeze yourself into it, your tiny fingers clasping round his back as your head emerges at the top and you move to nuzzle into his neck, teeth biting cute little nips on the skin there.

If it was even two months back, Satoru reckons he would have been a hell lot stunned, seeing you give your affections so blatantly– that too at a place outside your shared bed, outside the darkness of the night.

But... It no longer is two months back. It is now. Not only in day, date, time. But also in the irreversibly mutated fashion the earth rotates on its axis everyday in the man's eyes. New experiences. New allies. New absences. New nightmares...— Everything's different from how it was before that chilly October night— Your husband deems it to be not an awful lot strange to see you too like this. The world is not the same as before; to survive, you too must change to adapt to the change, must you not?

Lips brushing your forehead once before dashing away, he asks in a soft yet humorous tone, "Too tired to give a reply, are we now, huh?"

"Not really," you hum, your words punctuated by a yawn you're quick to suppress; you resume, "I know only two birds which are said to be used in sending parcels and stuff. One, messenger pigeon– but they are too small to carry a cake like that. Two, stork– stories do say they were used to deliver babies – so I thought delivering a cake would be a piece of cake for them, heh!" You shoot him a grin, eyes crinkling at the corners into lovely half-moons, "Pretty funny and punny, ain't I?"

"Of course, sweetness. You are all three," Satoru is quick to agree with a nod— happy wife = happy life; plus, it's not like he's lying to you— A shadow of confusion falls on your face— Deciding to deal with it later, for the sake of the question weighing on his mind at the moment, the man repeats his ask from earlier, "You really really baked this for me?"

You return a nod, hints of a smile lurking in the shape of your lips.

"But why?"

Whatever happiness might've beginning to bloom on your features, it withers away– Your husband smacks himself internally for employing such a tone: So weak, so much so that it makes you peer up at him in concern he has only ever seen on you after a particularly bad mission.

So weak, so that it makes him hope you don't think him to be any less than 'The Strongest'— any less than being capable of standing beside you, protecting you, being worthy of you.

A pair of chapped lips plant themselves on his cheek. "Just because I wanted to bake a cake for you, 'Toru!" you explain with a giggle, albeit its subdued quality doesn't go past his eye, as you move a bit away to press a swift kiss on his other cheek; fingers drawing lazy patterns on his scalp and massaging the roots of his hair.

"You've always done too much for me and everyone else– Thought of returning the favour once, although I doubt it can ever match yours... Also, haven't you always wanted to eat a cake baked by yours truly?"

He has.

He so, so has.

Ever since the day you baked some muffins for him in the microwave oven of the school kitchen– him, a grumbling mess thanks to his all-too-familiar migraine and those old geezers– you, another grumbling mess thanks to your all-too-familiar insomnia and those annoying AF exams—

Satoru never imagined he could taste a sweet dish made by you ever again in his life, for the past ten years or so— given how the morning after that night you declared you would never bake again: "uff, that is too fuckin' tiring and boring!" and how every next time he came with a migraine to your door, you pointedly ignored his whining for you to bake him something, choosing to grab the warm and cold compress instead and give him a massage, following the manuals kept in stack-over-stack on your table—

Even during his teenage years, then later as an adult, the sorcerer has always missed your baking, but seeing you care for him in ways much too characteristically 'you'... he decided to pay no mind to such dumb wishes, he knows you'll never fulfill in this lifetime.

Except now you've fulfilled them and your husband doesn't know any response fitting enough to thank your efforts and thoughts through.

Throwing the cake a sideways glance, he brings his focus back to you gazing at him, to the eagerness reflecting in your irises. His lips tilt up into a smile, obeying a mind of their own.

"Blue velvet cake with white frosting... you sure do know how to make me happy, don't you, sweetness?" he muses out loud, carefully noting the warmth creeping up your neck into your cheeks and ears, "But, so much for a thanks... there must be another reason behind this, right?"

Feeling the tiny burst of air hitting him from your quiet exhale, Satoru lets you maneuver him towards the kitchen until he's leaning with his back against the marble island and you're nestling even closer to him.

A palm glides cautiously over the planes of his back.

Almost as if the man in front of you is a glass figurine–

Almost as if you're fine with him being a glass figurine.

So easy to read.

So easy to hurt.

So easy to care for with the gentlest of touches and softest of smiles, the look in your eyes tells every one of his six eyes– the innumerable chips and cracks in his very essence be damned—

You poke his cheek, a knowing twitch in your lips.

"You rarely ever cuddled me in bed before, yet now, every single night and day, I find you squeezing me with those arms and legs of yours..." Satoru's eyes widen. Your lips part in a fondly teasing grin. "Think why – really why– you hug me for warmth and don't hog the blankets; and you'll have your answer, 'Toru."

Birds shriek outside. Your mobile beeps thrice. Your omelette goes as frozen as poor Uranus on the countertop beside.

For the second time this cold day, the two of you break into laughter.

"And you'll have your answer, 'Toru!?!?" Satoru mimics you except in a soprano-esque shrill voice. "Who the fuck do you think we are, huh? A pair of lovers in some Shakespeare-y play, baring our feelings to each other in the soft glow of the winter sun, or some stupid shit like that?"

Another chuckle breaks free from your chest at his words; the grin on his face widening, he watches you take a long breath then say, "Nope nope nope! The both of us are way too uncivilised to play any role like in Shakespeare's plays — but Satoru~" you drawl your vowels out; his heart beats a little faster in his chest– "I can never be as unrefined as you, going as far as to keep your wife waiting, while you ask question after question– and not eat the cake and praise it, like a good spouse should, you know?"

"Oh, is it so?" The man inquires, brow raised, before warping with you in his arms to where the cake's kept, and cutting a big chunk with the knife kept, gobbles it all up in one go.

The tilt of your lips betrays the disapproving click your tongue makes.

A very content hum escapes Satoru. "Your baking's something out of this world–no, galaxy, sweetness. I hope you know–"

He stills, focus stolen by the letters and number a bit far on the table–

Satoru's gaze snaps back to you, only to find the same smile on your face– so simple, so devious– complicated and thwarted by the small expressive tremor of your lips; your gaze moving away from him to a calendar on your left and his right, the very same which stopped him—

Grasping your chin in his frosting-covered fingers, he drags your gaze back to himself, tutting, "You aren't any better than me, wifey. You too lack the same manners and etiquettes I do— So, now— c'mon, c'mon, c'mon–" he says, not unlike a broken record, playing the same section of music until he makes you cave in from the annoyance alone, "Wish your darling husband 'Happy Birthday 'Toru!!', give him a big birthday smooch, and be the courteous wife, you aren't really, but think you're— Now, go ahead, go ahead, go–"

"No."

"No?" Satoru echoes, holding back a weary chuckle. Or sigh. The man doesn't know which. You nod with that same stubborn determination of yours, he has happened to love-hate-tolerate over the years. "Yeah. No. I don't wanna. Wishing you can only solidify the fact that today is December 7th–"

"I think, the clock striking twelve few hours back solidified it–"

"Which will go on to cement the fact we're only 17 days away–"

"I don't think the fact needs any cementing. It's cast in stone–"

"Is there no way we can be happy, Satoru?"

Your question startles him into a momentary stun – not 'cause of the solemnity packed into every word of it – but because it serves as the mirror image to the question them cursed voices in his brain ask him in the warmth of the day, in the chill of the night, when he finds Yuuji sitting by himself with no spiky black hair nor bright orange hair next to him; when he catches the ashtray on Shoko's table filled with way too many cigarette stubs; when he wakes up to see you sitting in the dimly lit storeroom, a faded photograph or a childish drawing in your hand; when he looks at the mirror and finds the reason behind every pain his cherished ones have suffered, staring right back at him—

"There is," Satoru says, willing his mind to shut up for once, to let him say what he wants to say for once– the clock is ticking a bit too fast–

"Don't think of today as anything more than that it's December 7. Not how many days it's been since Halloween. Not how many days it'll be before it's Christmas Eve. Just focus on the fact it's my birthday, and everything will seem a hell lot better, even if it's only for a short time."

You peer at him attentively, before narrowing your eyes a bit. "Never took you as the kind to ignore reality, y'know?"

Your husband cracks an amused grin. "Still, standing in the middle of a warzone and actively ignoring it is cooler than running away from it, isn't it?"

"Cooler and dumber," you correct with a teasing grin and a waggle of your finger– however, before he can gather any retort to your remark, he finds himself being pulled down by his collar, his lips colliding with your waiting ones— the ensuing kiss a little sweet, a little spicy, a little shy, a little hungry; but overall, very, very addicting. Satoru thinks you can never give him kisses enough to satiate him, even for a tiny while.

He is always going to stay this ravenous, this yearning for you. In this lifetime and every other that follows. He can't ever get enough of you.

A tiny pop! reverberates in the bubble round you two, as your mouth gently separates from his, though never strays anywhere far, resting only few millimetres away. Eyes drifting to his swollen lips for a beat, Satoru watches you look at him again, cheeks heated and stretched in a smile.

"Happy birthday, Satoru," you whisper, "Many, many happy returns of the day."

"Thanks," the man mumbles, running a careful thumb back-and-forth over your bottom lip– before something clicks to life in his mind. Your husband registers a slow smirk form on his face. "But I guess it'll be a happier birthday if ya promise to bake me a cake every now and then. What do you think, sweetness?"

"Nah!" your reply arrives, as if it's a reflex response and not one which requires some thinking, "Baking's too fuckin' tiring and boring– But..." you trail off for a beat, the nonchalance on your face morphing into a tenderness– You resume, "Why don't you try and find out by yourself if I will ever decide to bake a cake for you, every now and then, yeah?"

The weight of your words lingers in the gap in between for a second.

Accepting the weight with an eager grin, Satoru closes the gap, him inclining forwards to rest his forehead on yours.

"Sounds like a challenge, sweetness. Good thing, I'm more than ready to try my best to meet it."

I do not own the characters used. Divider is by @cafekitsune. Please do not plagiarize or translate or repost this. Hope you enjoyed reading this! 😊

Please interact with This Post to be added to the series taglist! ❤️

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writefightandflightclub · 7 months ago

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Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Eleven (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but will you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running?

Genre: a LOT of angst, (some) smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here.

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written and queued. Posting schedule is here (includes series master list).

Author’s note: THIS IS THE FINAL CHAPTER YOU GUYSSSSSS. I'm emotional!

It has been a journey. As always, I would be super grateful for any comments / reblogs / asks you may wish to send. ILYSM!

Word count: 6.4k for this part.

Weeks pass following the sojourn at the beach house, and you return to your new, blooming life. The strange, suffusing peace you’d felt when you and Santiago finally said your farewells - in more than words - has faded, a barbed tension instead taking root. The sense of resolution has all too quickly transitioned towards sleepless nights. To worrying about how the Lorea job will pan out, and whether Santiago and your other, dear squad mates will make it out unscathed - if at all.

Your usual pleasures and distractions are little comfort, and it is worst when you are alone. You don’t even have the other dumbasses to lean on, the rub of all of them being gone at once hard to take.

The nights are when you worry most intensely. When the world folds in on itself, the outside dark and the interior of your own thoughts all you have to rattle around in. Your house has never felt more empty to you, in fact, than in these moments. Most of all though, it feels empty without him; even though he’s never set foot in it. Your hard-won sanctuary feels, with each revolution of the clock, more and more like a collection of rooms and corridors boxing you in, and less and less like it had ever held the potential to feel like safety.

Anything that you do in attempts to quell this gnawing worry only makes the hole inside you grow more and more apparent. The more you tend your porch planters, the more friends you have over for game day, the more you try to tell yourself that you have everything you need, right here? The further from the truth it all feels.

The truth, in this moment, is that you’d burn down the entirety of this new life you’ve built if it would get him back safe. Back home safe. And it only makes you more certain that there is no “home” without him. No true feeling of sanctuary or peace while he is in danger.

The more time that passes too, the more your worries for the mission eat away at you. Some nights, you find yourself sitting bolt upright in bed, the damp sheets tangled constrictively around your heat-tacky skin. Heart thudding hard in the roll cage of your chest. In these moments, that’s when you come closest to abandoning your new life entirely. To hastily stuffing a rucksack and jumping on the next plane to Colombia or Brazil, for all the damn good it would do.

But you can’t do that. You can’t let yourself be dragged back into his world of danger.

You’d gotten out, and wasn’t that the point? To stay out?

You know it’s for the best. Best for you.

Still… there is something which really scares you about this mission. You can’t shake the sense they won’t come back quite the same after this. Can’t shake the impending sense of… finality about it. Santiago has always pushed for more. One more job. One more mission. Has always sought to go big or go home. You’ve always wished he would choose the latter option, by the way, and for some damn reason, he never has. Maybe he thinks he has nowhere like that to go. Maybe the bastard truly will run and gun until it kills him, and the thought of him ending that way…

The thought of him ending at all…

It sends cold shivers down your spine. Spins a tight knot in your stomach which becomes denser by the day.

You are mildly ashamed when you tuck Santiago’s old rosary beads beneath your pillow, fingertips unconsciously snaking under it during the night to grip them tightly. To hold something of his within your grip, when he seems so out of reach, is priceless to you. He’d gifted the beads to you years ago. For protection. Now, you curse yourself that they aren’t in his possession. You don’t even believe in any of that, for Christ’s sake. But it sure would comfort you all the same, you reckon. If he had some reminder on his person of how loved he is. Of the people counting on him to make it back.

Of course, you’ve been checking your phone constantly. Even though they’d warned you repeatedly when they were about to go dark. You’ve braced for it. For a shock. A collision. Bad news. You’ve been unable to eat, sleep, think. And so, even when you finally receive Frankie’s cursory text that they’ve made it out -a simple helicopter emoji and a thumbs-up delivered from a burner cell- you can’t fully trust it.

That night, you still wake in a cold-sweat, chest heaving with ragged breaths. Feeling like the momentarily relief you’d felt must have been a dream, and that the visions of Santiago lifeless and cloaked in red are far more likely to be real.

You won’t fully believe it, you think, until you hold him in your arms once again. See him with your own two eyes.

You need to see him again.

The problem is, Santiago has never excelled at coming home. Has never excelled at joining the dots to realise he even has one at all.

You don’t know when the next opportunity to do that -to see him, hold him - will be. Don’t know whether he’ll simply keep running into yet another mission, then the next and the next and the next, his path leading him further away from you all over again.

You don’t imagine that he’ll find his way back any time soon.

Turns out, you are wrong.

***

You are baking in your kitchen when you notice him, the window forming a perfect frame as he appears, stood at the mouth of your driveway. His head is tipped up towards the eaves of your house. A hold-all is slung over his shoulder. His unseated ball cap is clutched solemnly in folded hands - as though he’s rocked-up outside of church after a long absence, ready to repent his sins.

You aren’t able to tear your gaze away from him. It feels as though if you blink, he might simply vanish all over again, like you are so used to him doing.

Feet planted to the tiles, and without turning your head - without even blinking - you say your sister’s name out loud. Like you used to when you were small and afraid you’d heard a monster in the dark. And, coming to your side, just like she’d always done then, she follows your fixed gaze through the window. Right to the spot where Santiago stands, bathed in golden fall light like an epiphany - nothing monstrous about him.

“Oh, honey,” she says, placing a hand on your shoulder.

When she does so, you realise you’ve been holding your breath. Realise that your ears are ringing and your pulse is thudding in your neck. When you finally suck in air, its passage is stunted, your chest fluttering around it.

“Come on, kids,” your sister motions to your nephews, shooing them towards the living room with promises of cartoons and brownies. “We’ll give you some space,” she whispers across to you as she seamlessly shuffles the troops out. “Will you be okay?”

You finally turn to her then. Manage to tear your eyes away from him. When you do, whatever expression is rendered on your face causes her to shoot you a look of sympathy.

At first, no sound comes out when you try to respond, your lips quaking around the words. You try again, and it is better, though still croaky. “I have no idea.” You don’t know what you are feeling. All you know, is that when you settle your hands on the edge of the counter, they are shaking.

After a quick visual check, across the hall to the kids, once again your sister slots in at your side, squeezing your shoulder in reassurance. She dips to give you a quick kiss on the cheek, cupping the crown of your head. “Here. Splash your face,” she encourages, turning on the cold faucet and guiding you until you oblige, the shock of the cold water pooling in your cupped palms bringing you back to your body. The pleasant cool against your cheeks providing you some relief. You dry your face off on your sleeve. Rub your palms against the legs of your worn jeans. “I’ll be right in there.” She nods her head in the direction of the living room. “Any funny business, I’ll kick his damned ass all the way back to Colombia. Alright?”

It occurs to you that you love her dearly.

You nod and, satisfied, your sister vacates the kitchen. You watch her disappear through the mouth of the door frame, and, by the time you look back at Santiago, he is taking his first steps down your driveway.

Pressing your palms to your cheeks, you look helplessly back and forth; between him, and the door through which your sister had retreated. You don’t know what to do, exactly.

You weren’t expecting this.

Santiago “Pope” Garcia never comes home.

Santiago is never walking towards you; he is only ever running away. And now, here he is about to walk through your door? To make the house you’ve bought sing, for better or worse, with the pain of all the empty space still contained with it?

Like the Lorea job, this moment has a dreaded sense of finality to it, you think. Like this completely insignificant - yet wildly momentous - occasion is either about to slot everything you’ve ever wanted into place; or, to make any hope of it crumble into pieces.

Until so very recently, you’ve never had to think about how your story ends. Whether it will end up happy. You’ve simply been trying to survive the fraught middle.

Well, here Santiago is. He’s made it back to you.

You feel like you’re about to find out once and for all.

And so, you do the only logical thing you can think to do.

You run.

***

This is the one, he thinks as he pulls up to park, checking the mailbox numbers against Frankie’s text. This is the house.

He sits in the rental truck a good few moments longer than necessary before climbing out, grabbing up the navy hold-all from the backseat and turning towards the mouth of your driveway.

This is the house.

It’s the kind of house he’s always feared for what it represents - a commitment - and yet, now that he is stood here, looking-up at the structure in the flesh, it doesn’t look quite so fearsome as he’s always imagined.

He gives it a scan over, looking for signs of you. Sure enough, he notes that your lawn is the most unkempt on the block. That your porch hanging-baskets, filled with colourful lantanas, are bursting and full. Your drive is cluttered with strewn kids’ bicycles. And, the front door is painted in a bold hue that only you would have picked out, stood in stark defiance of the glum, muted tones along the rest of the row.

This is the house.

And it is perfect.

It is somehow still you, already - even from the outside. Santiago always thought that moving forward meant changing - losing something of yourself - but he is pleased to note he still recognises you in all of this. That, despite the white picket fence surrounding your garden, it no longer represents a perimeter he dare not cross.

Even so, Santiago freezes there for a moment. He finds his feet won’t quite carry him willingly over the threshold from the street to your property. He takes a moment to drink it in instead. To look at what you’ve done for yourself. What you’ve created. What you’ve chosen. Santiago has always, on some level, worried that he couldn’t give you the life you deserved; but it’s clear to him now that he didn’t have to, because you’ve built that for yourself.

As if anything could stop you.

You have a yard. You have a white fucking picket fence wrapped around it.

He half-snorts to himself. Shaking his head softly in disbelief.

Still, it is there in the back of his head. That small, constant niggle. Even now, Santiago has half a mind to run. This house, to him, represents a place of innocence. Represents a new start and a freshness - one that he would never wish to soil with his bloodied hands. He tries to imagine being inside the house, with you, and yet all he can envision is himself dragging his red, bloody palms all along your pristine white walls. All he can see is him staining this life you have built. Bringing the blood and the dark inside, the way it inhabits the interior of him.

He almost does too. Almost turns away.

Old habits die hard.

All of his fears and insecurities reliably surface, and he imagines the hold-all he is arriving with is the weight of all of his past baggage. He considers - for a moment - whether he would rather have the memory of you from the beachouse, asleep and naked, bathed in golden light and sea breeze, to be the last one he ever holds of you. Wonders if it might be eminently easier that way.

He thinks about it; but then, he sees you through the window. In the kitchen. Turned away from him, but still unmistakable.

He smiles wistfully. And he starts walking.

He knows he can’t possibly turn away from you now. There’s no damn way that the back of your head can be the last image of you he sees; and so, he is driven onwards. Now, more so than ever, Santiago knows he needs to face you.

He fixes his eyes on the path ahead, then. Continues walking, his thoughts abuzz with how he’s going to greet you. How he’s going to explain himself for turning up unannounced, somehow both early and overdue all at once.

His thoughts are cut short and his plans entirely foiled, however, when a body slams up against him. For a split second he wonders whether he is getting football tackled to the floor, but he knows, even as you are crushed up against him and your face is indiscernible, that it’s you. He would know the weight and shape of you against his body anywhere.

You run to him and you hug him, your cold cheek pressing up against his own. Your hands clawing into the back of his navy bomber, and your arms squeezing him with enough force that he abruptly - a bit winded from being body-slammed - drops the hold all to the floor like he’s finally letting go of all his bulllshit. Drops this precious cargo like there’s something far more precious to cling on to after all.

You pull away from him as he coughs emphatically from the chest-slam, clearly examining him to see if he’s in one piece. Your eyes rove over every inch of him - like they used to do when you would “buddy up” to check for injuries in the field. Instinctively, he attempts to mentally catalogue his own injuries too. He finds that he doesn’t feel hurt at all, no; but that he does feel entirely raw. Vulnerable, like a singing open wound as he sees your face again, emotion shining in your eyes like a sea at the edge of his land.

“You asshole! You’re okay? You’re really okay?” You tug on his lapels, hands fisting there like you’re trying to shake some sense into him.

“Went off without a hitch,” he reassures, hoping you don’t notice the way his voice breaks as you drag him back into your arms again. This time, too, Santiago’s arms loop around you in return, his eyes slowly closing as he takes a deep inhale from where his face tucks neatly into the crook of your shoulder, your familiar scent unravelling the tight knot in the pit of his chest. He wasn’t hurt, no; but nor was he okay. Knew that he wouldn’t really be okay until he was by your side again. That he never really had been.

“You got out clean?” you ask urgently, this time pulling away to smooth your palms over his lapels, undoing the disarray you’d caused.

He nods. “We don’t leave messes,” he opts to say assuredly, channelling Benny for a boost of confidence, as though luck hadn’t had a considerable amount to do with it.

“Yeah?” You examine his face for any sign he is smoothing over the truth of things, and he breathes a sigh of relief as his contrivedly neutral expression seems to satisfy you. “You got fucking lucky, you know that? Nothing got hairy?”

“Oh, it got fucking hairy. Cat almost tanked the chopper, for one thing.”

You tut emphatically. “Bull shit. That’s Cat slander and I won’t have it. Tell Ironhead to get the bastard better equipment next time, huh?”

Santiago likes this. Likes that no matter how long it’s been, you always greet one another like you’re mid conversation. Like despite the miles and countless moments which have passed, you were just in the middle of something.

Still… the suggestion of a “next time” drives a wedge through the space between you.

Next time.

One more mission; then another, and another, and another. Right?

Running in goddamn circles. Chasing his tail.

You sniff, and he watches your valiant attempt to shake it off, still staring at him with a misty look in your eye like he’s come back from the dead. You fold your arms across your chest, perhaps in efforts to subdue your initial, reckless affection. You toss your head over your shoulder, towards the wide open front door. “So. Y’ coming inside?” You nod down at his hold-all. “Or… do you have somewhere else to be?”

Santiago purses his mouth. Drops his gaze to the hold-all and stoops to wrap his fingers around the rough, looped handles. He feels the itch in his feet again. The urge to run. Sees the window open - his chance to escape. It wouldn’t take much. An easy, casual: yeah, I have a flight to catch. His age-old tricks. But at the same time he sees that window open, he sees your open door in view. The warm glow and invitation of your house beckoning him inside. The warm glow and invitation of you.

How could he possibly have anywhere else to be?

“I’d love- I mean, yeah. If I’m not intruding.”

You simply roll your eyes and -he’s pretty sure- mumble “idiota” under your breath. But, before he can wonder, you are taking him by the hand and leading him into the house.

He follows.

It’s a while since he’s followed you anywhere, but he does it now without a second thought.

Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Still. It should be a relief of sorts and yet… He feels his pulse quicken. Feels nerves twist in the pit of him - and he knows fine well it’s illogical. Knows it makes zero sense to fear a physical building.

But… no, that’s not quite it, is it? That was never it. His whole adult life, Santiago has been afraid of something far deeper than that, hasn't he?

Those feelings and fears, however, begin to drop away like leaves from a fall tree the moment he steps inside. From the moment you fuss his jacket off of his shoulders and hang it on the single empty coat hook, as though there’s been a space reserved for him all along. From the moment the wafted scents of home-baking and you fill his lungs he feels…

He feels… not quite ready to name what he feels yet; but he does acknowledge the lump lodging in his throat when he crosses the threshold, enveloped by the life you have been living without him.

You beckon him further inside, trying, to no avail, to prize the hold-all from his grip, so instead, tutting and letting him hang on to it anyway. Tugging the baseball cap from off of his head and throwing it in a spot right next to the key bowl, right before you instinctually ruffle his flattened, graying curls free.

You chat aimlessly - a natural and familiar commentary. He listens, but he’s also scanning, as per usual. Observing. Drinking the details of this house in. Taking in each framed photo arranged along the hall, curling up the stairs in a timeline of sorts. A record of your life. And, as he assesses, he stops dead in his tracks in front of one particular photo. It’s a buddy from years back. A friend you’d both lost to an IED. Above that, there’s a picture of you and Will standing jubilantly on top of a humvee, which makes his face split with a grin even as tears are balling in his eyes from the prior flood of memories. Beside that, there’s a goofy picture of you and him together, taken at his late mom’s 60th birthday. That one, in particular, makes him unsure whether to laugh or cry or both.

You come to stand beside him. Silently. Solemnly - as he saws a hand self-consciously across his stubble, not knowing quite how to feel amidst the concoction of varied emotions lodging in him like schrapnel. Fragments.

Meanwhile, you bump his shoulder with yours, before joining him in concentrating wistfully on the wall of photos suckering his attention.

Then, he finally places the feeling. He feels… like an idiot. For not seeing it before.

It’s your life, he realises. All set out here. Summarised. Catalogued.

But it’s his life too. It’s a shared life. He recognises most of the faces, events, occasions, and locations pictured. Feels the memories and emotions attached -his and yours, first-hand, second-hand - as his eyes tick over the display. Christ. He’s spent so long trying to run from you, hasn’t he, that he’s neglected to recall all the times you have walked side-by-side. He’s spent so long in staunch refusal that he could give you the life that you deserved that he’s neglected to realise that all this time, you were already building one together.

And oh boy. What a messy and complicated and hard and fucking beautiful life it has been.

All of that - he realises - is exactly why. Exactly why being here with you now, in this house he’s never even set foot in before, feels exactly like coming home.

For a moment, he looks at you, and -struck by you, like a gut punch - Santiago doesn’t know what to say. Quickly though, he remembers. Remembers that with you, it always feels like you’re right in the middle of a conversation.

He takes an emphatic sniff. “You’re baking?”

“Heh. Yeah.” You nod towards the living room door, from behind which a kerfuffle of cartoons and chatter is sounding, he clocks. “My nephews are here.” You place a finger over your beautiful lips and lean in, like you’re telling him a deep, dark secret. “I bought a packet mix.”

Santiago can feel his eyes glowing at you like headlights as your cheeky, full-beam smile shines back at him, but suddenly, he’s no longer particularly inclined to hide it.

“So?” You press gently, as his knuckles almost whiten from gripping the hold-all so tight. “What brings you to this neck of the woods, anyway?”

His mouth drops open wordlessly. For a moment, Santiago legitimately forgets. Forgets that he hasn’t always been here. He forgets, in fact, that he’s here for anything besides falling to his knees and clinging to you. Anything besides weeping for joy with his head buried against your stomach. Holding you so tightly, to make up for all of the times he’s so willingly let you go.

Fortunately, the weight of the hold-all tugging at his arm reminds him of one more reason, which, now that he’s here, actually feels a hell of a lot more like an excuse. “I’ve brought something for you.” He nods towards the kitchen. “Can we..?”

The kitchen is the heart of the home. It’s the heart of your home, and it’s the place where so far - recently - Santiago has tried to possess you, claim you, blame you, plead with you, and appease you. As though your body carries the memory of that you nod, tension pinching your face, and he clocks a swallow of apprehension darting abruptly down your throat. Still, you gesture for him to enter, and he follows closely behind.

“It’s weird that the kitchen’s at the front of the house, right?” You waffle, banaly. “But I like it. Feels more open. I like looking out at the front yard when I-”

“-Cook-up a storm?”

You scoff; not likely. “Throw away my pizza boxes.”

With your quip, mirth lights his eyes; yet - as ever - Santiago remains laser-focussed on his mission. He lifts up the hold-all, and plonks it down right on top of your kitchen island. “Here.” He nods towards the bag as you eye it sceptically.

“What? Did you bring me your fucking laundry?”

“Christ,” he scolds, even as your comment raises a warm chuckle. “No. It’s your share.”

You exhale softly through your raised palms as realisation dawns on you. “Santi. What the fuck?”

You cross to the bag and unzip it, mouth dropping into an “o” and eyes bugging as you reveal stacks and stacks of neatly bundled cash inside. Immediately, you shake your head, holding your palms up in the air and thrusting them away from your body. “No. Hell no.” His face drops. “I didn’t do anything to earn this.”

Oh, that’s your issue? On the contrary. You’ve earned this a hundred times over. “Oh, really? Remind me. How many times did you get shot, huh?”

You peer down to the bag again in disbelief. Santiago would continue to emphasise all that you deserve; but he can tell that you’ve already tuned him out anyway. He can transparently see the calculations ticking over in your head. What this money might mean for you. What you could do with it. Conversely, the strings that could feasibly be attached. The blood on it.

“It wasn’t just me. We all agreed.” He nods decisively, brows pinching down. “You and Tom get a share too. We wouldn’t be anywhere without you.” His voice breaks. “Shit. I wouldn’t be…” He simply couldn’t picture his life without you. Doesn’t even want to begin to try.

You drag both hands back over your head, elbows jutting out at sharp angles. “Santiago. I can’t keep this.”

He steps closer to you. Waits until your arms drop and cups your elbows with his sure palms. “So donate it. Set up a college fund for the boys. Whatever.” His eyes grow big and unusually earnest as he searches yours. “But would you please take it?”

He knows it’s hardly a drop in the ocean. That there is no way he could begin to repay all you’ve done for him. All he knows is that he wants you to have it. All he knows is that you deserve anything and everything he can give you, even if it’s never going to be enough.

Your hands are shaking slightly when you bring them up to your mouth, but he can see the beginnings of the cautious, giddy smile which eventually claims you. As you begin to accept this is really happening.

“You brought cash? Seriously? You motherfucker.”

His throat bobs with a deep chuckle. “Why not? Wasn’t it you who said you always wanted to fuck on a huge pile of money?”

“I’m almost 1000% confident that was Benny.”

“Meh. Doesn’t hurt to have the option,” he teases, but once again, you’re no longer listening to him - not really. Your fingers are carefully gripping the lip of the bag and peeling it open, finally letting it sink in.

“Thank you,” you say resonantly, dragging your eyes up to him only after you have managed to push the words out. Crossing to him. Wrapping your arms around him, your fingers tracing over the ridged scar at the back of his neck, your voice turning wet. “But… You know that this means nothing to me, right?”His hand moves slow and steady, up and down your back. “You know that all I wanted was for you to come back?”

He holds you more tightly then, as your emotions begin to spill over, tiny fractures in your voice. You subdue it, though. You clear your throat. Compose yourself a little too quickly for his liking, his body missing the warmth of you immediately as you pull away.

“Since we’re doing gifts though. I’ve actually got something for you too.” You clasp your hands together, pleading. “And you have to promise me you’ll take it.”

You move only once he’s nodded, your serious expression compelling him into acquiescence. You don’t need to go far to retrieve it. Instead, you reach to fumble something out of your jeans pocket.

His eyebrows leap up towards his hairline. “Fuck me. Are these-?”

It knocks him for six as you unfurl a string of familiar black rosary beads, the loop penduluming from your thumb as you hold them out, offering them to him. Offering them back to him.

“You remember?”

He scoops his forefinger and thumb around his mouth, stubble bristling. He answers your question without even answering. “You kept them.”

“Well. Yeah.” You grab hold of his hand. Fumble his palm open and thrust the beads into it, curling his fingers back around them until he grasps on to them tightly. “And I don’t want you to be without them anymore, okay?”

Santiago is lost for words - his mouth agape. He shuffles from foot to foot in disbelief for a moment, before clamping his hand over yours, his grip as warm and sure as it’s ever been.

God.

You’ve loved him, haven’t you? You’ve loved him whether he believed that he deserved it or not. You’ve loved him every single step of the way. You’ve loved him even when he was difficult and stubborn. When he was in the throes of grief. When he was bleeding out from a stab wound.

You have loved him at his best and at his worst; and goddamn it, he has loved you back.

He didn’t do so before, when the thought had first occurred to him, but he does now. He does drop to his knees on the cold, tiled kitchen floor, wrapping his arms around your middle. He does bury his face in your stomach, holding you as tightly as possible.

He drops to his knees as though he’s finally repenting of his ‘sins’. He holds you now, to make up for all of the times he so willingly let you go. To show you - he hopes - how he never wants to let you go again.

Meanwhile, his gesture appears to punch the air from your lungs. Your hands hover -uncertain- just moments from him, and then, as you inhale, you must find you already know what to do. Your fingertips dip into his hair. Your palms cradle his head. He feels tears wet his cheeks as he buries his face in your soft, sweater adorned stomach. He silently rues every single time he thought he needed one more mission - and the next, and the next, and the next. Wonders how he’d believed all this time he was built for brutality, when, although his hands were trained to kill, they were made to love you gently.

“Santiago.” He screws his eyes shut at the softness in your voice as you sound his name, a roughly hewn sob gently wracking his chest. You say his name in a way he’s never heard it spoken, and before he knows it, you are on your knees with him, tipping his chin up with careful fingers until his wet eyes meet your soft, warm, bathtub gaze.

You stroke your palm down the side of his face and you nod, slowly, tears beading in your eyes too.

He knows what your touch is telling him now. What it has been telling him all along even whilst he was still too stubborn to hear it.

It’s telling him… That this is what safety feels like.

That he’s home.

You are his home, and what’s more; he is welcome.

He surges up onto his knees, pressing his chest to yours, winding his broad hands into your hair to pull you into an achingly raw, desperate kiss.

Your lips are a door. Your mouth a corridor. Your heart is a room. Your chest is his roof. He wants to live in you. Bury himself inside you. Wants to walk barefoot on your tender carpet. Wants to fill his chest with the warm rumble of a kettle. Wants to step into you like a warm bath. To be covered by you. Held by you. You are his walls. His sanctuary. All roads lead here to you, to this house; and they always have, even when he’d felt so lost.

He has never been home before; but this must be how it feels, he thinks, to finally stop running.

He kisses you, his urgency dissolving into softness like sugar into water. You kiss him back. It’s a sweet, tender thing, as delicate as the tears beading in his lashes.

“Santiago. Christ, your knees. Get up. Please.” You’re crying too, he realises. Crying as though you’re as glad as he is that he has finally arrived somewhere that does not ask him to wound himself. You cup his face again, concern in your eyes, but he slides his hand over yours. Tucks the rosary beads into his pocket, an item far more priceless than the - now forgotten - bag of money on the counter.

It has been a long road.

It has been a long time.

It has been a lifetime, and he sees now, that his road was always leading him to you.

Your gaze flits all over his face. “Heyyy,” you soothe, with a softness he finally feels he deserves. “You okay?”

“Y-Yeah. I…”

“What?”

He fumbles a tear away from his cheek, a bright feeling bursting out of his chest. “Can I…?” He laughs, it feels so preposterous. “Do you mind if I… stay for a little while?”

Your eyebrows briefly pump up in surprise; but even so you smile fondly at him, answering his question without answering. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”

You rise together to standing, chest to chest and still hovering moments from a kiss; and yet, neither of you are closing the distance. Not yet, not now, and it’s… actually a wonderful thing. To wait. It feels suddenly like there is time now. For the first time in Santiago’s life, it feels like there is a future. A future for him, instead of isolated moment after moment, grasped in haste. Instead of one mission to the next, to the next. So, instead of kissing you again; more; deeper; Santiago reaches up, the crook of his curled forefinger gently tracing the line of your jaw until you flutter your eyes at him bashfully. Until his mouth twists into a lopsided, disbelieving smile.

Then: “Oh-my-God-I’m-sorry-” your sister blunders as she unceremoniously cracks the door, poking her head rather unsubtly around it. “We were, uh, just wondering what to do. We were gonna put a movie on but…” - she looks pointedly between the two of you and clocks your proximity - “We can always clear out if loud sex is about to ensue.”

Next, she catches a glimpse of the bag full of money and her eyes bug, though she abruptly tries to cover it.

You tut loudly at your sibling. “Jesus. Would you either come in or get out? You’re like a little floating head.”

She opts to step gingerly around the door, looking all the more awkward for it.

“Hi,” Santiago greets warmly, moving in for a heartfelt hug which catches your sister even further off-guard.

“Oh, hi!” she says (as though she’s only just noticed him) before asking - maybe with malice, or maybe through sheer force of habit - “How long are you sticking around for?”

Santiago looks sheepish for a moment.

After all, he doesn’t want to tell you just yet.

No - he doesn’t want to tell you that he’s signed a six-month lease on an apartment downtown. That he’s arranged to get therapy from a guy Will recommended. That he’s started working his networks and shifting his money around so he can finally make the leap into consulting. That he’s pretty sure - as sure as he’s ever been about anything - that he wants to marry you.

Of course, he isn’t seriously entertaining the idea that he can simply turn up and upend your life. Doesn’t expect -would never expect- to have everything laid out on a platter for him. But, this time, he at least has the strength to stick around. To find out once and for all what might be next, after so long going round in circles.

That’s why he doesn’t even want to tell you at all. Not yet. Not now.

Instead, he simply wants to show you.

“A movie sounds good.” He twines his fingertips with yours and your sister’s eyes bug harder at that than they had at the hold-all. “I mean. If I won’t be intruding?”

He looks to you for approval, and he hates that, right now, the prevailing emotion he can read on your face is surprise.

“You can really stay?!”

It’s a far bigger question.

That much is obvious. A question he realises you’ve been asking him for a long time, in a whole host of different ways.

Looking at you, here and now, it’s so alien to him that he wouldn’t. That he would ever run from you; bail out; seek out other women; skip town; bury his feelings. All of that bullshit.

In his time, Santiago has jumped out of planes; has run into burning buildings; launched himself towards enemy fire. But has he ever let himself love you so wholly and recklessly? Has he ever been as brave as that?

So, Santiago simply gazes back at you. Smiles, rehearsed crinkles radiating from around his warm, good-morning eyes.

This time, he answers your question. He thinks you finally deserve to hear it. After all; you deserve everything - and so you definitely deserve this.

“I can stay.”

You don’t even respond -not in words - and it might be because finally, finally, there is nothing between you which remains unsaid. You simply squeeze his hand, just a little tighter.

Santiago has known you for so many years. Has known you as a soldier; a friend; a lover.

He finally has the courage to see you all at once, and, in the years ahead, he can’t wait to know you in all the other ways there are.

You lead him through the door; and he follows.

It always was easy to follow you. To love you. It was the running that was hard.

He doesn’t know exactly what will happen next; but one thing’s for sure.

You’ll always be his Ride or Die.

THE END

#santiago pope garcia x reader #triple frontier #oscar isaac #santiago pope garcia #ride or die series

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fayes-fics · 2 years ago

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Endeavour

Double Bind Masterpost

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Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Follow on to Forbidden, Benedict makes his attempt to replace Anthony.

Warnings: 18+ smut minors DNI, dom/sub relationship, dirty talk, hair pulling, bondage, biting, squirting, oral sex (m to f), slightly rough vaginal sex.

Word Count: 7.0k

Authors Note: This is a request fill for @eleanor-bradstreet to continue this series now known as Double Bind. I hope you enjoy my interpretation of your wonderful suggestion, my dear. Thank you for entrusting me with your thoughts on where this could go. There will be at least two more fics in the series after this one. Thanks to @colettebronte for giving this a check through. Enjoy <3

Benedict’s scent lingers on your sheets the following morning, and he fills your thoughts. But you daren't invite him back to your bed under Anthony’s roof—once was daring enough. Besides, your sojourn at Aubrey Hall ends later that day, with you waving out of your carriage to both of them, each likely thinking your farewell is for them alone, standing as they do in almost a line, Benedict directly behind Anthony.

Two days later, at the first event back in London, the decadent Trowbridge Ball, Anthony is notably absent, not feeling well apparently. Still, the rest of the Bridgertons are in attendance. You slip Benedict a note via your trusted friend’s brother.

Meet me on the dark walk.

You only include your initials; too risky to include your name in case it’s intercepted, but you hope it’s enough that he will know who it’s from.

As you slip away into the cool night air, you take a deep breath and slink unseen into the shadow of the building. You take pains to avoid being seen, and he does the same; you see his furtive approach a few minutes later before he spies you.

“Benedict,” you breathe his name from a darkened alcove of vines, and he is on you. Sweeping you into his arms, into a warm, enveloping hug. He smells just as delicious as he did that night, citrus, woodsy, breath sweetened by brandy and smoky from cigars.

“My sweet girl,” his voice is honeyed and soothing by your ear. “I am so very happy to see you.”

“I… didn’t know how to contact you discreetly…,” you admit honestly, clinging to his jacket, not wanting to let go.

“I cannot stop thinking of our night together,” he cuts in, “have you given any thought to my proposal?”

You exhale heavily at his reference to his parting request at Aubrey Hall that you leave Anthony for him, and you step back from his embrace. “I cannot make such a decision at this moment. Anthony means a lot to me; we have a special arrangement. There are… things I need, things I crave, that he offers me,” you look him square in the eye. “I wonder if you can provide those things?” you muse bluntly.

“What sort of things? His voice is laced with intrigue as he reaches out a hand to hold your wrist.

“Domination. Punishment. Harsh treatment sometimes. An escape from this world to a place where I am mindless with need,” you answer, matter-of-fact.

He looks temporarily taken aback, and his grip slackens. “I know of such things,” he confesses quietly. “If that is what you need, what you want, I shall try it. An experiment, a new sensual endeavour, if you will.”

“Very well then,” you nod brusquely. “I shall attend your bachelor lodgings on the pretence of an art lesson. My friend can be my chaperone for propriety's sake. I assume you have a back exit to your home through which she can slip away unseen?”

He looks impressed with your forethought and ingenuity. “Certainly,” he assures, drawing closer, eyes piercing yours.

“Wonderful. Then it is just the matter of which day,” you opine, allowing his hands to twine around your waist again.

“Tomorrow?” He suggests, a bit breathless, his lips skating your temple.

“Such enthusiasm,” you mutter coyly against his jaw. “Tomorrow works for me. I look forward to seeing your darker side, Mr Bridgerton,” you wink salaciously as you pull back slightly.

It’s like a storm rolls in across his face. A hand clamps around your throat, and his eyes look uncharacteristically flinty. “It’s sir to you,” he growls, his fingers sinking into the column of your neck as he steps into the role as if he was born to play it.

Your body is suddenly awake, a live wire, your breath shallow. “Y.. yes, sir,” you stutter.

Then, with a wink and a breathtaking smile, his hand falls away, and he is gone.

Oh, that definitely works for you.

——

The next afternoon you and your best friend bustle through the busy streets of Mayfair towards Benedict’s home.

“Are you certain of this?” she asks. “This seems like you are playing with fire, to be courting the brother of your paramour….”

“The Viscount is not my paramour,” you argue, “he is someone with whom I share a special, albeit unconventional, arrangement. To the outside world, yes, it appears we are courting, but that is a veil under which we must meet clandestinely. But we have no agreement of exclusivity, and I do not wish to be bound by the restrictive rules of society. I wish to be free to pursue my interests, which, as of now, includes Mr Bridgerton.” you shrug.

You can see your friend wanting to be supportive and empathetic, to understand your wishes, but it is clear she does not understand the dynamics of how your, or indeed any, intimate relations work.

“All I ask is that you keep this secret for me. For the purpose of the rest of the world, I am receiving art lessons from the brother of the man courting me. And you are my chaperone for the day. You are free to leave via the rear courtyard once we are in the house. And thank you again for doing this.”

She nods as you pull up to his door, and a friendly-looking older man, presumably Benedict's valet, answers. Without waiting for an introduction, your friend bids you goodbye as soon as the door is closed to the outside world. She squeezes your hand and nods to the valet, who obviously knows of this plan, leading her to the back door.

As you watch her retreating figure, you sense a pair of eyes on you. You turn and find Benedict leaning in the doorway to what you assume is his drawing room, a playful smile writ large across his face.

“Y/n,” the way it drips off his tongue, decadent and low, sets the fire in your belly.

“Mr Bridgerton…” you return in as seductive of a voice as you know how. Then you squeal in delight as he lunges for you, effortlessly picking you up bridal style, his body flexing against yours as he athletically bounds up the staircase to his bedroom.

It’s when he lets you down to your feet and turns to lock the door that the butterflies truly erupt. Just the two of you now, no interruptions or distractions—no chance of Anthony listening at the door this time. This is your chance to know the measure of the man. To see how he compares to his brother in the matters of your intimate needs, crude as it is to say.

He draws you into his solid frame and tilts your head up with a hand on your jaw. And it's just like it was at Aubrey Hall. His kiss is passionate and plundering, and you melt into him. Feeling all those things you did before. That you would let him steal you away from everything and everyone you know as long as he just keeps kissing you like this—like you are the very air that he needs to breathe.

“I hope I can be everything you need, that you desire today, my girl,” he begins as he finally breaks the kiss, spidering a finger up your arm, a crooked smile tugging at his handsome features.

“I am looking forward to it...sir.” The last word is pointed, and you roll it in your mouth like a tasty morsel.

He inhales sharply, and you are captivated by how his pupils rapidly dilate. His tongue peaks out the left corner of his mouth and swipes across his bottom lip as if he is tasting the charged atmosphere between you.

“Take off your dress,” he orders, and his voice is suddenly gruff.

You smirk wordlessly in challenge, wanting to see how he will react to your pushback. See if he can tame you the way Anthony does so effortlessly.

His eyebrow raises at your audacity. “Are you suddenly deaf, my dear girl, or are you asking for a spanking?”

There it is.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you needle, smirking wider.

That large hand is back at your throat as it was the day before. He crowds into you. “You had better choose a word that tells me to desist right now, should you wish to continue to defy me like this,” he warns, and his rumbling voice slides over your skin like wildfire, your heartbeat racing.

“Red will do,” you snark back as his grip tightens, the heel of his palm at your windpipe.

“Mmm, red it is,” he murmurs, his lips on your cheek. “Now do as you are told, or I will do it for you. But I will tear your frock to shreds, and then you must leave my house naked.”

He releases his grip looking at you expectantly.

You are positively vibrating with how thrilling this is already. You hold his gaze challengingly as you undo the buttons to loosen your dress, intentionally choosing one that doesn't need a lady’s maid to remove. Confidently pushing it off your shoulders, you raise an eyebrow as you stand in your stockings and chemise. Your stomach fizzes with anticipation that he will soon find out you chose to forgo underwear today to incite him.

“Lose this too,” he clips, tugging on your chemise. As you disrobe from it, his gaze falls heavily to your bare breasts, and he sucks in air loudly through his teeth.

“Where are your stays?” He scolds.

You shrug, and suddenly there’s a hand in your hair, pulling.

“Answer me!” he growls.

You hiss as he pulls your hair tighter, a slight burn on your roots.

“Easier access for you, sir,” you reply through gritted teeth.

“Good girl,” his mouth twisting into an approving smirk as his hand twines around your hair.

The blunt fingernails of his other hand trail over your breasts so light it almost tickles, and your skin erupts into goosebumps, your nipples pebbling diamond hard. You suck in a deep breath and watch him through heavy lids.

“And what about your underwear?” low and deadly. Those same fingers spider down your abdomen, over your belly and into the thatch of hair at the apex of your thighs.

“Same, sir,” you answer, practically panting in anticipation.

“Mmmm, you are lucky; I like that you are so wanton,” he murmurs low, his breath hot on your cheek, fingers swirling teasingly in your pubic hair but not dipping low enough to touch where you are aching. “Now tell me, what are your favourite colours?”

You frown at the rather strange question to the point that you just answer honestly. “Green and blue.”

“Excellent,” he nods, pulling you closer by your hair until he whispers in your ear. “Go and lay on the middle of the bed, stretch your arms above your head and keep them there.”

He releases you and walks away to what appears to be his dressing room. Still slightly confused, you do as told and go lay on his bed. As you settle back into the pillows, you notice they smell like him, like yours did after that night at Aubrey Hall. You turn your head and inhale deeply. The scent memories come flooding back—his face between your legs, making you scream as Anthony sat outside the locked door. It’s so visceral, and you are already so aroused that you begin writhing slightly. Desperate to get some friction on your rapidly swelling clit, trying to rub it between your thighs, not wanting to be caught disobeying the requirement to keep your hands above your head.

“What are you doing?” the tone is intrigued. Benedict is back in the room.

“Your smell,” you answer honestly, “it's all over your bed.”

“My scent makes you writhe like a little vixen in heat?” he mutters, almost disbelieving, stalking towards you predator-like.

“Yes sir,” you affirm, shooting him your best coquettish look, your movements a little more performative now, just for him.

“And you called me the dangerous one,” he tuts with a shake of his head as he mounts the bed gracefully, cat-like. “Well, maybe these will help you stay still, my naughty girl,” and in his hands, he shows you three cravats, one in navy blue and two in green - one mint, one teal.

“What are you planning to do with those?” you query as he crawls over your prone body.

“I'm going to tie you to this bed until you learn to stop defying me,” he warns.

“I’ll never stop,” you goad with a twisted pout, hands already grabbing the headboard, eager to be tied to it.

He pushes a knee high between your thighs, the wool of his trousers tickling your slit. “Then I’ll just have to tie you face-down and spank you; maybe then you will learn how to behave,” he states almost casually, pulling the cravats taut between his hands, so the heavy silk makes a snapping sound.

“You wouldn't,” you challenge, wanting what he suggests more than anything.

His stare turns at once both flinty and flirtatious. “Turn over right now,” he commands, lifting away slightly.

You raise an eyebrow but do as you are told, flipping over underneath him. As you settle on your tummy, he brackets your thighs with his knees so your legs are pressed together, then leans over you. His cock slides along the cleft of your buttocks, making your eyes widen. You have never seen it, but it feels sizable and hot pressing through the fabric of his trousers. It appears certain things do run in the family.

His body is warm over your back as he moves your left hand out wide at a diagonal, looping one end of the mint cravat around your wrist and the other around the bedpost. Then he does the same with the teal cravat on your right hand. Your arms are stretched out above your head but not uncomfortably so. There is enough slack to move but not get up—just the perfect light, restrictive hold.

On instinct, you try to push up and back into him, a little rebellion.

“Stop squirming, or I won't let you come,” he declares gruffly.

Instantly you still. But you can't help mewling as he teasingly surges his cock over you again, covering your whole back as he lays over you.

“What if I did this all night, just thrust my clothed cock between your delicious bottom cheeks and came that way? Not touching you where you need it most? Would that make you behave?” his mouth near your ear, his tone dripping with an entirely arousing threat.

“No sir, please don't sir,” you beg quickly, unable to bear the thought of being turned on but having no chance of relief.

“Mmm, not so insolent now, are you, my girl?” he crows. “Maybe we have found a way to make you obedient, hmmm? Will you do what I tell you now?”

“Yes sir, please let me come too,” you whine into the pillow as he thrusts again and groans.

“Trouble is my girl; your bottom is so shapely I can't seem to stop myself rutting over you,” he grunts and slides again; you feel your skin turning red with the chafe of the wool.

“Please take your trousers off; I want your skin on me,” you implore.

“If you are a very good girl, maybe,” he chimes.

You were uncertain that Benedict had it in him to tame your wild streak, to combat your willful behaviour. But he is doing wonderfully, with just the right balance of dominance and teasing. In fact, it's more playful than Anthony is, and you are finding the dynamic entirely, well, charming.

“How am I doing?” He whispers keenly, breaking character as if he can intuit where your thoughts have gone.

“Wonderful," you murmur over your shoulder, and he looks so pleased that a little warmth blooms in your chest. He is so keen to fulfil your needs; it's very sweet.

“Are you sure you are comfortable?” he checks.

“Very,” you assure. “Now tame me, Mr Bridgerton,” you challenge, and like a switch, he is back and snarls in response.

“I’ll tie your legs open, too, if you don't behave. I have a wardrobe full of cravats and all the time in the world, my girl,” he warns steelily.

“Promises, promises, sir,” you provoke.

There is a sudden, stinging slap to your left buttock, and you squeak loudly.

“Behave,” he admonishes.

You just giggle and wiggle your bottom at him in defiance.

“I have a riding crop to bring my steed into line. Are you asking for the same, my girl?”

A frisson runs down your spine; even Anthony hasn’t done that yet. You bite your lip, considering it.

“No answer to that, hmmm?” he hums with a tinge of victory.

You twist your head and allow one eye to catch his gaze, it’s a heated staredown, and the flash in his pale eyes makes you shiver under him. It’s amazing how he can seem so utterly sweet in one moment and so utterly authoritative the next.

“Just your hands are fine, sir,” you retort with a pout, and he guffaws at that.

“Not really in a position to negotiate, though, my girl, are you?” he points out. “It's funny. You say you want domination and punishment. But I think you really relish challenge and surrender,” he skewers you so accurately that you almost break out of the scene. “And my brother is too focused on the physical to realise that you want someone to spar with you with words as well. Does he talk to you?”

“Of course,” you frown.

“No, I mean, does he talk to you? Does he tell you every little thing in his head when he has you like this? Under his control?”

“I….” you pause, “I suppose not.”

“Hmm, that's his first mistake, isn't it? You don't want just the physical act. You crave to know the intangible too. You want to know what someone is thinking. The intellectual puzzle of it all,” he continues, his voice bringing you under his spell even as he barely touches you. “You know how I know this?”

“How?” you breathe.

“Because of that night, in that corridor. You were an unsatisfied woman, and you told me it was what you asked for. You asked my brother to fuck you without pleasure and send you away? If you were into the dynamic for purely physical pleasure, you would never ask for that.” His monologue is murmured against your naked back as he runs his lips and tongue over your spine and ribs, contouring every line. “You are chasing experiences, something to make you think. Something to push your boundaries. And luckily for me, you found out one other thing that night.”

“What?” you whisper, enrapt in what he has to say as he glides lower and his teeth graze the globe of your bottom.

“I will make you come, even if you don't ask for it, particularly when you don't ask for it, as that means you probably need it even more. Same as I will decide if my hands are enough. Not you. When we are playing like this, it's my job to intuit what you need before you even know it yourself. I can see what your body tells me, even when your mouth is arguing. And if Anthony had just seen that himself and pleasured you, despite what you claimed to want, you would not have ended up with my tongue between your legs, desperate to scream my name, not his.”

You are actually panting by the time he pulls your legs apart roughly and licks a hot stripe up the inside of your thigh, making you gasp loudly, lapping up the trickle of moisture there. He groans at your taste, but it doesn't stop him from talking.

“Just as I know you are dripping down your thighs right now because of what I just said as much as what I just did,” he argues, his tone muffled as he sucks hard on your inner thigh, biting down, but you barely feel it, the endorphin high blotting your mind.

You had no idea he was capable of this. It’s more mental than physical. He is talking you into submission—filthy words winding you into a state of panting, needy arousal.

“Fuck me,” you exhale shakily.

“Not yet,” he responds, and you actually whimper, exasperated. “There's something else you should know about me.”

“What?” it's just a needy breath.

“I won't fuck you until you are begging for my cock. I’ll never be mean to you. Im not that sort of man. But I will control you, bring you into line. If I don’t touch your little weeping cunt I can make you so mindless you’ll properly surrender, do anything I told you to. You would crawl naked on your hands and knees to me in front of strangers.”

The mental image makes you startle. Every single thing you have done with Anthony has been in private. The title of Viscount means he must maintain public decorum; he prefers to keep personal affairs private. You have certainly never done anything in public. Now Benedict is suggesting you submit to him in front of people, and the shocking thing is… you just might.

“Now, did you forget about the third cravat?” he laughs, climbing back over your body. You had, but you don't admit it. “Hmm, your silence suggests so. Well, this one is for your eyes.”

His voice is suddenly back at your ear as the navy silk wraps around your face. There is a tug as he secures the cravat with a knot, the world blacking out. Butterflies roar in your tummy as you realise you are now tied down and blindfolded—giving him your trust willingly.

“Bring your hips up high but keep your head on the pillow,” you can practically hear the smirk on his face as he gives the order.

You do as commanded, shuffling as best you can without your hands and sight until your hips are high off the bed.

“Excellent,” he compliments, his warm hands rubbing delicately on your bottom. “Now tell me, does Anthony spank you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I assume you enjoy it?”

“Very much so,” you confirm, flexing your hips slightly, hoping he will get the hint.

A large hand spanks your left cheek. You squeak and instantly know his technique is different to Anthony’s. He keeps his hand there, grabbing your flesh, fingers pulling at and digging into your skin, elongating the sensation, like he enjoys the heat radiated from the sting he just created. “How’s that, my girl?”

“Very good sir,” you moan tacitly.

He spanks your right cheek just the same. Both hands are now grasping your flesh.

“More, sir,” you mumble, your face burrowing, his scent there sharper now you cannot see, pushing back into his hands.

He chuckles richly, and you hear him shift slightly.

“What else does Anthony do to you that you enjoy?” he questions, pulling your cheeks apart further and sliding his clothed cock there again.

“He fucks me roughly, sir,” you answer, hoping it will finally goad him into doing the same.

“Hmmm, I will need more detail than that, my girl.”

“He takes me from behind, just how you are now, sir, and leaves handprints on my body,” you expound. “Sometimes he gags me if Im being particularly willful.”

“Are you ever not willful?” he banters, and you just know he has a cocked eyebrow.

You twist your face over your shoulder even though you can't see him. “Not often,” you volley back with a twisted pout. His responding bark of a laugh makes you giggle.

“You are just delightful,” he opines and then spanks both cheeks in quick succession, making your head drop and groan. “I would happily go and get another cravat to gag you if you wish, but I so enjoy your insolent tongue; and all your wonderful noises, it seems almost a shame.” he ponders bemused, smacking both cheeks again so hard the sound echoes up the walls.

Your curse is muttered under your breath. Benedict certainly takes his time more than Anthony does—it seems he wants to luxuriate in the experience. By now, his brother would be inside you, telling you to shut up.

“I could do this all damn night,” he confesses, as if reading your mind, his tone like velvet.

“Just fuck me already, sir,” you whine, frustrated.

“You do know that the more you demand, the less inclined I am, you brazen little nymph,” he intones, and a hand strikes yet again.

Your bottom is now burning. He hasn't varied hand position like Anthony, who covers your entire cheek with a tingle. Benedict is hitting the same fleshy spot repeatedly until it’s so intense, a direct line to a throb in your clit. Which he hasn't even so much as nudged yet. When he does, you will be so hyper-sensitive you know it will be a jolt you’ll feel everywhere - you relish and dread it in equal measure.

“Begging, however, is encouraged,” he adds, interrupting your thoughts.

“Please, sir, please, please fuck me,” you change tack and realise this is what he said would happen.

“Mmmm, now that is something I love to hear,” he hums low, his voice taking on a rough edge as he surges his cock against your tailbone yet again. You hear sounds of clothing rustling and realise he is undressing slightly—somehow, it feels like a victory. He leans over your back, and warm, smooth flesh brushes your shoulder blades.

“There you go, my girl; I removed my shirt,” he compliments. “Keep it up, and I might just get naked for you.” To punctuate the end of his sentence, he pulls back upright and spanks you again.

You know you are moaning and even drooling a touch, dampening your cheek. His technique is definitely more languid and deliberate; the drawn-out tease is beguiling.

“Please, please, please fuck me, sir,” you try again, hoping it will get him to take off his remaining clothing.

Sure enough, his wrist grazes your sore bottom cheeks, working open his trousers roughly.

“Yessssss, sir, please,” you add, going all out for the performance of it all, revelling in the theatricality of the moment.

“You sound so beautiful when you beg,” he rumbles. You scream as two fingers suddenly plunge into your cunt entirely without warning. “Good christ, you are soaked.”

You can hear the squelching noise of your body as he rocks those long fingers into you, and you keen loudly. Clit throbbing even harder as the blunt round of his fingernail scrapes along your inner walls.

“Please, sir, oh god, give me more. Give me more fingers, your cock, anything,” you babble.

With his other hand, he grabs your hair, pulling your head up like a puppet as you hiss at the prickle on your scalp.

“You will take what I give you, do you hear me?” he growls and everything in your body pulses at the utterly commanding tone.

“Yes sir, of course, sir,” you moan, those fingers inside you curling harder now, and you cry out as he finds that spot inside that makes you crazed.

“There it is. Let's see you soak this bed like the little wild thing you are,” he snarls and suddenly, the languidness of the moment is gone. His hands are urgent and rough, your hair being pulled so tight, his fingers pushing inside your cunt.

You yell, cry out and curse.

“Yes, that's it,” he urges, breathing heavily.

The whiplash moment catches you unawares, and you can't fight what your body is doing; you don't even want to. It's a dizzying sensation as he pushes you fast towards a crescendo. It's not the usual climax; he’s still not as much as touched your clit. It's different, pressure building up inside you that feels almost frightening to let go of. Your wrists tug in your bindings, and you thrash slightly, resisting the tide rising in your body.

“Don't you dare hold back,” he demands, “let it go, don't fight it, give it to me,” he sounds so on a knife edge as his fingers plunder your body that you can't do anything but obey. Your whole body shakes as you cry out, and the pressure erupts—something gushing from inside you, soaking his arm, the bed, and the back of your legs.

“Fuck that's it, yes, yes, yes,” he cries victorious as you squeal and shake and want to collapse, but he grabs your hips, so you stay upright.

You are still quaking all over when he surprised you, releasing your hair, and as your head slumps back onto the pillow, he pulls your ass cheeks wide apart and leans down to plough his tongue between your folds from behind, stubbled chin pressing your clit.

You call out loudly, feeling it in your throat.

“That’s it. Cry for me, my girl,” his tone muffled into your slit, drinking up the fluid leaking there as your body still quivers.

The most obscene noises fill the room as he laps at your body. You moan and writhe under his tongue, already overwrought, the high morphing into something else. He’s taking your body to another different high, stabbing at your clit with long, pointed tongue strokes.

“I want you to come too,” he orders, the heat of his breath making your clit pulse.

“Sirrrr,” your muted protest sound drunken, and that’s how you feel, like every bone in your body is liquid, like you can't possibly come so soon after the intense experience you just had.

“What?” his chuckle has a flinty edge to it.

“I…I can’t,” you groan.

“Don't defy me, girl,” he warns, and a hand reigns down on the back of your thigh, where it meets your bottom, and you jump, pushing your knees wider. He takes advantage of the new stance, tilts your pelvis further so your back is arched low and sinks his whole face into your slit.

You breathe out a curse at just how pressed into your body he is. Your hands tied, unable to do anything but writhe, your lashes flutter heavily against the soft silk tied over your face. Again he is right; you want challenge and surrender, and this is the moment you surrender; with a shaky breath, you bury your face and let him take you somewhere primal and instinctual. Where you are rooted in your body but also somehow floating in a haze of exhilaration.

Your clit pulses, almost painful, as he sucks it between his lips and bites down gently over and over until your thighs twitch and a white-hot burn all around where his mouth holds you captive.

He can feel the ripples emanating from your channel on his face, and he utters encouragements into your soaked flesh. You start to fracture as his whole mouth, nose, and chin engage with your body, taking you over an edge that has you gripping the headboard until your knuckles are sore from gripping and your throat feels hoarse from all the sounds he is wringing from you.

Suddenly his mouth is gone, and you want to yell in frustration that you are not yet done; you want to ride out more when he straights and, with no warning, he thrusts his cock into your palpitating channel. The invasion is almost too much—like you are being split open. The hot hits stretch of him feels so different to Anthony in a way you can't describe, but it’s everything you need at that precise moment.

You scream. Scream so loud he probably wishes he had gagged you after all. But he doesn't seem to care, doesn't reprimand you for being so very loud, not that you could stop even if you wanted to.

“Fuckk, your cunt is so very juicy and swollen,” he grunts through gritted teeth when you quieten to just panting. He holds still buried deep inside you. “No wonder Anthony cannot resist you. You feel exceptional, my girl.”

His filthy words just make you want more; you drag your cheek groaning a litany of noises, flexing your hips, asking for movement. But he doesn't move. He just stays still, fingers banded around the crest of your hips, the hair of his thighs tickling the back of yours.

“Please move, sir,” you lament.

“Beg for it,” he instructs.

He is doing quite an exceptional job in a different way to Anthony, making you surrender to his will, turning you supplicant, pleading, frantic. He was right—you want to do this.

“Please, sir,” you gust through gritted teeth, “please fuck me; I need to feel you moving inside me,” you state loudly, clearly, unashamed.

“Good girl,” he compliments and withdraws slowly. Then ploughs back in fast, making your breath catch, your whole body rolling to the point you grab the headboard and push back.

“Yes, that’s it; show me how much you want it,” he growls, and you yearn to please him. To be exactly what he wants.

“Give it to me, sir,” your voice jagged, needy.

“What do you want?” His tone imperious.

“You. Your cock, sir. Fuck me rough,” you breathe.

And that’s all he needs—the green light. Fingers grip hard as he sets a punishing pace. Spearing deep into your body. So far, your lungs feel squeezed as you curl and roll at the force he takes you with.

Your moan is resonant and sounds almost foreign, like it didn’t come from inside you but from some other wild, untamed place.

He hisses his approval at your noises. He seems to like you loud and vocal, whereas Anthony often tells you to stay quiet and take it, where you have to whimper and drool around his makeshift gags. Benedict doesn’t appear to care who may hear you; it seems he is almost taking pride in the sounds he can wring from you. Hell, he wants you in public; that exhibitionist streak intrigues. Everyone in his household surely knows what is transpiring in his bedroom on this sunny late afternoon.

“Sirrrrr,” you slur as your whole body moves under his rough treatment, your knees scrabbling on the bedding, your hands gripping the headboard, your cheek pressed so deep into the bedding, you know you have crease patterns on your face.

“If you want something, girl, tell me,” he pants each word as he thrusts hard, those fingers a vice-like grip on the crest of your hipbone, leaving marks, jerking you back onto his cock as he presses forward, driving so deep.

“You are so far inside me, sir,” you comment, the feeling of being so drilled into almost blooming into an ache. But an ache that pulls on a string inside, making your eyes roll back, and your mouth fall open, chasing more, wanting it. To feel so viscerally invaded to the point it hurts, him slamming into you, hips snapping, snarling as he does so.

“Yes, I am,” he preens, “and don’t you take all of me so well,” he flatters, leaning down over your back, his skin dewy from the exertion smearing dampness onto your spine. “This is what you need, to be fucked so hard you don’t answer back, isn't it?” he snarls hot into your ear.

“Yes sir,” you answer when he clearly expects a response.

“My little defiant one is finally submissive and taking it like a good girl,” the tone is entirely smug.

You groan as he grabs the knot on the back of your blindfold, pulling you suddenly upright. The slack binding on your wrists snapping taunt, the knots tightening to the point of a faint tingle in your fingertip, your arms suspended in the air in front of you.

He shuffles forward, buried inside you, manhandling you, so you sit on his lap facing away, your legs on either side of his.

“Ride me,” he commands, “take hold of the headboard and fuck me, my girl. Show me what you can do.”

You do as told, rising off his cock, sinking back down, revelling in the new angle you can hit, the steely plunge inside that makes your eyelids flutter.

“Faster,” his orders clipped.

Your thighs begin to protest. Riding him hard as he breathes so loud right by your ear. Then a hand snakes between your legs, and fingers snag your clit. You bite your lip and moan loudly, every muscle ache worth it.

“Are you going to come for me again?” He asks, but it’s not a question. He knows the answer. He can feel the pull of your cunt inside, rippling as he strums your pulsing clit.

Suddenly there is a glancing blow on your breast from his other hand, a light finger spank that catches your nipple and makes you howl. It doesn't hurt, but it makes your nipple throb.

“Answer me.” His voice a gravelly menace.

“Yes. Yes, sir, I'm going to come for you,” you rush out, smarting from the tingle. You crave he does the same on your other breast, but he doesn’t, his hand too preoccupied between your legs.

Leaning forward slightly, you use the headboard for leverage, and he complements as you speed up. Every fibre on your body pulling taunt as you chase that breaking point. Almost using his body and hands with little thought to his pleasure, mindlessly pursuing your own as he ordered.

He swaps hands, and that’s when you break the renewed vigour of movement too much for you to take. You slump deep onto his cock and scream his name, not the title of sir, his actual name; as you fracture, one of his arms bands around your waist, so you are held in place, the other around your neck, fingers tight over your throat.

“Yes,” he growls in your ear, sounding more animal than human, grunting as he tilts his hips to piston into your convulsing cunt twice more, then suddenly withdrawing, painting your lower back with his warm release as he traps his cock between your bodies.

There is nothing but panting breaths for a few seconds, and then a gentle touch pulls your blindfold up and away. Warm, soft lips on your neck as he reaches for the binding on your wrists and releases them. You flex your hands on instinct, rotating your wrists.

“Was my binding too tight?” His ask is meek, fingertips tracing the redness there.

“No, it was merely silk; this will fade within the hour,” you murmur, twisting to give a quick smile of assurance.

He pulls you into him and shuffles until you can lay together, limbs entwined, recovering slowly.

“Was that everything you wanted?” his ask is so endearing you can't help but settle into his arms a little.

“Mmm, it was wonderful,” you assure.

“So, will you be with me?” he whispers, his lips brushing your temple with a sweet kiss, the tone so hopeful.

“I can't answer you yet, Benedict,” you respond honestly, pushing up onto your elbows to touch his jaw affectionately. “I have something special with your brother; I will see him tomorrow and see where I stand. I will not make you any promises, but please know tonight was wonderful, and I wish to be with you again.”

He looks so pleased you are satisfied and nods, seeming to accept your reasoning. You lay in his arms momentarily, then rise to get dressed.

“Will you not be spending the evening or night with me?” he inquires, his voice almost small.

“No,” you shake your head, “I never do so with Anthony either,” you add to reassure.

He gets up from the bed, throwing on some clothing himself, his shirt open to the waist, britches held up by braces, and, in a gentlemanly manner, sees you down the stairs and to the back of his home.

“I hope to see you again soon,” he murmurs as he opens the door for you.

Stealing a glance around to see there are no witnesses from nearby windows, you press a brief kiss to his lips. But he spins you and crowds you into the doorframe, turning it into a lingering passionate moment. Opening his lips and stealing into your mouth, the taste of your arousal strong on his tongue.

“You will see me, anon; I promise,” you whisper into his cheek after you break apart.

Before his fervent kisses can change your mind, you quickly steal down the steps without a look back, slipping unseen into the small alley behind his home and out to the street to hail a hack as the sun sets. You can sense his eyes watching you go.

You are in a quandary. You don't know if you can pick between them now. Benedict stepped up and was exactly what you needed. But with a different edge, his approach was more mental, to Anthony’s passionate physicality. They are so different, and yet both so beguiling. It's entirely possible you need both brothers fulfilling different needs as they do. The problem is, would they ever accept that? Benedict knows about Anthony but wants you all to himself. And Anthony has no clue. You can’t conceive of how you would broach the subject with him. His penchant for jealousy can be a problem, but the possessiveness it brings out in him is undeniably attractive. Part of you hopes you can delay making a decision, greedily taking from both what you want.

This dilemma will rear its head much quicker than expected. Unbeknownst to you, Benedict's teeth have left a little mark high on your inner thigh—it's not even something you feel. But it certainly doesn't go unnoticed by a certain someone the very next day.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton smut #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton smut #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader

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lemony-snickers · 2 years ago

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hi lemony it's been a while 🥰

for the kiss prompt, can i have #15 for kakashi x angry/jealous fem!reader

It had been a long time since you'd felt so annoyed with Kakashi. Sure, he could be brusque at times, especially after a difficult mission, and that could get under your skin. But you knew it was a defense mechanism, a personality trait cultivated from years of harsh reality as a shinobi of the Leaf.

So your annoyance rarely flared so hot, so vivid as it did now, even when he was sullen and petulant as a child.

Because now, you knew Kakashi Hatake was playing dumb deliberately just to get under your skin, and it was really starting to piss you off.

Perhaps Kakashi was just oblivious, but he must have realized the vendor from your brief sojourn to the Festival had been flirting with him, right?

You closed your eyes against the memory of her delicate fingers dancing along the sleeve of his yukata--the yukata you had purchased for him and practically begged him to wear before he agreed not to attend in his jonin uniform.

"I'm not sure what you're talking about," Kakashi said when you pointed it out to him after. But the mischievous glint in his visible eye told you he had known exactly what you were talking about. It also told you you'd made a mistake in drawing attention to it, because it likely had sparked the events of the rest of the evening.

When you made it to the next booth and the same thing happened. And then at the next, too. Eventually, you paid closer attention to Kakashi than the person manning the stall.

He was flirting with them. All of them. Right in front of you.

If it were anyone else, you'd be enraged, but with Kakashi you knew there was no malice in his actions. It was just a game, one you'd set in motion by showing him the first small glimmer of jealousy when you asked about it the first time.

It had never bothered you before. You'd watched Kakashi flirt with targets on missions, and with servers to get a discount on his bill. It was all innocent, you trusted him. Knew you were the one he was going to come home to, no matter what. Sometimes you even found it sort of amusing, how flustered he could make others. You weren't like that. He couldn't fluster you.

Except for tonight, apparently. Because tonight, for whatever reason, your patience was not long enough. You stewed in your irritation, watching Kakashi flirt with an endless stream of admirers until you finally announced that you were leaving early and would meet him at home.

Of course, Kakashi followed close on your heels, needling you all the while, finding your response apparently endlessly entertaining.

What's wrong, I thought you were enjoying the Festival?

Is something bothering you?

Oh there's that nice woman from earlier, I think I'll just go stop and say goodbye...

"Shut up!" you cried, heart hammering as the two of you finally stepped into your apartment and the door clicked closed. You'd ignored his teasing the whole way home, but now you were officially done. "I don't know what your game is, but I don't find it very amusing."

"Are you insinuating that I am being purposely annoying?" Kakashi asked as he pulled his mask down, revealing the teasing smile you knew already lurked beneath.

You stared at Kakashi, nostrils flaring as you dared him to say another word.

"Is there something you'd like to say?" he asked, enjoying himself far too much.

"No."

He smirked and your rage welled up inside you, making you fearless. Strong.

Just as he opened his mouth to say something you were absolutely certain would be not only asinine, but infuriatingly at your expense, you reached forward, grasped the front of his yukata and yanked him toward you, smashing your mouth against his so you could swallow whatever he'd been trying to say.

The kiss was vicious; teeth, mostly, with only enough tongue to tip the scales toward kiss from bite.

You felt the vibrato of Kakashi's laugh beneath your clenched fist and growled, shoving him back with another forceful jut of your chin. You clamped down on his lower lip, relishing the dark growl it drew from him when you just barely broke the supple skin.

You let your lips curl in a wicked grin as you released his lips and pulled away, your hand still gripping his outfit, twisting it so the pull would remain in the fabric once you let him go.

A reminder of the only person who was allowed so close to him.

Kakashi stared at you with a feral look in his eyes, the corners of his mouth turning slightly upward. He swiped his thumb over his lip, collecting the few drops of blood there and then licked them away. You released his shirt, but rather than taking a step back, Kakashi stepped forward, leering down at you as you regained your breath.

"Now look what you've done," he said a little too quietly, "I've lost my train of thought."

You smirked up at him. "You should have shut up like I asked," you said, unprepared for one of Kakashi's arms to hook around the small of your back and drag you into him with so much force you needed his body to steady you unless you wanted to go sprawling on the floor.

His breath was hot against your ear when he leaned down and kissed the hinge of your jaw and then whispered, "You're going to have to do much better than that if you want to keep me quiet."

Now that was a challenge you were more than happy to take on.

#kakashi x reader #kakashi x you #fem!reader #tw biting #sharingangirl #15 is “kissing to shut them up!”#lemony scribbles #friday flash fic fest #thank you so much for sending this one in i hope you like it! <3

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who-knew-a-sheep-can-write · 7 months ago

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Sympathy For Wolves: Werewolf!Blackwatch!Cole Cassidy x Fem!Reader

Chapter 6: What Big Eyes You Have

Contains needles and blood in this one!

“You can’t tame what’s meant to be wild, doc. It just ain’t natural.” ~ The Howling

It was dark, nearly pitch black outside save for whatever light the moon gave off. She hung above the two of you, sitting fat and happy in the sky, the pale white light barely illuminating the woods around you both.

He could smell how wet the woods were, the fresh rainfall on old and mossy trees and the mud squelching beneath your pairs of military boots muddled his nose. He was craving a cigarette, for the stench of tobacco to clog his nose and distract him from the woods standing tall around him. He felt caged standing in the towering evergreen, they cast odd shadows into the small clearing you both found yourselves in. His throat burned for a cigarette, swallowing thickly as he dream of being able to light one up right now and compromise whatever mission it was that they had to send the two of you out on together - a rarity but it had happened twice now.

He could hear the rumble of thunder in the distance, the sky lighting up in the east as thunderclouds rolled away from you both, leaving you two cold and wet, shivering out in the middle of the woods alone. The wind still blew harshly, shaking branches and threatening to take down the smaller trees completely. Hell, he even had to keep a hand on his hat to keep it from blowing off of his head.

Cole turned to look at you. Your normal blue and white Overwatch uniform was muddy and torn a bit from the snagging branches. The flowing coat almost every higher up Overwatch agent got was all snagged and torn, leaving you barely anything to keep warm or shelter you from the rain that had just fallen. You were probably soaked through to the bone, you shivered and held your gun tightly in both hands, your tired eyes keeping watch at the trees. Your hair was messy and your face even had some mud and scrapes on your cheek and chin. You were drained, not really able to keep up in case something did happen yet you still kept worried eyes on the trees. You looked terrified and you looked miserable.

Why the fuck were you two even out here alone and with no supplies? Hell, not even a damn compass. Cole turned around a bit, looking at the skyscraping spruce trees and how they blew roughly against the wind. The winds were howling, the trees looked as though they were going to snap at any moment should the winds become too rough. He couldn’t even make out stars from where you both were, the dark clouds still loomed over but they were peeling away. Cole tried to fumble in his pockets for his communicator.

The communicator he and Genji had weren’t as fancy as the ones Reyes had or the medical one Moira was given, it really was just a glorified flip phone from the early parts of the century just reused for them to probably save money. He felt the familiar box in his pocket, managing to pull it out and flip it open. The screen was cracked but it still relayed the holo-image of his boss. Pressing the button to dial Reyes just sent it to an unavailable tone.

Cursing to himself, Cole tried again and again and again. The unavailable drone the communicator gave off only raised Cole’s heartrate.

He tried Captain Amari, praying that the saint of a woman would pick up. Scrolling through and finding her image and pressing dial seemed to work at first, giving in two rings of a dial before cutting out and giving you both the unavailable drone.

Angela? Angela had to answer. There was no way he would even call Moira for help, even if it was life or death. Cole pleaded for the angel to pick up only to be met with the unavailable tone immediately.

Genji’s contact did the exact same thing. Reinhardt and Lindholm’s didn’t even let him access a call and Oxton and Sojourn left him on a long-going dial tone.

He was becoming desperate, running out of people to turn to and call.

Morrison! Morrison had to answer. He absolutely had to. Cole clenched his jaw, ready to take an ass chewing verbal beat down Morrison was about to put him through for fucking up the mission and getting lost in the woods with you with no supplies and blah blah blah. Pressing the button dialed. He kept his eyes glued to the little holo-screen with its cracked glass. He was pleading internally to the holo image of Morrison’s overdone Overwatch portrait with all of his medals pinned to his chest.

One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Four rings.

“We’re sorry. The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service.”

“Fuck!” Cole sneered at the communicator. Turning back to you, he could see you frantically going through your own communicator, a desperate look on your face too. Your communicator was a fancy Overwatch model, fancier than the one Reyes had despite being the leader of Blackwatch. It had a better tracker on it, but it was seemingly useless right now as neither one of you could get ahold of anyone. You were flicking through the ones he had just tried, calling them and getting the same responses. You tried other agents he had never heard of, you got the same endings. You even tried Moira despite feeling the same way about her and got nothing. “Nothin’?” Cole questioned, shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Nothing,” you shook your head.

“Let’s just keep walkin’ then. Gotta hit somethin�� somewhere.”

You looked back down at your communicator in defeat before pocketing it and following closely behind Cole, basically right against his back.

Cole kept his eyes open, glancing around at the endless maze of trees and bushes with no sign of life or light. No animals running around trying to find shelter from the storm that just passed, no little cottage to try to take refuge in and keep warm.

“… -her.”

Cole halted in his tracks, you stopping right behind him. You pressed yourself against his back, you were absolutely shaking by this point, clutching the back of his chest plate.

Did you hear it too? It was so quiet anyone could have mistaken it for an odd gust of wind.

Glancing behind his shoulder, you didn’t to have heard it, instead, you were trying to make yourself as small as possible to save heat.

“… -ll her.”

There it was again.

Was it the howling winds? Maybe whatever animal out in the woods was crying out? He’s heard that foxes and cougars sound like a woman’s scream before, but nothing like animals talking or anything. He’s heard of what the Overwatch moon base is doing with animals, but no reports of this on earth.

Cole slowly reached his hand down his holster, gloved fingertips slowly curling around the handle of Peacekeeper and slowly pulled her from her sheath. His tired eyes stayed on the trees, watching for any movement that would either prove he was going mad or prove that you two are not alone out here.

His eyes scanned the woods, moving past one gnarled tree to the next, looking over bushes and past twisting branches until he felt his blood freeze.

His eyes had landed on an oddly shaped bush, the branches and leaves in the middle split apart just enough to reveal a familiar haunting sight. It was like something ripped straight from a comic.

Two yellow eyes, glowing faintly from the bushes, pupils dilated so small they got lost in a sea of gold looking right at him.

Feeling him tense up, you pulled back a bit to see what was wrong, still trembling cold behind him. He felt sick to his stomach, dizzy all of a sudden as he couldn’t help but stare at those golden eyes. It was almost like he was in a trance.

Whatever it was suddenly stood from the bush, Cole’s face going pale as it towered before him. Familiar claws, a maw full of sharp teeth ready to maim someone.

But it wasn’t the one who attacked him.

This one was bigger, broader, it looked like something that could take down someone far bigger than Reinhardt.

An arch of lightning lit up the sky, bleeding light into the woods and showing just a bit more of the beast. Various shades of brown fur and scraps of simple jeans and a red flannel loosely hung off of the beast’s bulky form. The one that had attacked him was pitch black, it was lean and tall with little defining features. This was not Talon’s new pet project.

It snarled at him, claws flexing and teeth bared. Cole tried to back up, nudging you to do the same only for him to hear it again.

He heard it clear as day this time.

“Kill her.”

Everything was a sterile white around him. There were no specks of dirt to be found in the office and it was freezing in here. Cole scrunched his nose at the strong chemical smells that stung his nostrils. Despite the room being just as big as Angela’s office, it still felt claustrophobic in there, he felt like he was suffocating. He sat quietly on the examination table, eyes trained on the “good doctor” before him. There was something else in here than made him want to just run out of here, there was an odd feeling at the back of his throat, almost like he was having an allergic reaction to something. He feared that if he spoke up, Moira would get the idea to make sure exactly what was wrong in the worst ways possible.

Moira sat on a rolling stool, one lanky and very thin leg crossed over another, eyes trained on her computer as he scrolled through, punching orders for blood and whatever horrible experiments she was about to do to him. He heard about her time at the Oasis University, how she was kicked out, about her little rabbit “farm.” He didn’t want the mad scientist coming anywhere near him within a ten mile radius, but sadly, Angela was too busy to take him and he needed one last exam before he could go out on missions again - he had no choice. Either be examed by the woman who probably melted plastic and metal into ant hills as a kid or be reamed by Reyes for putting it off for so long.

Cole held his breath as Moira kept putting in orders, she would take occasional glances at Cole before going back to type away. She made no conversation at all with him since he stepped inside. He didn’t honestly know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. It probably would be best to just keep his mouth shut, get it all over with, and then be done with it all.

Moira suddenly stood up, the printer below the computer spitting out a couple of pages of stickers, probably for vials of blood and such. She stalked over to one of the pristine white - why does everything have to be white in doctor’s offices? - cabinets and pulled out six thin yet long vials and then dug through a drawer for a new needle as well as a band for his arm. She dragged over a small stand with a tray. Cole went to roll up the sleeve to his left arm only for Moira to leave it on his right, Cole gave her a look that he knew she didn’t see as she went to retrieve the stickers for the vials.

Cole glanced around the room some more, not wanting to look at the sadist before him for long, wanting to just get out of here as fast as possible, even if he has to play along with her cruel games. It was when Cole looked at the tall bookcase by the door did he notice a couple of books poking out just a bit more. Squinting, he could only make out one of the books in English, the rest seemed to be Irish or some other language she knew. The ones that had caught his attention were on the bottom shelf, books of myths and fairytales and creatures. Cole raised a brow but didn’t question it, not wanting the back-alley doctor before him to go into a medical lecture about whatever sick thing that she was concocting in her head. It was when she turned around with the empty vials all open that Cole suddenly felt unease settling in his stomach.

She set the vials down for a moment before picking up the elastic. She tied it tightly around Cole’s right bicep, the gunslinger’s nose twitching as he tried to not sneer at her for picking the arm he shoots with to draw blood from. He winced as the elastic bit into him, digging through the thick material of his Blackwatch uniform. She produced a small alcohol wipe, cleaning his inner elbow, the cold and wet square was dragged across his warm flesh so slowly that it made him want to just get up and leave, especially when she dug her nail in just enough to scratch at him.

He normally didn’t mind needles, he was poked and prodded a lot when he was brought into Overwatch originally. Angela had done so much bloodwork and given Cole so many shots that he swore he would’ve been immune to any and all diseases. Hell, he has plenty of tattoos too littered all over his body (some of which he does plan to get lasered off pretty soon, especially the Deadlock tattoo on his left forearm) so he didn’t really have an aversion to needles medical or not.

But with Moira? He wanted to pull back and kick the needle from her ghoulish hands and get the hell out of hell.

Instead, he took a deep breath and kept his eyes off of her, knowing she would try to do something to make him tick.

He felt the needle prick into his arm and puncture through his vein. He didn’t feel the blood flowing but he felt the metal inside of his stretched elbow and the rubber still tight around his bicep.

Moira worked over him, filling each vial with his blood quickly. The doctor herself reeked of chemicals too, matching her sterile office and medbay.

“Tell me, are you having any strange cravings?” she piped up, focused on filling the vials still.

Cole cocked a brow and glanced at her. Was this some sort of tactic to get him to look at her so she can put him in even more unease?

“No,” was all Cole gave as an answer before looking down at the floor.

He started to count the pristine white tiles, getting to twenty when Moira suddenly pulled the needle out and stuck a bandage on the puncture. She snapped off the band and cleaned up the vials.

“Any odd or out of place dreams? Nightmares maybe?” she asked as she disposed of the needle and waste.

Cole swallowed thickly. He was about to confirm the odd nightmares he’s been having ever since he woke in Angela’s medbay and how it was all about that creature and how there was a new one in the dream taht had awoken him this morning. He kept his lips sealed, he didn’t want to give her any information she could use.

“No.”

“I’ve heard of your little bout with Commander Reyes in the range yesterday,” she tutted. “Are you noticing any other emotional bouts besides anger?” She plucked each individual vial up one at a time and placed them all into a little carrier for them. “Maybe hunger? Are you suddenly more happy at times?” She placed the last vial in the carrier and gave him a look. “How is your little play thing? Y/n, isn’t it? One of Morrison’s little worker bees that I’ve seen you around with? Feeling more lustful than usual, Cassidy?” she hinted towards him, giving him side eye.

“That ain’t any of yer business,” Cole sneered, cutting off her next possible question.

Had she heard what you both had done last night? You both were rather loud, he was shocked nobody had come to pound on his door or shout at him to quit fucking and being loud. Something made his skin crawl at the thought of Moira being alone with you, it burned him on the inside just thinking about the things she could say or do.

“I’m just doing my job,” she feined innocence, puffing out her thin chest with a false sense of pride. “That creature that used you like a squeaky toy could of had hundreds of diseases. I’m only worried about my team.”

She had turned back to her little stand with the computer and printer and pressed a few more buttons, the printer spitting out a few more pieces of paper that she folded up and put in the carrier. She had a look on her face that Cole knew all too well, the look that she always gives him when she is about to really get under his skin and make him squirm.

“You could of had something like rabies! That has a one hundred percent kill rate you know. Or maybe a staph infection with all of the oozing blisters you can get? Maybe even a pasteurella infection, if under the right conditions it can cause necrotizing fasciitis where you skin will start to die and turn black-” Moira stopped, almost as if another idea popped into her sick and twisted head. She turned to look at him sitting very uncomfortably on the hard examination table. “How are the bite marks? Last I saw they were a bitter black around where that thing sank its little teeth into you.”

She stepped closer to him, this time Cole started to feel caged.

“All healed up, no need to worry about em anymore,” Cole stood his ground.

“Are you sure? Do you want me to look?”

“No.”

Moira stood before him, eyeing him with a small smirk on her thin lips. It felt like the room got suddenly colder, the hairs of Cole’s arms stood straight up. His shoulders tensed and he clenched his jaw.

Sensing the negative vibe Cole was giving off, Moira simply chuckled.

“There’s no reason to fear me, you simple thing. I ask these things to make sure.”

“Make sure of what?”

“You could still be infected.”

What did she say? Still? As in he was infected with something before?

“What?”

Moira’s brows tilted up, it dawned on her that he wasn’t properly informed on the entire situation.

“Why else would you have been out for nearly nine days upon coming back here to the base? You had a constant fever that could have killed you should your body suddenly reject medicine, you weren’t responsive to most treatments, your wounds remained opened where Angela’s nanobots couldn’t even close them. She thought you had rabies, we all did until you suddenly started to heal. And just like that, you woke up. Your little girlfriend played nurse for you for about a week or so and now you’re walking around getting into scraps with the Commander like you weren’t knocking on death’s door within moments of your life.” Cole stayed quiet throughout her little rant, the entire time Moira kept her eyes on him, looking over at the spots where he had been initially wounded. His shoulder, his hip, his ankle. “So that begs the question: What was it that mauled you?”

Cole swallowed, his throat dry all of a sudden as he kept his eyes pinned on Moira in case she did something.

“I don’ know,” Cole muttered, hoping it would have been enough for the woman before him to back down.

Moira’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly, the so-called doctor grabbed at the carrier of the vials and headed to the door.

“Wait here, I’ll only be a moment to run the tests,” the “doctor” stated sarcastically, almost as if she knew Cole was going to book it the second he knew she was long gone from this room.

He watched with stern eyes as she turned and left, the doors sliding closed behind her. He waited a minute or two before he stood up from the very uncomfortable examination table.

He first went over to the bookshelf he had been eyeing at earlier. It was tall, reaching from floor to ceiling. Half of the height were opened up shelves, the bottom half was a cabinet where the doors were locked. Looking at the bottom shelf a lot better now that he was close, he could see that the books were all mostly old, coming from nearly one hundred years ago according to the faded gold stamping on the old leather bindings and spine. Most came from the 1990’s, the ones written in Irish coming from before then.

The books were all filled with notes poking out of the top, colorful little tabs just peeking out just enough for someone to flip to their respective pages. Cole pulled out the thickest book and open looked at the cover, the bindings were roughened up from nearly a century of being used, leather faded and had lost most of his brownish-red tone, the marbled printing of the leather now faded to be smooth. The stamp of the name with still legible though.

‘Monstrology of the Old World’

Cole couldn’t make out the name of the author but cracked open the book just barely. He flipped to one of the pages that had a note sticking out of the top, the old book’s spine snapping and crackling as the old glue popped from the sudden movement. Cole was met with a photo, a drawing from centuries ago according to the scripted date. A man was on his hands and knees, a limb in his mouth as mutilated bodies surrounded him. The man was hairy, his clothes had been torn all over, his beard and his hair made some sort of mane and his eyes were wild. Most of the text underneath the photo was faded, mostly the name of the artist, but Cole could make out the word ‘werewolf’ amongst the faded ink.

He felt a prickle run down his spine as he turned to another page to see another drawing from around the same time as the first. A man sitting with an expensive looking cloth wrapped around him looked furious, a dead infant before on a silver platter as the buildings in the background were set ablaze. There was another man, fleeing, but he was changing to look like a beast. A canine snout, wolfish eyes and ears at the top of its head.

He felt compelled to put the book back, sliding it back into its place just as he found it so Moira wouldn’t know.

There were multiple other books in the row exactly like the one he just flipped through.

‘You could still be infected,’ he heard Moira’s words ringing through his head.

He swallowed hard and turned on his heel, walking away front the shelf behind him.

He couldn’t be, right? There was no way! This was all just a series of unfortunate events.

As Cole passed the door to Moira’s office, he couldn’t help but stop in his tracks. It was almost like he had been possessed. His back straightened, his eyes opened up more, and his senses sharpened. He turned to look at the door; it was a large iron door that seemed to be unlocked when he glanced down at the pad.

He could smell something coming from behind the door. It smelled… natural? Something natural in a room that was anything but. It cut through the harsh bleach and chemical smells Moira had used to scrub everything just a little too clean that it would grate at anyone’s nerves. He knew she hated the false scents candles and air fresheners gave off, and she never kept plants around like Angela did to spruce up her office.

What was that smell?

Cole chewed on the inside of his cheek for a second, debating on if he wanted to enter her office. Would he end up like one of those poor rabbits she liked to experiment on? Or maybe something worse? Or who knows - maybe Moira secretly likes to garden in her spare time and has something alive for once in her private office?

The longer he stood before her door, the more the smell tempted him. He could feel the minutes dripping away slowly like honey, each second that slipped past only thinned his control and made his decision only tougher.

Curiosity killed the cowboy, Cole pushed the small button on the bottom of the pad by the door and it slid open quickly. Cole was met with Moira’s office cast in the darkness. Flicking on the lights, he felt unease as he took in her office. It was nearly all white save for a couple of grays here and there as well as the Blackwatch logo sitting painted on the front of her desk.

There were no plants or decorations in this room either, instead, the walls were lined with lines of bookshelves, each having a locked glass door in front, allowing Cole to see what lied inside of each. It was mix of books and binders towards the front of her office by the door, but towards the back held more disturbing things. Medical “equipment” he was sure nobody used anymore, plenty of preserved skulls and bones in containers, and a whole lot of medical jars filled with dead animals floating in a pale yellow liquid. Cole swallowed, wanting to just turn around and leave, turn the light off, close the door and leave Moira’s medbay before she got back just like she knew he would do.

But the smell stopped him. It was stronger in here, smacking him in the face. He couldn’t find anything at first glance. It was only when he took a few steps deeper into her office did he notice something towards the back against the wall. It was hidden behind her desk chair at a first glance inside: A small metal cupboard, the door just barely cracked open not even an inch. Cole slowly rounded her desk, standing before the small cabinet before crouching down.

He felt the hairs on the back of his neck standing on edge. His nose was starting to tingle from the smell to the point where his nose hairs felt like they were going to shrivel.

The smell was pungent, woody and natural. It smelled moist and dark, like a forest right after it rained.

Cole slid his fingers between the slightly opened door and the metal face of the cupboard and slowly opened it, revealing a small potted plant beneath a now-dead lightbulb. The plant was tall, tied to a small stick to keep it straight. The flower’s petals hadn’t yet bloomed, the buds were a vibrant purple though. The buds were dropping, the stem was a bright green. It looked well-taken care of, meticulously groomed and all.

The smell was heavy now in his nose, adding onto the frosty weight Cole felt in his gut as he was in the office of the person he trusts the least in the whole base.

Cole’s breathing became uneven, his mind went hazy all of a sudden. He felt a slight stinging in his eyes, causing him to stand suddenly go to rub them with his gloved fingers. As he stood, he accidentally bumped the cabinet door closed, the metal clunking in place. His eyes felt like they were going to start burning as if he was about to stare at the hot desert sun for too long.

The stinging suddenly stopped and Cole was able to keep his eyes open again.

He felt dread suddenly wash over him. He needed to leave.

He retreated from Moira’s office, making sure to close the door and turn off the light before he left.

It was when he was about to reach the door to the main hallway did something else catch his eye. The full-length mirror on the opposite wall, he just so happened to have looked at it before he was about to leave.

He froze dead in his tracks, fear prickling his skin like millions of needles.

His irises were yellow.

He had to be hallucinating. Whatever that plant was had to be making him hallucinate.

Walking over to the mirror, he rubbed at his eyes and stared at them in the reflective glass. They were yellow, faintly giving off a glow. His pupil was retracting and dilating quickly as he started to panic inwardly.

The door suddenly swung open behind him, thinking it would have been Moira, Cole didn’t move. He froze in place, waiting for her sarcastic response.

“Cassidy, there you are!” Reyes’ voice cut through the thick silence. “Care to explain what you fucking did to one of the punching bags a few days ago?”

Cole felt his heart pounding in his ears as Reyes blocked the door, probably with his arms crossed over each other and a look of heavy disappointment a father would give to his misbehaving son.

“Boss, I-”

“Look me in the eye, Cassidy.”

“Reyes-”

Cole tried to move away from the mirror when he heard Reyes’ feet coming towards him, but his boss clapped a hand on one of Cole’s shoulders and spun him around to face him. Reyes’ scowl turned to pure shock at the sight of Cole’s eyes, proving he wasn’t drugged and hallucinating.

He felt icy claws rake lines down his back, fear welling up inside of him as his mind screamed at him to get the hell out of dodge.

Cole booked it out of the room, leaving Reyes more confused than ever.

#overwatch #cole cassidy #cole cassidy x reader #cassidy x reader #mccree x reader #jesse mccree #werewolf!mccree #werewolf!cassidy #werewolf!cole cassidy

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ravenelyx · 1 year ago

Text

I love you in every timeline - Chapter 4: The Repertoire of Memory is Worn

← Prologue

← Chapter 3

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x Fem!Reader

Words: 8.8k

Chapter Warnings: pining, some angst, Harry Potter characters appearance, no name use for reader, some swearing, use of 2nd person for the reader, book dialogue

Summary: "It was as clear as day, no matter how many times he had brought his tie to his nose in the days that followed, that you had no interest in him.". In which Sebastian, in his search for a cure in the Dark Arts, finds himself 100 years into the future and meets his most trusted companion's descendant (who looks far too similar to the girl he was once secretly in love with).

A/N: Basically a therapy session for him

You can read the whole fanfiction here on ao3

"The repertoire of your memory has shown me you yourself before you left. There were names of various countries, dates and sojourns and at the end a blank white page, but with rows of dots…as if to suggest, if it were possible: ‘to be continued’." -Eugenio Montale, The Repertoire

Perhaps he should have given the Gryffindor Prefects less credit after all. He should take back the bonus sapphires he had reluctantly given to the red gryphon for his "hospitality."

Because at that moment, it felt anything but.

He remembered the look Hermione had given you when you were about to tell him your deepest, darkest secret.

Okay, maybe that's too far-fetched.

But your tone of voice and the look in your eyes clearly showed that whatever you wished to disclose to him wasn't something you would have told Umbridge... or any other less preposterous teacher either.

He wasn't looking for validation, nor was he fishing for pity.

But maybe he did wish to be seen.

All things considered, no one in his new circle of friends — which looked more like a segment and a dot, given he didn't yet know where he stood with you — knew of his misadventure, nor of the reason he occasionally tugged at his sleeves when the cardigan itched at his wrists.

He wanted to tell Daphne.

He wanted to tell you.

He wanted to tell everyone.

Hell, he'd have even told Draco Malfoy if it meant that at least someone would acknowledge his standing, no matter how asinine and annoying their comments might be.

"...unless it's absolutely necessary," he recalled. But where was it that he could draw the line between necessary and extremely-and-idiotically-self-indulgent?

It had been two weeks since the Artefact had brought him there. Two weeks in which he hadn't seen Ominis or Anne — not that they wanted him around anyway. Two weeks without hearing her voice. Two weeks in which you hadn't visited the Undercroft, not even once.

He was there all the time, much to his dismay. If he sat there long enough, he could almost pretend nothing had really changed. He could almost trick himself into waiting for her to walk in and practise Confringo with him. He could almost hear Ominis and Anne's laughter as the Gobstones splashed him with their juice.

Almost.

He wanted to ask you to practise some spells with him there. Maybe, just maybe, if you placed your body at a certain angle and shrugged off your Gryffindor robes, he could see her.

Your hair was shorter. Just a little.

He had noticed it the day before when you'd turned around to collect your potion ingredients, and it had been eating at him ever since. Stupid, really, because your hair should have been the last point on his list of discrepancies between you two.

As demonstrated by your escapade in the Library, it was quite obvious that, aside from some physical features and your last name, you two were like chalk and cheese.

"I can be sneaky, let's go," she had said, naively.

"Hold on, now," he had answered her with a small, knowing smile.

"Is it always this easy to sneak in?" he heard his voice say again.

"The Library is closed at this hour, so no. It's not."

"You said the librarian would be gone by now!"

"I said usually!"

"It's five to eight. That means we have twenty minutes, at max , before Madam Pince returns," and he had nodded in understanding.

He took a loud, deep breath that sounded more like a choked gasp.

Everything felt wrong. Everything was wrong. It felt like the Universe (or that damn Supreme Being that had been toying with him since he arrived in this world) had swapped your places. And the more he looked at you, the less he saw her.

And that scared him.

Because if one thing was true about Sebastian Sallow, it was that he was a selfish, heedless bastard when it came to matters of the heart, and if the only way to have her back by his side was to love her vicariously through you, he wasn't going to budge.

But now he was starting to notice too many differences, and not just on a physical level. Because while he could ignore your eyes, especially when you were facing away from him, or the birthmark near your lip, or the crease which only showed when you drew your eyebrows together, he couldn't ignore your lacking presence in the Slytherin Common Room, or your sagacity and boldness, or your confidence and wit, or the way you appeared to know how everything worked to the brim.

Or how you always seemed to be one step ahead of him.

And yet, he had to reluctantly admit that he didn't completely hate it.

And that scared him, too. If not more so.

Because he felt like he was doing her a disservice by admiring you.

Sebastian wasn't stupid, he knew that the reason his heart leapt at your mere presence wasn't because of some real-life fairy tale about love at first sight: he'd never doubted that what was going on in his nervous system (and in his stomach, which for some reason couldn't get rid of those stings) was just the result of poor emotion regulation and transference (and also a form of intrigue, though he wouldn't admit it out loud). He was extremely self-aware, he prided himself on that, but in the last year, when he had let his feelings take the reins of his body, the results had almost always been disastrous.

And he was sure that this time would be no different.

So he thought back to his promise. To stay away from you, as he told himself. To find out what had happened to her, and then to ignore your presence and existence as best he could.

But how could he ignore you when you were everywhere now?

There had been days when he had scrubbed his hand more than once to get rid of your drawing, only to regret it the next day when he saw it fading more and more.

And so it went on, an alternating nightmare.

Two weeks of it.

He often caught himself staring at the seat next to him on the sofa near the fireplace in the Common Room: the seat where she always sat. Now Daphne occupied it most of the time.

"What are you staring at?" She raised an eyebrow at him. "Are my hips funny or ...?"

"What? No," he snapped out of it, and averted his eyes, only now realising exactly where he was staring.

To anyone else, it would have looked like he was gawking shamelessly. But it was Daphne he was talking to: some days she seemed to know him better than he knew himself. She was bloodily perspective in her own way, and he was more than willing to open up to her, against his better judgement.

If it weren't for her loose blonde hair and bright blue eyes, he would have seen Anne in her.

He seemed to be forgetting that it wasn't only you whom he shouldn't get attached to too much.

"I just spaced out."

She clicked her tongue as she smudged a little on her diagram. "I suppose the Chinese Chomping Cabbages aren't exactly piquing your interest, are they?"

He watched thoughtfully as she struggled against the ink, and the only answer he graced her with was a guttural sound at the back of his throat. She seemed too distracted to care.

"Why won't it stop dripping?" The blonde hissed, annoyed, and Sebastian half-smiled in amusement.

And then he reached into his pocket.

"Try this."

Daphne furrowed her eyebrows and picked up the weird stick he was holding.

"Is this a new kind of wand or…? Didn't know Ollivander had stepped up his game."

He rolled his eyes. "It's a pen. A… A muggle invention. Just press it on the paper and write. You won't need ink."

She looked at it suspiciously, as if asserting that it wasn't a Zonko product that would spray her with Bouncing Spider Juice when she least expected it. In the end, she seemed to trust him enough and shrugged.

And so she did as she was told.

"My, my!" The girl grinned. "You know I'm going to steal this from you, right?"

There was a pang in his chest, and his breath was cut short at the idea. He remembered the playful twinkle in your eyes and your smile as you handed him that same pen.

"No you won't," he retorted, his voice trembling slightly more than he had hoped.

"Ho ho," she said, keeping the pen tight in her hand and biting her lip to stop a sly grin from breaking onto her face. "Why not? Is it… special?"

He took in a sharp breath. "No. It's just my first muggle object… and I want to enjoy it."

"Your first muggle object, is it?" She shook her head. "You took it for a tattoo-making tool as well then, I reckon?"

"Tattoo-what?"

"Those weird marks Muggles draw on their skin. Permanently," Daphne shook her head, emphasising the last word disapprovingly. "But yours wasn't permanent, which means..."

"Mine? What are you talking about?" The boy leaned back on the armrest. "I've never visited a Muggle - er - tattoo-maker."

She sighed, seemingly exasperated, but her small, teasing smile told him otherwise. He felt cold sweat run down his spine.

"It might be gone now, but I remember that weird circle on your hand, and I don't suppose you've drawn it yourself, so either you joined a cult or… someone else who would possess muggle objects drew it for you."

He flushed and hid his hand by instinct, even if now the skin was smooth and unblemished again.

Just how perspective was Daphne Greengrass? Or was he just far too easy to read?

"I joined a cult."

She broke into a laugh. "Alright, then. I won't steal your most prized possession from you."

He loved and hated talking to her at the same time.

Sebastian watched musingly as his friend twirled the item in her hand, stopping now and then to draw symbols and write short words on the worn parchment, and he thought back to the wide range of abstruse sketches on your notebook, and on how he wished you would take that same notebook with you to the Undercroft when you would finally accept his invitation to study together.

He tried in vain to pull himself out of that reverie, to finally come to terms to what it really was: a whim he shouldn't indulge in. What was really important, and the only reason he should keep you in his company, was to find out what happened to her, what had made the wizarding world repute her achievements perfunctory and irrelevant enough to enshroud her existence to everyone.

It was a rickety plan you were both treading on, going from pillar to post those last few days with no success. You had told him you had visited the Restricted Section again, but that the only book who made mention of Ancient Magic had just said something about the hides of dragons and their protection.

His heart broke a little upon knowing you felt the need to do that alone without sending for him to accompany you: he thought you were in this together. On the whole, though, you had only been the bearer of bad news, but despite the crushing weight of repeated failures, he wouldn't acquiesce to the sinking reality of the impasses you were piling up. He was as stubborn as a mule and intended to remain so.

As always, you got away with no one being the wiser. He could not help but be envious and enticed at the same time.

Sebastian had always felt like he knew everything: what other people thought, what his environment was like and, above all, what he himself was like. He had an assertiveness that few people could master and many would emulate. He knew exactly what to say to make people tick. He knew better than anyone how the school worked. He had studied its rules and guidelines, and knew exactly how to put one over on them when he needed to.

And yet he had got caught.

You hadn't.

Neither that time, nor the previous times.

Now, he had kept Tracey Nettlebed at bay by fulfilling her stupid requests, and that seemed to prevent her from telling what happened that morning — how she knew was still a mystery to him — but, to anyone other than Sebastian, Daphne and Tracey, you still looked as if butter wouldn't melt in your mouth.

He wasn't even sure the Professors would believe Tracey if she had — as people around Hogwarts said — "dashed the dirt" on you two, given how much of a blabbermouth she was, but Dean definitely would have, and that was the reason you had been so adamant not to let your adventure out in the open.

So, despite his own reluctance in having to ask you to get those Snackboxes-whatever from the Gryffindor Common Room whenever Tracey cornered him near the slithery entrance of his own — and the constant twitching of his left eye whenever you mentioned said boy — he had decided to push his own qualms (and feelings) to the side and had yielded to your wishes.

He hadn't properly told you Tracey's exact words — having learned a bit later that the shocked expression you had worn, which had made the pit of his stomach drop to his knees, was due more to the fourth-year's tone of voice and threatening look when she'd said his name than to the 'your little crush' remark — and he had absolutely no intention of doing so.

It was as clear as day, no matter how many times he had brought his tie to his nose in the days that followed, that you had no interest in him.

And his marks on cricket darts seemed as appealing as squeezing Bubotuber Pus from its plant with his bare hands.

In the end, the house elves had been quicker, and had probably had enough of him and that damned tie lying biasedly on his bed day after day, and managed to snatch it and launder it properly.

The avocado was gone.

As he looked over at the girl copying her diagram — or, more specifically, at her hand to assure the pen wouldn't disappear into thin air — the familiar feeling of holes being bored into his head came back. He grimaced.

"Look behind me, see if she's staring," he whispered to Daphne, and the blonde lifted her head slightly to peer over his shoulder.

"She is."

He gave a world-weary sigh and rolled his eyes once more. "She is going to ask me for those damn boxes again."

"I say you cast Obliviate on her and end this nightmare."

His lip twitched up.

"Tough when you have to salvage your crush's reputation and hide her escapades from her other crush." She continued with an exaggerated sigh.

He grabbed the heaviest pillow he could find and threw it at her head, while she brought her hands up to protect her face. She laughed as her hair flew everywhere.

"Alright alright, sorry." She took a loud breath. "But seriously, I think Tracey might have been following you to know all that."

"Would you have guessed?" He replied sarcastically. "Stupid Library date, stupid Dean—"

"Is that what you asked of her? Where to find Dean?"

He cleared his throat and looked away.

"You know it's funny that if it weren't for Tracey, you two would have never been caught. Gryffindors have been outdoing us lately."

That was a low blow — not that Daphne knew any better.

Because in a way, in his twisted, homesick, lovestruck mind, that could just as easily add to the competition between you and her.

"What do you mean?"

"Let's say some people have been… tarnishing our reputation…" She shot a glance behind them and he followed her gaze to Malfoy and his group. "While Gryffindors are prospering with all kinds of renegades. Harry Potter for once: he has been basically rewriting the rules of this school ever since he arrived. Ron Weasley, his best friend? might appear a bit as a nitwit, but I assure you he's lost more points in his first year than I did in five of my own. Even Hermione Granger is a little sly one, despite her goody-two-shoes image. And the Weasley twins… don't get me started on them. They are the inventors of the Skiving Snackboxes your little friend loves so much: the Weasley products have been thriving in this school."

He tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest, and hoped Daphne had forgotten about you, but she had decided to twist the knife deeper — inadvertently of course.

"Not to mention…" and she knowingly quirked her head to the side, lifting her eyebrows in the meantime, "she's just as reckless and slightly more cunning. If she hadn't been a Muggle-born, I'm pretty sure she would be sitting in my place on this sofa right now."

That wasn't a low blow, that was a whole punch in his gut. Part of him wanted the girl to just stop talking.

Part of him wanted to know more.

"What makes you say that?"

She shrugged. "Well, she was almost a Hatstall, after all. The hat kept going back and forth between the two."

His throat did a strange thing, blowing out air so quickly he choked on his breath. He tried to cough as quietly as he could.

"S-So… she could have been a Slytherin?" He asked, clearing his throat awkwardly.

Daphne seemed to ponder.

"To be honest… I think she could have. But I don't really see her as an ambitious gal, do you? I think she is a perfect Gryffindor after all…"

He nodded absent-mindedly.

Yet another thing he added to his list.

"Why have you never visited the Undercroft?"

"I—"

To tell the truth, you had wanted to... but only when he wasn't there. Good old inquiry for your worries and doubts.

But he was there all the time.

Whenever you approached the Defense Against the Dark Arts Tower, you would see him wandering about, looking ever-so-suspicious as he pretended to strut nonchalantly through the hidden corridor.

He stood out like a Thestral in a herd of Unicorns.

It was a sight to see, really.

Once you had even approached him just as he was drawing his wand, and he had jumped up in alarm, as if you were a Muggle who had just seen him walk through the enchanted wall in King's Cross.

For a moment you thought he was going to erase your memories like some common Ministry minion.

He had obviously invited you in, with an expression on his face that you couldn't quite decipher: too welcoming and too afraid.

And a bit too hopeful.

But eventually you had to decline his offer, fearing another ambush by his fellow Rita Skeeter-wannabe Slytherin, and walked away.

You weren't quite sure what to make of the way his face seemed to fall faster than a Quidditch player hit by a bludger.

And whenever your separated Houses graced you with different planned lessons and, consequently, different free periods, it was either Umbridge strutting in that same corridor (albeit with a bit more authority and self-assurance than your classmate), Hermione dragging you back to the Common Room or the Library to study, or Fred and George cornering you to recruit you as a test subject for their new projects (from which you always managed to scurry away much to the twins' displeasure) that ruined your plans.

You were on your way to the Astronomy Tower when you saw the familiar head of messy brown waves walk towards you. And all your terrible luck and, quite frankly, not-so-nice neglect of that place Sebastian seemed to hold at heart had led you to this conversation.

"I mean, of course you don't have to come in if you don't want to, I just…"

He seemed at a loss for words, searching his mind for a reason to give you why you should visit the Undercroft with him.

And the way his eyes darted around as he turned his head slightly to the right and upwards told you that he perhaps had at least one, but one he'd rather keep to himself.

You didn't inquire.

"It's not that, I've just been… busy. O.W.L.s and stuff," you replied.

It was the most conventional answer a fifth-year could come up with, and frankly, most of the time it was rubbish, a fib of the highest order: any Hogwarts student could see through that lie like they could see through the numerous ghosts wandering out and about, and yet it was a silent agreement between the younglings to accept it as a reasonably polite excuse that most likely meant, 'I don't want to hang out with you'.

(Perhaps Hermione was the only exception: she actually meant it, but she didn't need to use it as an excuse either, because she tended to make it everyone's business. In a way, she saved the grades of most of her friends that way.)

Sebastian didn't seem to catch on, though — perhaps it was due to a cultural difference from his old school, you suspected — and you were actually glad of it, but he definitely had his difficulties reading between the lines and recognising the underlying implication.

"You… We… We could study there, though? I mean, McGonagall did tell me I needed a tutor."

(He had no care for tutors, he could catch up damn well on his own, thank you very much… but you didn't need to know that now, did you?)

"Isn't the Library better for that? Less dusty…"

"Less private," he replied with a playful smile.

You shook your head and let a chuckle escape your lips at his beckoning.

"Maybe… I usually need a special kind of environment to concentrate. As of now, the only three places that have lived up to that expectation were the Library, the Beech Tree and the Common Room," you answered honestly.

"The more the merrier, no?" He encouraged hopefully.

You almost gave in.

Almost.

In a way, you needed to talk to him about something important — he deserved to know as much as everyone else.

But not that night.

"We'll see, I suppose," you answered awkwardly, averting your eyes from his, not missing the way his face fell again.

Just the day after, though, as Sebastian was wallowing in self-pity at your conversation, as Sebastian was conveniently looking away from you as you sat next to him in Potion, you slipped him a piece of parchment on the table.

He did his best to ignore it, even going as far as pretending to swat it away as he reached for his Beetle Eyes, but in the end he couldn't keep his curiosity at bay.

'We need to talk.'

It was simple. Simply enervating. Simply invigorating.

Simple enough to make the Beetle Eyes fall from his hand.

He saw you frown at him as he quickly bent down to pick them up off the floor, and he would have gladly disappeared if you hadn't followed him to help.

"Butterfingers, eh?" You teased.

He couldn't stop the small smile on his face.

"What did you need to talk about?" Sebastian followed you out of the classroom as your fellow students walked to the Great Hall for lunch.

He stared frontwards and saw Hermione's head turn left and right in bewilderment. When he looked over at you to ask what she was searching for, you were gone.

Now, if he had also started to hallucinate you, he would have considered it his last straw.

But then Hermione turned back and your hand appeared from Salazar-knows-where to grab at his robes and pull him into another corridor.

You looked around urgently, assessing that no one was in earshot, before you turned back to him and conspiratorially whispered: "Hermione doesn't want me to tell you this..."

His eyebrows shot up, and so did his ego.

So you were about to tell him, even if Hermione didn't want you to.

His heart began waltzing again, and he wondered what sort of secret you wanted to share with him that was so important you were willing to betray your friend’s trust for it.

"What is it?" He asked, trying to appear nonchalant and level-headed, but letting the façade drop when you didn't buy it.

"Are you willing to break some rules? Well… again, I mean."

Now that he wasn't expecting, and a thousand scenarios of what 'breaking some rules again' meant for you crossed his mind.

He imagined another escapade in the Restricted Section, this time with no Tracey following you, but maybe involving that same wardrobe.

Or perhaps a journey into the Forbidden Forest, meeting Thestrals, fighting giant spiders, kissing against the trees.

He slapped his forehead and you flinched a bit.

"I'll… take that as a no?"

"I'm very keen on breaking rules," he moved that same hand through his hair, trying his best to ignore how stupid he must look with a red print the shape of his palm on his face, "just… er... just what do you mean?"

Another part of him dismissed his earlier thoughts of any intimacy and imagined you asking him to follow you on some sort of cloak-and-dagger adventure; imagined teaching you curses and spells, telling you his every thought and having you sharing yours in return, showing you every side of magic he was willing to explore still.

He wanted to pretend that you would follow him into the deep, dark abyss of immorality and sin, that you would take the Cruciatus Curse for him if he had asked, that you would forgive him if he had told you about Solomon, that you would stand by his side even after his soul had been warped and infected and lost, and that you would do your best to put it back together and keep it with you, safe in your arms.

Of course, that's not what happened.

"We're thinking about having secret Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons and we are supposed to meet this weekend in Hogsmeade to discuss the details. I figured, since you hate Umbridge just as much as the next person, that you deserved a chance."

His mouth fell open. Secret lessons?

"Like a secret club, or…?” He couldn’t help but think of Lucan Brattleby and how Crossed Wands would suffer without his presence. If any of them even noticed.

“We’re not sure yet, it's barely an idea. It’s just... you know how Umbridge has been treating our education, and given what has happened in the past few years, and especially last year, I think we should all be prepared for what’s out there.”

What's out there? Last year? How much did he still have to catch up on?

He knew about some Dark Wizard being around — Ron and Hermione had explained all about it his first day — but the way you spoke about it, the whole ordeal seemed far more serious than he had anticipated.

“Sure, count me in,” he simply said, clasping one hand in the other.

“Then we’ll meet this weekend and go to Hogsmeade together. Mind you, let’s stay away from Hermione at first, or she’ll become suspicious: it's better to ease her into the news once she has no way to moot… or argue.”

Sebastian didn’t want to let his thoughts wander.

But there was a certain word flying around in his mind that he desperately tried to keep under key.

“Is this a date?” He asked with a playful grin, letting the key fall with a clang.

You rolled your eyes. “Tell me why I knew you’d say that.”

That should have made him feel somewhat proud, but he only felt a painful twinge in his heart. Is that all you thought of him?

He bit the inside of his cheek.

“Do you have your permission slip?” You asked him, and he shrugged.

“I’m sure I’ll manage.”

The day came, just like any day when you live in a world where clocks just won’t stop.

And Sebastian dearly wished they would.

You were a few steps ahead of him — a well-conceived strategy not to let Hermione have her suspicions — and he just couldn’t stop staring at your hair.

And how it should be just a bit longer.

He wanted to slap his forehead again, but that would have drawn too much attention to himself, and, honestly, he could do with less attention lately. He already had too many holes in his skull from Tracey’s piercing eyes.

Add another one right through his glabella from Filch.

After the caretaker had ungracefully leaned in towards Harry Potter to smell him, he was now eyeing Sebastian up and down like he was a rat who stole cheese right under his nose.

His permission slip was perfectly valid, though, as Dumbledore himself had guaranteed for him given the circumstances.

He walked a few feet behind you, with Daphne following suit.

"So it's a date, or…?" She gave him a smirk.

"Not really." He replied curtly as he remembered your words.

As you reached the outskirts of Hogsmeade, you seemed to have found an excuse to separate yourself from the group, and he said goodbye to Daphne who in turn went and joined another Slytherin boy, whom Sebastian recognised from that day in Charms.

As soon as the trio was far enough that you could barely distinguish their shapes, you motioned Sebastian to join you, and he did so with a grin and a bouncing of his feet.

And a growing shame in his bones once he realised it.

"Well well, looks like you will be my tutor after all?" He tilted his head and let a small, teasing smile play on his lips.

You weren't looking at him, though, but at the spot on the ground right next to him, scrutinising it like it was the most interesting place in the Highlands. Your eyes then began running up and down under a frown, inspecting the air. He turned his head, half-expecting to see someone standing next to him, or at least anything more than the flying, rusty leaves.

"Are you seeing something I'm not?" He asked half-jokingly.

And then it hit him. Maybe you were seeing something he wasn't — maybe some white drops dancing on the ground, maybe traces of Ancient Magic, maybe your gift was actually there, only dormant, maybe—.

"Was Daphne not interested?" You interrupted his musing, finally gracing him with eye contact.

His chest seemed to deflate. "What?"

"In the lessons, I mean. I expected her to be, perhaps I was wrong."

Sebastian hadn't told Daphne what his meeting with you was for: he had thought it was a secret between you two. Sure, he knew Hermione would be there, and if she was, so would Ron and Harry, but it would have been easier to steal you away from three people than more.

He had even planned the lessons in his mind like a madman, dreaming of the day when he could teach you everything you didn't already know yourself.

"Uh... she had something else to do."

You nodded in acknowledgement. "We're meeting at the Hog's Head. It's a bit more hidden and away from prying eyes. No one would mind if a bunch of students suddenly came in there."

A bunch? How many people were supposed to intrude?

It's not intruding, he reminded himself. This wasn't his idea. He was the one intruding.

"Fine by me… so, how many people are we talking about?"

"A few… could be ten, could be twenty…" you shrugged.

That was a great deal more than a few.

"Good… all right…"

There was a beat of silence as the two of you set foot on the High Street.

“So, I had promised Hermione I’d meet them beforehand, so you’ll either come with me and witness her wrath, or you’ll come in with everybody else and endure the ugly stares they're going to throw your way.”

The boy stared at you for a moment. “You have an awful way of making people feel welcomed.”

"I'm glad," you smiled and cocked your head to the side. He sighed.

"Wouldn't I get ugly stares nonetheless?"

"Yes, probably, but in that case I'll be there, and I'll guarantee for you."

"I'll send you an owl next time I'll face trial in front of the Wizengamot."

You turned your head away with a dampened smile.

There were a few new houses around the village and fewer shops than in his time, at least on the main street.

"I assume the school has been lending you its supplies in the past two weeks?" You asked.

"It has, but McGonagall has advised me to buy my own earliest opportunity."

"Well, seems like an opportunity to me," you grinned up at him. "Come on, let's indulge in some calm before the storm."

He gave a low chuckle.

The two of you walked through the town, stopping every once in a while to greet other students or shop for supplies. He had a limited budget — he didn’t have his own money after all — and made sure to pay extra attention to the prices.

You didn't comment on it for which he was glad.

"Are those the infamous Weasley twins?" Sebastian asked when a tall, red-haired boy sent you a wave from the entrance of Zonko's Joke Shop.

"That's Fred, the other is George. Infamous, huh?" You waved back.

So they were the Fred and George you had mentioned.

After a last stop at J. Pippin's Potions, you suddenly turned towards him.

"It's time, I believe."

He felt the hairs stand on his neck and nodded, following you to a side street, towards a small, scruffy Inn with the picture of a severed boar’s head over its entrance sign.

“That looks cosy,” you muttered and pushed the door open.

Now he could understand the fuss about that Gryffindor boldness, because he would have happily hesitated outside a bit more.

Sebastian followed suit, stepping on the soft ground of the pub. He frowned slightly and looked down, confused as to why one would deprive himself of the privilege of a stone floor.

It turned out the only privilege the owner deprived himself of was hygiene.

“This place hasn’t been cleaned in centuries, has it?” He asked, kicking the dirt with the point of his shoes.

“Adds to the aesthetic I suppose.” You chuckled, handing him a dusty, dirty bottle of Butterbeer.

He frowned. “No glass?”

“Oh I don’t think you want a glass,” you sent a glance to the dirty rug resting in the transparent cups on the counter, “might as well chug from the bottle like real cool drunks.”

You cleaned the top with your sleeve and brought it between your teeth, cracking it open. He did the same.

“If only it were alcoholic.”

“Everything can be alcoholic if you bring extra aid.”

He chuckled, and then reached for his pocket. “How much do I owe you?”

“Just be quiet and let me do the talking. That’s my prize,” you whispered, sending a glance to the trio sitting at the far end of the bar, hidden behind the wall at the entrance which was mercifully still shielding you two from your ugly fate.

“Here goes nothing,” and you stepped forward, letting the three Gryffindors see you. Sebastian followed right after.

And while the trio seemed happy to see you, their expressions quickly changed upon landing eyes on the Slytherin boy. They sent you a look of disappointment and confusion that sent chills down his spine.

“Before you say a word,” you began, placing the dusty bottle on the table, “let me explain.”

“It was supposed to be private,” Hermione said between gritted teeth.

“No,” you interjected, now getting worked up. “You said it was open to anyone who wanted to learn, and he —” you pointed at the boy behind you, who would have most surely liked to be swallowed by the filthy ground under him, “— wants to learn.”

He gave them a tight-lipped smile, mustering as much poise and politeness as he could.

“But he… he’s —”

“He’s what?” You cocked an eyebrow daringly. “A Slytherin? Who gives a damn.”

Sebastian flinched at your harshness, but his chest warmed up nonetheless… and no, it wasn’t because of the Butterbeer. Hermione seemed to deflate in her seat, gasping once or twice before finally yielding.

“Fine… I— I suppose if you trust him…”

“I do.” You interrupted, and scooted closer to him for good measure. He couldn't have stopped his face from flushing even if he wanted to.

Harry and Ron only glanced at each other with wide eyes and buried their attention in the bottle in their hands.

"Well, that was easy enough," Sebastian whispered to you once you sat down, making sure the trio wouldn't be able to hear his words.

"Shut up. My heart's beating in my face," you sighed slowly, taking place next to him and downing half of your bottle in one go. He suppressed a chuckle, and you nudged his arm with your elbow in protest.

"You have Butterbeer on your lips," he observed, his lips stretched into a smirk.

Your eyes widened and you quickly wiped it away with the sleeve of your robes, a light blush on your cheeks. "If you breathe so much as a word..."

"You missed a spot," he taunted you further, grabbing a napkin from the table and leaning in to clean it for you, but you flinched away from it.

"I'm not putting that thing anywhere near my mouth." — you attempted to do it yourself, using your robes again — "There are probably traces of Spattergroit from the eighteen hundreds."

He rolled his eyes and tossed it back on the table. "Fair enough, although the eighteen hundreds aren't as far back as you think." He pushed his sleeve down to cover his palm, keeping it in place with his thumb, and gently brought it to your lips, holding your chin in place with his other hand.

You stared at him as he cleaned your lips. If he weren't so gentle in the way his fingers pressed on your jaw, and the way the fabric only lightly caressed your skin, you wouldn't have felt your breath hitch as it did. And your heart would probably be doing its own job properly instead of missing so many damn beats.

His eyes were tender as he examined your face, fleeting over your skin to find any drop he might have missed. "We wouldn't want you to make a bad impression at such an important meeting."

"Oh, shut up," you averted your eyes, feeling your cheeks burn at his words, and his gaze finally met yours. His eyebrows lifted slightly, and you felt a twinge of guilt at your harsh words. "Thank you."

Your voice was breathless and shaky, and you cursed yourself internally for it. Sebastian only suppressed a smirk as he let his eyes linger on your lips for a second more.

"You're welcome."

Much to his dismay, his eyes inadvertently shot to the trio next to the two of you, who had been watching it all unfold with wide eyes, looking between you and Sebastian like they had missed a crucial Charms lesson right before their O.W.L.s.

You cleared your throat and moved away from the boy, your finger tapping nervously on the bottle in your hands, and he let go of his sleeve, smoothing the wrinkles caused by his grip.

After some small talk, Sebastian heard the door opening and a crowd of people trooped into the pub. He noticed a bunch of Ravenclaw girls, followed by a group of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. No Slytherins came at the rear, much to his disappointment. Maybe he should have invited Daphne, after all.

One of the first people to enter, though, was Dean, and Sebastian immediately noticed the way your eyes seemed to light up at his sight. He took another swig and averted his eyes.

“A couple of people?” said Harry, his green eyes looking even wider behind his glasses as he stared at Hermione in bewilderment. “A couple of people?”

“Yes, well, the idea seemed quite popular. Ron, do you want to pull up some more chairs?”

The red-head grunted and stood up. Sebastian had half a mind to help, but he couldn’t risk losing his seat next to you to Dean Thomas, so he stayed put.

One of the twins approached the counter with long strides and a charming smile. “Could we have —” he stopped to count his companions “— twenty-five Butterbeers, please?”

Poor barman, Sebastian thought as his eyes were lazily set on the man getting down and back up behind the counter twenty-five times.

“Cheers!” Said twin began handing them out. “Cough up, everyone, I haven’t got enough gold for all of these.”

The Slytherin boy watched in contemplation as the students began searching in their bags and purses for Sickles, and at the same time ignored the dirty and confused stares sent his way all the same.

“What have you been telling people?” he heard Harry whisper to Hermione urgently. “What are they expecting?”

“I’ve told you, they just want to hear what you’ve got to say. You don’t have to do anything yet, I’ll speak to them first.” She replied nervously.

After a few greetings here and there, the students finally sat down (there was an abnormally large distance between Sebastian’s seat and the Ravenclaw girl next to him, who seemed to eye him like he was a leper). Hermione took a deep breath and began to speak.

“Well — er — hi,” she gulped loudly. “Well… erm…. Well, you know why you’re here. W—Well, Harry here had the idea…” Said boy shot her an ugly glance and her voice became even more nervous as she backtracked on her words. “I mean… I had the idea that it might be good if people who wanted to study Defense Against the Dark Arts…. a-and I mean, really study it, you know, not the rubbish that Umbridge is doing with us, because nobody could call that Defense Against the Dark Arts—”

“Hear, hear,” a Hufflepuff boy interrupted the girl and she seemed to shrink onto herself.

“Well, I thought it would be good if we, well, took matters into our own hands… And by that I mean learning how to defend ourselves properly, not just theory but the real spells—”

“You want to pass your Defence Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. too though, I bet?” said a Ravenclaw boy, quirking up an eyebrow.

“Of course I do,” Hermione replied indignantly. “But I want more than that, I want to be properly trained in Defense because… because...”

Sebastian looked at her, his interest piqued when he saw your hands nervously crumple with each other under the table.

“Because Lord Voldemort’s back.”

There was an immediate reaction that made Sebastian frown, bemused. Some students shrieked, others spilled their drinks on themselves, others shuddered and murmured, afraid.

How could a name possibly incite such a response?

“Where’s the proof You-Know-Who’s back?” a blond Hufflepuff boy asked rather harshly.

“Well, Dumbledore believes it—”

“You mean, Dumbledore believes him,” he shot Harry a glance.

“Who are you?” Ron intruded defensively.

“Zacharias Smith, and I think we’ve got the right to know exactly what makes him say You-Know-Who’s back.”

Hermione sighed and lowered her voice to a calm tone. “Look, that’s really not what this meeting was supposed to be about—”

“It’s okay, Hermione,” said Harry, his voice more alive than Sebastian had ever heard it. If a voice could drip venom, the Slytherin was sure there would be a puddle on the floor already.

“What makes me say You-Know-Who’s back? I saw him.” the black-haired boy said, staring straight at Zacharias Smith with unwavering eyes. “But Dumbledore told the whole school what happened last year, and if you didn’t believe him, you don’t believe me, and I’m not wasting an afternoon trying to convince anyone.”

Sebastian could see the tough facade begin to slip from the Hufflepuff’s face.

“All Dumbledore told us last year was that Cedric Diggory got killed by You-Know-Who and that you brought Diggory’s body back to Hogwarts. He didn’t give us details, he didn’t tell us exactly how Diggory got murdered, I think we’d all like to know —”

“If you’ve come to hear exactly what it looks like when Voldemort murders someone I can’t help you. I don’t want to talk about Cedric Diggory, all right? So if that’s what you’re here for, you might as well clear out.”

Sebastian faltered at his words and looked at you, hoping to meet your gaze. Something that could at least ease the uncomfortable feeling in his chest. But you didn't indulge him, your eyes trained on your friend, your hands clung to each other in your lap.

“So,” Hermione began again, her voice even more nervous after Harry sent a piercing, angry gaze towards her. “Like I was saying… if you want to learn some defence, then we need to work out how we’re going to do it, how often we’re going to meet, and where we’re going to —”

“Is it true that you can produce a Patronus?” A girl with long hair interrupted, aloof to Hermione's words, and looked at Harry, who confirmed it, still not lowering his guard. “A corporeal Patronus?”

Sebastian stared at Harry with curiosity as the girl introduced herself as Susan Bones. Producing a Corporeal Patronus in your fifth year was nothing short of impressive.

"You make a stag Patronus?”

“Yes,” said Harry.

“Blimey, Harry! I never knew that!” A Gryffindor boy grinned at him.

One of the twins chuckled. “Mum told Ron not to spread it around. She said you got enough attention as it was.”

“She’s not wrong….”

“And did you kill a Basilisk with that sword in Dumbledore’s office?” asked a Ravenclaw rather excitedly. “That’s what one of the portraits on the wall told me when I was in there last year…”

“Er — yeah, I did, yeah,” said Harry.

There was a murmur of surprise and approval, some whistles and "wow"s reaching Sebastian's ears. But he ignored them. His eyes widened as he looked at the boy, and then at you as if expecting you to turn around and tell him this was all a prank, or that people were just making up rumours as Hogwarts students tended to do.

But your face was hard as stone, your posture straight and unwavering as you looked at your friend proudly.

“And in our first year,” another Gryffindor — who Sebastian had heard being called Neville — added, excited to have something to include in the conversation, “he saved that Philological Stone —”

“Philosopher’s,” Hermione corrected.

“Yes, that, from You-Know-Who.”

“And that’s not to mention all the tasks he had to get through in the Triwizard Tournament last year — getting past Dragons and Merpeople and Acromantulas and things…” added a Ravenclaw girl with long black hair, sending Harry a soft glance.

Sebastian's hands trembled around the bottle as he spaced out looking at the dirty floor. Dragons… Acromantulas… all thpse seemed a bit too familiar for his comfort. He shot you a glance again, hoping you'd turn around that time and tell him that it was no big deal. That you could do more. That you could do more with him .

He didn't know if he was more shocked at the fact that Harry — a simple wizard with no Ancient Magic — could accomplish all of this on his own or the fact that you — her direct descendant — hadn't.

“Look, I…” Harry sighed, interrupting Sebastian's train of thoughts. “I don’t want to sound like I’m trying to be modest or anything, but I had a lot of help with all that stuff.”

“Not with the dragon, you didn’t,” the Ravenclaw boy sitting next to Ron’s sister spoke again. “That was a seriously cool bit of flying….”

“Yeah, well—”

“And nobody helped you get rid of those dementors this summer,” said Susan Bones.

Dementors as well?

“No, no, okay, I know I did bits of it without help, but the point I’m trying to make is —”

“Are you trying to weasel out of showing us any of this stuff?” said Zacharias Smith.

“Here’s an idea, why don’t you shut your mouth?” Ron said rudely, looking as if wanting to punch said boy right in the nose.

“Well, we’ve all turned up to learn from him, and now he’s telling us he can’t really do any of it,” Zacharias blushed.

Both the twins stepped in, taking out a large metal instrument they had bought from Zonko’s Joke Shop and branding it threateningly.

“That’s not what he said”

“Would you like us to clean out your ears for you?”

“Or any part of your body, really, we’re not fussy where we stick this.”

“Yes, well, moving on…” Hermione sighed tiredly, “the point is, are we agreed we want to take lessons from Harry?”

A murmur broke through the pub, but overall, everyone seemed to be in favour. And here went all of Sebastian's plans. He wondered how suited Harry was for this. Sure, he had accomplished a lot, but… how much did he really know? How many spells could he actually teach him? How many spells could he teach you?

And for the first time, he felt a pang of jealousy that wasn't directed towards Dean Thomas.

“Right." Hermione continued. "Well, then, the next question is how often we do it. I really don’t think there’s any point in meeting less than once a week—”

“Hang on, we need to make sure this doesn’t clash with our Quidditch practice.” A tall Gryffindor girl interrupted solemnly.

“No, nor with ours.” Said the Ravenclaw girl.

“Nor ours,” added Zacharias Smith proudly.

Hermione seemed to refrain herself from rolling her eyes. “I’m sure we can find a night that suits everyone, but you know, this is rather important, we’re talking about learning to defend ourselves against V-Voldemort’s Death Eaters—”

“Well said! Personally I think this is really important, possibly more important than anything else we’ll do this year, even with our O.W.L.s coming up!” Another Hufflepuff chimed in cheerfully, looking around his companions as if inciting a crowd. “I, personally, am at a loss to see why the Ministry has foisted such a useless teacher upon us at this critical period. Obviously they are in denial about the return of You-Know-Who , but to give us a teacher who is trying to actively prevent us from using defensive spells —”

“We think the reason Umbridge doesn’t want us trained in Defence Against the Dark Arts is that she’s got some mad idea that Dumbledore could use the students in the school as a kind of private army. She thinks he’d mobilise us against the Ministry.” Hermione explained.

Sebastian took another swig of his Butterbeer. Not only was Umbridge useless, she was also completely daft.

After some more discussion — and an argument initiated by a blonde Ravenclaw girl with big blue eyes about Heliopaths, a Ministry army and Spirits of fire Sebastian couldn’t care less about, they finally got to talk about where to meet.

“Hem, hem,” it was Ron’s sister who interrupted the argument, coughing in a perfect imitation of Umbridge that made Sebastian snort. “Weren’t we trying to decide how often we’re going to meet and get Defense lessons?”

“Yes we were, you’re right. Well, the other thing to decide is where we’re going to meet...” Hermione sighed.

A few students began suggesting different places.

“Library?”

“I can’t see Madam Pince being too chuffed with us doing jinxes in the library,” said Harry.

“Maybe an unused classroom?” said Dean, and your eyes shot to him immediately. Sebastian hid his scowl behind the bottle top.

“Yeah, McGonagall might let us have hers, she did when Harry was practising for the Triwizard…” Ron said thoughtfully.

You sent Sebastian a side glance and he panicked, his heart skipping several beats. Were you about to suggest what he thought you were about to suggest?

He sent you a pleading look back, but you had already looked away from him and he braced for the worst. But you didn’t speak.

“Right, well, we’ll try to find somewhere. We’ll send a message round to everybody when we’ve got a time and a place for the first meeting.” Hermione said, taking a parchment and a quill from her bag. “I-I think everybody should write their name down, just so we know who was here.”

There was some resistance from the students: many of them didn’t look too happy to put their name on a list that everyone could read (the Hufflepuff, for once, was pretty quick to backtrack on his statement), especially with something as delicate as this, given the circumstances.

The twins were the first to sign, and then you yourself took the parchment and wrote your name without hesitation. After that, the students seemed more and more convinced and lined up in front of the parchment. After everyone had finished, Sebastian had a strange feeling rising inside him, as if he had signed a contract he couldn't get out of. It worried him and he looked up suspiciously at Hermione and then down at you, who didn't seem fazed at all.

It wasn't long before the crowd began to disperse, and you too decided to leave the filthy inn and say goodbye to the trio. Sebastian followed you outside.

"For a moment I thought you were going to suggest the Undercroft as a place..." He chuckled gauzily.

"For a moment I thought so too," you replied, lost in thought.

His breath caught.

"S-So, is all that true? What they said - what Harry did?"

"Yes, of course," you turned to him, puzzled by his question about your friend's achievements. “You had never heard of him?”

Yet another mistake he had made: the lack of thorough research into his contemporary environment.

"Let us say that I ... never indulge in gossip."

You narrowed your eyes at him. "Of course..."

"But I noticed the scar," he added, hoping you would tell him more.

You shrugged and turned back around. "Who hasn't?"

"Very peculiar shape."

"Yeah well, it's only one of the most powerful curses there is. Nothing too big." You retorted sarcastically.

He felt a cold wave wash over him as he confirmed his suspicions.

"The- The Killing Curse."

"The boy who lived."

His heart stopped in his chest.

Taglist

@lovely-maryj @yuzuhasbae @mosf13 @rbfacee @prichuchan-blog @h0neeyy_@lina-prongs @moonlightsolo @ninicol @gayandfairycore @nanako-sakura @epicy0n @shiro-from-cafeberry @pugsnotdrugs92 @cappsikle @peacedreamer14 @vanivivs

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kenjiro-kun · 2 years ago

Text

Overwatch OW2: Junker Queen, Sojourn, Kiriko, and Echo.

‼️ Fem Reader ‼️

[Scenario #6] Outfit Reactions

---

Junker Queen: You just felt a lot of emotions at the sight of her. God, she was some type of woman, the power she had, and now being a Greek God with lightning, now she could really power you up.

"What are you lookin' at, mortal?"

You cocked an eyebrow, "Mortal, huh? You gonna punish this mortal for disrespecting you--a god?"

She smirked, "I have a feeling you want that a little too much, but if you're offering." She traced your neck with her knife, licking her lips. "Zeus will take great care of you."

---

Sojourn: "Woah? Where'd the captain go, can't seem to find her." You crossed your arms seeing an amused, but annoyed smirk reach her lips.

"Enough games."

You jolted, "Oh, Sojourn, where are you honey?" You burst into laughter. "Get it? 'Cause you're wearing camo? Might I also add, you look great right now. It really suits you." You gave her a kiss.

She rolled her eyes, kissing you back, "Wait until you see my other outfits."

"Other?"

---

Kiriko: "Did time fly so fast that Halloween just appeared?" You cocked an eyebrow at her outfit. "Though, I don't see the problem when a cute witch is standing in front of me."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever Y/N. Hana, for some reason, wanted me to wear my old costume."

"Oh?" You smiled. "Tell her I say thank you, my little witch." You kissed her cheek.

You saw her blush. "Oh? You also have a broom?"

"Yeah? Wouldn't really be considered a witch if I didn't."

"Take me on a rid, little witch." You chuckled.

"Only if you ask nicely."

"Okay--" She kissed you. "Is that a yes?"

"Aha." She left the house.

---

Echo: "Echo, you look so cool! You got a whole theme too, got some moves?"

"Moves?"

"Yeah! Dance moves."

She shook her head, "No, but I have toones."

"Even better." You went over to here, rocking your head to the beat as she took her hand to her head, as if she was using headphones. "Sweet! Did Lúcio give you some?"

"Yes. He said you might like them."

"He's correct." You kissed her cheek. "You look so cute."

"Wasn't I cool?"

"Both, Echo." You chuckled.

#overwatch #overwatch 2 #overwatch x reader #junker queen x fem reader #junker queen x reader #junker queen #sojourn x reader #sojourn x fem reader #sojourn overwatch #kiriko overwatch #kiriko x fem reader #kiriko x reader #echo overwatch x fem reader #echo overwatch x reader #echo overwatch

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witchmoon · 2 years ago

Text

by our red string of fate.

Part 2

Pairing: Prince Aemond Targaryen x fem! Reader

Summary: A midnight sojourn in the courtyard for some fresh air, private talks and personal revelations. Aemond challenges his love interest on the validity of her romantic pursuit + a stolen kiss in the godswood while parties search for the missing prince.

Word Count: 6.8k

Author’s Note: Third person perspective, reader/she (Y/N) is from an unspecified house with limited knowledge of the Targaryens. Some deviation of timelines and of HOTD canon/ details. Multi-part wip / slow burn, angst, light NSFW (more is coming!), language, soft feels.

Hope you stick around and enjoy - thx so much for the love so far! LMK if you want to be tagged.

Part 1 | Part 3 | Part 4

the same feeling of not belonging, of futility, wherever i go: i pretend interest in what matters nothing to me. i bestir myself mechanically or out of charity, without ever being caught up, without ever being somewhere.

what attracts me is elsewhere, and i don’t know what that elsewhere is.

They make it outside and there’s a sensation of being able to breathe again as Aemond escorts her to a small courtyard tucked away in a far corner of the keep. She consents to the path, equally willing to put more distance between them and the scene they’ve just left, knowing this is his intention too.

Upon arrival, he doesn’t immediately let her go, instead continuing his steps to take her to the furthest reach of the small open square where they now stand in silence.

It’s quiet under the open sky, offering a welcomed reprieve amid a sea of glittering stars that seem to dance and dazzle from up above. The night is inky, beautiful, and the gentle breeze coming off Blackwater Bay cools them as it carries with it the heady scent of floral blooms - a plethora of which thrive in the well-maintained gardens close by.

Combined with the faint sounds of waves crashing continuously against the rocks below, the experience becomes wondrous for the senses. Their surroundings and all the minute details contribute to the atmosphere, soothing them in a way that seeks to offer solace. And for the first time tonight, it feels like they’ve both finally obtained a highly sought serenity.

After some time has elapsed, Aemond releases her with hesitation, immediately feeling the loss of this action. She also misses the physical contact, instantly mourning the touch and how perfectly her hand had fit within his own.

And then there was the way his thumb had glided along the top of hers so softly, for several minutes actually, and she misses that too. It’s such a telling gesture, one of stark contrast to the tough love she’d just witnessed in the King’s personal chambers, and it alludes to a more hidden tenderness within him.

The thought is riveting, and she finds that she desperately wants to explore this theory by delving further into the darkness of the stunning and perplexing dragonlord before her. It pulls at her - this sudden wish to discover the very depth of him, every facet that is good and evil. All the madness he keeps locked up.

Her heart races at the thought of what they could have, transforming her into a bundle of nerves once more. It’s a startling realization, but she can’t deny that she wants him - ever thankful to the darkness for concealing the flush that begins to rise with the direction of her thoughts. She doesn’t want to be that obvious, not yet.

Leaning against one of the building columns, she relaxes further, finding the random chirping of concealed insects an odd delight. There’s a welcoming in the chill of the night air as well, which although without invitation, it offers support in tampering down her lust and the accompaniment of so many new emotions. There’s a whirlwind brewing within her by this newfound desire.

She closes her eyes, allowing the residual tension from before to subside, comforted that they no longer have an audience. And she waits, in no great rush, but hoping nonetheless that he will make the next move. He has to, he must, because her mind is drawing blanks again over his nearness.

i’ve been setting myself up for the fall, and i’ve been keeping secrets from my heart and from my soul.

Aemond considers the moon’s location in the sky to gauge the time, though it’s not for any particular reason other than to give her some space to breathe, recompose. He doesn’t push her, remaining patient, motionless as he waits beside her.

The thoughtfulness of the gesture isn’t lost on her either, how it gives indication to his maturity and attests to a high level of self-awareness that so many others lack. But eventually he does clear his throat, an audible sound so that it comes as no surprise that he’s ready to interrupt their perceived tranquility. It’s stemmed mostly from a place of concern, but he’s also ready to move forward.

“Are you alright?”

His smooth silvery voice caresses her, low and sensual, but there’s also a genuineness to what he’s asking. She responds without opening her eyes, needing a few more moments in the pleasant dark behind her eyelids.

“I’m okay.”

It’s a simple question and the consideration is touching, enough for her to soften further. She becomes unbothered by the prospect of him observing her too, thinking he probably is as he falls silent again.

The energy shift is one of peace though, blanketing them in renewed comfort and she realizes there’s no rush for words, no need to be edgy either. It’s pleasant enough simply being with him, and now that they’re alone, the actuality of their unity can finally begin to manifest.

It hits Aemond hard when it does.

She’s actually real and she’s right next to me. It's an odd realization, though he doesn't fully understand why. Regardless, the nature of the occasion, their reality, seems to fall more in line with something that might be dreamt, never actually experienced. At least not for him.

He studies her, the way her face becomes illuminated by moon-glow to soften all the angles. She’s lovely and he’s unapologetic in his want of her. It's no secret that she is everything he has always been so desperately attracted to, and he won’t deny this to himself. But he wants to know her mind too.

Everything about you.

He’s appreciating the view when she opens her arms, as if to allow the wind a chance to kiss more of her body in an attempt to cool it. And it’s beguiling, everything he finds he’s wanting to do himself - kiss her everywhere, openly with abandon. It reduces him to unjustly curse the wind, something he’s never done before, but that he does now with such grevious envy.

Aemond gets heated, and the fervor continues to evolve with every significant rise and fall of her chest that he’s taken notice of. Seven hells I want you! Her dress is low enough to see that she’s clearly stacked and the knowledge of this makes him twitch, marveling over everything on current display. His sigh of longing is sound as many arduous notions begin to circulate in his mind, every single one revolving around her.

Damn that gorgeous mouth.

He experiences an unwarranted bout of jealousy when he considers the lucky bastard who undoubtedly gets to call this woman his. Surely there is someone, he rationalizes, wondering who and where the fuck that prick might be. And as she’s clearly not from the capital - he’s certain of this because he’s been here his entire life and would not have been unaware of her existence until now - why have they left her alone?

Or maybe she is alone.

He’s struggling to see how she could be unattached though, especially when everything about her has an allure. Only a fucking idiot would glance past this. Even still, he holds a small measure of hope that it might be true. He really needs it to be true, otherwise he thinks he may have to make plans to steal her away.

That’s just how strong he feels towards her already - finding enjoyment in her presence, enamored by her beauty and spirit. She was about to slap Aegon, after all. As if that wouldn’t be reason enough to fall hard for her…but he already was feeling that way, like he was falling.

And to further rationalize these feelings, its also not lost on him how much of a relief it is to see that she’s not associating him with anything of either great prominence nor failure. Admittedly being a Targaryen is pretty fucking apparent, but Aemond hasn’t sensed an overt judgement in her character, and it gives him hope of feeling seen - like maybe she could understand him.

Maybe it's too good to be true, or maybe this is all meant to happen.

though my touch magnifies, you pull away, you don't know why.

He recalls the wine, noticing the darkened spots when she moves some fallen hair back behind her shoulder. It's primarily concentrated on her sleeve, but it's noticeable and it further annoys him when he reaches out to her, touching the expensive fabric to find how saturated it’s remained.

Aegon - sometimes it really grates his nerves being related to such a grand fuck up. He thinks he could literally kill his brother for such blatant disregard of something so beautiful, someone so exquisite.

And it wouldn’t take much convincing to do further harm to him just to prove this point, knowing how overdue it’s been when he considers the disrespectful treatment over the years towards both their mother and sister. Nobody else had ever dared to try, so tonight Aemond had made progress, finding that line easier to cross than anticipated.

I would do it again. He’s vexed with the staining and without thought, he starts dabbing at it absently, using the cloth he’d snatched earlier for his bleeding knuckles. All but forgotten until now as he tries to absorb…anything, to no avail.

“Nothing but stupid bastards everywhere.”

He mutters this more to himself than her, but it's enough for her to open her eyes again - something she feels it's time to do at the start of him pulling softly at her arm, holding her wrist. He’s moved in close again, his head tilted down as his hands concentrate on the fruitless task he’s currently busied himself with.

She turns her face towards his, only slightly so she can actually see him without bumping heads. He’s aware of her movement, and it draws his attention back to her face as soon as he feels her eyes on him. At last.

Looking at her from under his brow, his fingers stop moving, merely holding onto her hand as their eyes meet again. And he’s trying to stifle the impulse to pull her in, straight into his arms to hold tight and whisper apologies on behalf of Aegon and everyone else in this wretched place. It would be so easy, but instead he gives a small smile before releasing her and stepping back, just out of arm’s reach.

There's a sense of self preservation that surfaces when she speaks to him, but her words aren’t harsh or ungrateful. “Why are you being so nice to me?” She’s simply being cautious, curious.

“That bad then?” He scoffs a bit, crossing his arms over his chest, but her question is not very surprising to hear. And he elaborates upon seeing her confusion, thinking the entire situation a bit tragic. His hatred for this place reaches a new high.

“Your experience here, it hasn’t been so good until now.” He makes an all-encompassing gesture with his observation, putting King’s Landing on blast.

She notes the sarcasm, but also the way he adds until now, as if he’s already convinced himself that he’s going to be the turning point for her. Really, there is no discrepancy in the assumption, and his kindness towards her recalls a level of care she’s been lacking from another human being. It all means so much.

It's a foolish thing, she must admit, for as much as she loves adventuring as it were, these are the moments when she feels the most alone, inadequate. That, coupled with a general homesickness and longing for some familiarity is something she’s been trying to tame, but failing miserably at since she arrived.

And maybe he can see this.

But a part of her wonders how real this is between them, because now she’s having some doubts - this just doesn’t happen in real life. It certainly doesn’t happen to me. And it leaves her to question the way this PRINCE, who she doesn’t even know, is making her feel so important. And is it because this is real or is it because she’s projecting her needs onto him?

No, she can’t believe the latter.

This just feels different, and he is different - her intuition would agree. Everything about him feels sincere, even his quiet laugh when she finally responds, confirming his assumption that her time has for the most part been shit, until now.

His face transforms, impossibly more handsome when he smiles, finding her response an acceptable one. But inside, it feels like baby dragon wings fluttering for him and the sensation is completely new.

“It's…getting better.”

her voice was deep and warm, i drank it in like an elixir.

He capitalizes on the moment by introducing himself to her simply as Aemond, realizing they’ve done this completely out of order. Whereas most people start with a name, this hadn’t been the case for them and it just sort of encapsulates the uniqueness of their meeting, charming him further.

It probably isn’t overly significant either, but he feels like they now have a starting point to bridge the gap, transitioning them from strangers to something more familiar. And he’s amused when she grabs his arm dramatically, turning to him with big eyes as she begins apologizing for her lack of decorum in not offering her name upfront nor asking for his.

He isn’t bothered, assuring her of this, although he is content to finally know what to address her by. In fact, he appreciates her energy, how candidly she’s already starting to open up now that they’re talking. And it becomes more apparent once they’re seated together at a nearby bench.

would you leave me if i told you what i’ve done?

Their bodies are turned toward one another, knees almost touching, when some additional guests from the party filter into the courtyard.

He considers the intruders for only a moment before returning attention back to his lady. MY lady? He can’t escape the thought though, wanting her to belong to him. It’s the honest truth, and he’s coming to terms with this when he feels his belt tightening.

Looking at her again, he quickly becomes delighted, seeing that she’s taken an interest in the dagger strapped near his hip. It’s his favorite, weighty and a bit too lavish for a killing object, but he always has been one to appreciate the finer things in life.

His heart skips when she reaches out and begins fingering the intricacy of the pommel, clearly admiring the artistry of his weapon. The appreciation pleases him somehow and he lets her continue the exploration, so as to afford him more time to simply stare. And while he knows he’s doing it, what a nuisance it can fucking be, he can’t stop.

Sometimes he can be really shameless, and this is one of those times. With her loosened hair pushed back and a fair amount of skin on display, he’s getting hot again as he considers her figure, making bets with himself of what she’d feel like in his hands. Warm, soft, absolute perfection.

It's almost too much to fathom, and the improbability of the occurrence altogether begins to occupy his brain. It makes him brood a little. Her being here pulls an unexplainable sensation from his chest, and then again when she looks over to him, saying his name to summon all this attention.

“You’ve seen death, caused it.”

She leans in, her hand now fully wrapped around the hilt of his dagger in a way that’s too suggestive to be mistaken. When she squeezes it, correctly surmises what comes next, he swears he feels the pressure as if it were his own cock in her hand.

“And you will kill again to protect what is yours.”

The comment temporarily puts Aemond’s desire in check. Though there isn’t a particular reason why he’s been skirting the topic with her, he knows he needs to be honest about the situation. It’s become clear that she isn’t privy to some of the more common details revolving around the plight of his family.

However, he also doesn’t want this circumstance to define who he is or disturb what they could have together, given the chance. Either way, she deserves the truth.

“We’re at war with the Blacks. You know it is inevitable.”

She counters, emphasizing her previous assumption. “And you will kill again, as you have before?”

He fears their potential to now be in jeopardy, and that fear threatens to choke out all the remaining hope left in him. But still he persists, thinking that what they could have is worth challenging, knowing they could be something great. So good for each other. He needs to know where she stands.

“Does this bother you, frighten you?”

She doesn’t respond with words, but it’s immediate when she takes his bruised and bloodied hand into her own with care, instead. Her fingers lightly brush across his knuckles, a whispered touch as if to heal, and it becomes devastating for his heart to experience such a kindness.

Of all the reactions he’d been steeling himself for, this was not it. There is such sweetness in the unexpected gesture and he’s on the verge of disintegrating when she slowly lifts his hand to her lips, kissing away so much pain beyond the surface. It reaches the very heart of him.

“I am not afraid of you, Aemond. I am in awe of you.”

She’s turning his world upside down, sending him to the heavens. Her words are ones he’d never dared to dream for, never thought to hear in this lifetime. And yet, they’ve been spoken and it’s at this moment, now.

It leaves him to ponder if maybe this is what love is supposed to feel like - true love. And if it is, he wants so much more.

and would you leave me if i told you what i’ve become?

Aemond provides her with an accurate, albeit broad, rundown of the current conflict regarding the Iron Throne - offering enough insight for her to gain a greater understanding of present dangers and how he fits into the equation. She listens intently, finding it to be a heavy existence in which he moves about the realm.

And she can barely begin to comprehend how he’s managed to stay sane between his loyalty to his brother, his duties as a warrior prince and the ever-revolving familial issues he encounters - issues which one might consider to be a Targaryen curse.

The details draw her interest further, but she stays primarily committed to unearthing more parts of Aemond as a means to better understand him. With this new knowledge also comes a significant amount of worry, now that she’s attached, so ready to commit herself to him.

Her feelings come from the revelation of so many perceived threats aimed towards him and how deeply embedded he actually is within the present situation. Even still, she can’t overlook the fact that he’s here now, alive and safe, superior in every way to anyone she’s ever known.

His current well-being does bring a sense of comfort to her, as does the idea that maybe he’s somehow chosen her too - perhaps even above his own family and everything chained to his name, as well. Though she would never ask that of him, she can’t help but feel like he has…it seems like he’s choosing her, even over the responsibilities he’s been born into.

Love me.

As more time goes on, she finds she very desperately wants to be that pillar for him, the one he could run to every time, always. It’s like he’s cast a spell over me. And there are other things as well that draw the appeal for her. Aemond is very eloquent with words, gorgeously expressive with his hands and an ever-present sexual energy just exudes, effortless to leave her wanting.

The way he speaks as they turn to lighter topics is delivered with assured confidence, yet an understated valor. His humbleness and sincerity begins to put hearts in her eyes. It's all making her long to make this last. And how can I not?

When she looks at him, she knows with certainty that he’s incomparable, someone that comes around once in a lifetime. Retrospectively, she can’t help but feel the kiss of fortune, beyond grateful for this night, even commending herself for taking the necessary steps to bring her to this city, to this event, to him.

Time and chance are peculiar things, and she stays counting her lucky stars while her own heart continues to swell. She shouldn’t be feeling this way, at least not so soon, but it keeps coming in a rush, like so many waves to the shore.

She truly is in awe of him, hyper aware that everything he does seems to be a perfection to her - something new to fall in love with about him. Even the way he draws breath is leaving her to wish she could be the one giving him this air, filling him with her own life as they take a small moment of silence.

Her mind does not give pause though, and the idea of her lips on his uniquely curved ones become a danger zone. She needs to get a grip on the direction of her thoughts, promising to expand on this in a more tame direction. But it's another failed attempt as she becomes intrigued by the way Aemond appears to be subconsciously fidgeting with the buckles adorning his clothing now.

He just really is something else, she muses, focusing back on his perfect hands, those long slender fingers that are making her cunt ache. Similarly, the eye-patch and that scar, both of which try and fail to detract from his male beauty, pulls her with inconsolable longing.

Everything about his physical appearance speaks to a rebellion in him. But there is something more - something wild, perilous beyond his cool exterior. There is something haunting too, though she knows not what. Regardless, he is everything she wants, all that she wants.

There’s a disturbance in her silent observations when he says her name, asking another question, and his attention does not wander from her face when she eventually speaks.

And he looks at her with such intensity, in a way that feels like his very soul is searching for hers.

and i wish that we were closer, close enough for me to hold you when your lonely nights become too long to bear.

It’s like he’s captivated by what she’s saying, and there could be a million reasons for this, but they’re mysteries, indeed - things she can’t even see within herself. And it’s a wonder she’s having such an effect on him, but it keeps her active.

The constant movement of his fingers is a building distraction, one that’s deterring her from continuing on with any deep originality at a certain point. She fixates on them, more than she should, but now it starts to pique her interest of what this is about.

Is he nervous, bored? Is he growing impatient and ready to send me back inside? She hopes she’s wrong, that it’s just a self-conscious string at play.

Then another idea occurs, and maybe she’s just fooling herself with the notion. Even still, a part of her is hoping he’s doing this to distract himself and fight the impulse to reach out and touch her again. It's what she wants him to do...

And she wishes Aemond would do this, being as starved for affection as she is. Even if it means nothing, just a physical connection would be nice, but only from him. He’s just so striking, tightening so many of her chords, unknowingly ticking so many boxes of what she’s dreamt up in a lover.

I wish he wanted me too. A whimsical sigh escapes her, but she’s determined to enjoy the moment.

She starts to loosen more, running her hands through her hair as the wind picks up and the wine from before begins to course. There’s an awareness that she’s become chatty, but it's easy to do with him - how he’s looking at her, as he listens to her speak on more of her interests.

He asks questions about her home as if he really gives a shit about where she’s from, and she hopes he does. Occasionally he picks up on her wit too, acknowledging the subtlety of it when she details events from her past with a low chuckle. Something about it gets her weak.

She also hopes he’s seeing her in a positive light too - that the things she’s telling him of why she’s here, what she likes to do, what she sees for herself in the future isn’t coming across as self-absorbed, or childish. Or worse- incredibly ordinary and boring. She wonders if it’s possible, and fears it could be true because Aemond seems to have already lived a thousand lifetimes by comparison.

There is nothing exciting about the life I live...

She considers him again, the way he seems older than he actually is, experienced and intelligent, which she admires. He’s also opinionated, blunt and never mincing words - so unapologetically himself. It's both inspiring and intimidating, on a level she hopes to achieve someday. She’s been working on it.

But it's hard not to feel somewhat inadequate by comparison, as if nothing she could possibly tell him would be anything new, anything he hadn’t already seen or heard or experienced before. Actually, maybe I should be quiet for awhile.

Talking about herself makes her uncomfortable in most situations, and she rarely ever lets down all her defenses. As he might learn over time, when she appears confident, trust that most times she’s holding herself together by a string and a great deal of pretense.

All the same, she isn’t an open book for many, as she keeps her inner circle small. Family, acquaintances, strangers know about her as much as she wants them to, nothing more, and they can always know less.

Not surprisingly, she finds herself wanting to open more for Aemond, only hoping she’ll be enough for him.

and i wish that we were strangers, strange enough to go unnoticed from this crowd.

He extinguishes her insecurities just to replace them with a new set when he lays his hand on the top of her thigh, calling her back from the rabbit hole she’s fallen into again. And the pressure he places on her leg suggests that she’s really fallen off the deep end - that maybe he’s finally getting exasperated by this unintentional habit of hers.

Does he think I’m a nervous wreck, bored with him or just an idiot?

She can’t possibly guess the actual reason, but she moves forward, too close. Fuck it. She needs to re-establish her interest, so she reaches out to touch his shoulder, pulling him over to lean closer to her. It's such an innocent touch, but she feels like she’s taken a great liberty just now...

And actually, her fingertips dig into him like she’s trying to lay a claim, one that she knows she has no right to. It doesn’t matter though, because her hand feels blessed by the feel of his body underneath her fingers. It makes him more real than before and his shoulder feels like fucking granite.

She can’t find a regret in sight.

They stay like this a moment too long, and he’s watching her with curiosity now, anticipating the next move. Its very forward of her, and he’s thoroughly enjoying her consistent touch on him as he waits.

“I’m sorry I keep losing myself tonight. You distract me from my own thoughts.”

Another lovely blow to the heart. His hand leaves her leg, reaching out instead to trace a finger slow and deliberate against her cheek, knowing it’s too intimate, knowing there’s people around. She stays still, lets him do this as she searches his face, trying to read him for some indication that he might want her just as much.

This beloved face. It’s a delicate curve, creamy smooth in touch and he can just imagine the taste of her skin. His eye roams over her features and the perfection he beholds seems endless. And he thinks he could do this endlessly, touch her, and he prays for the chance to do so - intimately.

I swear I would give anything to make you mine.

She’s looking at him, and all he can do is stare back, finding the enchantment dangerous enough to paralyze him, but still he persists. He’s compelled to respond to what she’s just confessed, and he thinks he must take the opportunity to also divulge a confession of his own.

Delving his hand into her hair without warning, Aemond luxuriates in the soft thickness of it, obsessing over the way it glides through his fingers, like he knew it would. It's long enough for him fist it, pull just hard enough to lift her face and burn his own lips by her kiss.

The subtle red of her mouth has been killing him softly all night, and he’s thinking about it. thinking about it. thinking about it. He wants to, more than anything else right now…

Is this appropriate, what am I even doing?

What he feels inside can only be described as stormy. He’s got a bad desire, still unable to pull his gaze from those lips as his mind turns over the fact that she’s basically just admitted her attraction to him - volunteering the missing piece he’s been searching for this entire time.

I distract you from your thoughts?

He has to give something back, and he’s very honest, a bit brazen when he finally does. Again, no shame. He’s going to maintain truthfulness, thinking she can handle it.

“YOU are splendid, Y/N. I could lose myself in you, so easily.”

Hearing this from him alters her with eyes that seem darker now and he knows she is blushing...a lot. The innuendo brings a new warmth to her, a hope that they will be more. She projects all this towards him, a new faith of possibilities.

He’s certain of it, because he feels it too and it's mesmerizing.

kiss me, and you will see how important i am.

What could possibly follow words as beautiful and candid as that, especially from someone like him? She thinks maybe he will kiss her now, and she wants him to. Although it terrifies her, she wills it into being on the off-chance it might work. Besides, she’s had quite a bit of luck already.

But Aemond doesn’t kiss her, and she can’t understand why.

The unjustified disappointment starts to settle when he abruptly withdraws from her touch mere seconds later. And while he goes on to assess the courtyard casually, noting more people than he’d like are now present, she busies herself with the sleeve of her dress, anything to occupy her mind.

Then he stands, offering his hand to her as indication it’s time to go. It's probably for the best, because everything feels awkward now, strained and her ego is bruising beyond belief. She accepts his assistance, standing though it’s difficult to meet his gaze.

Even the brush of his fingers along her shoulders feels mechanical as they exit the courtyard. His touch polarizes, compelling her to consider that anything more than this was all wishful thinking, that it had been in vain. Her heart is plummeting.

This…hurts.

lets not pretend like it's not what it is, when i’m just starting to realize that i love you.

She follows him, unaware of where they’re going, but they take their time, walking close to each other, though no longer touching.

Aemond is quiet, remorseful over his actions. He’s aware that he should have handled their departure better, but when he’d realized how many city gossips had joined them in the courtyard, openly observing their interaction, he knew they could not stay.

Admittedly, his rationalization for this is less because he’s bothered by the recognition, he’s really not. However, he is protective by nature and as such, felt it necessary to prioritize Y/N’s privacy and safety.

Although neither is ever fully guaranteed, even from within the confines of the Red Keep, he has a knack for proactivity in these sorts of matters and feels he acted accordingly in the moment. At least he tries to convince himself of this as they walk…

Aside from tonight’s scene in the great hall, which couldn’t be foreseen, he’ll always make it a habit to prevent further unsavory intrusions - especially when the possibility of love feels so close within his grasp. He’s resolute in this, and he will always consider these details as a means of protection for those he cares about…and for his own heart.

And he cares a great deal about Y/N, though he can’t help but feel like he’s majorly fucked up. She’s not saying anything and no words will form for him either - to fill the space or to offer an explanation to her. He doesn’t even know what their next step is, where they go from here. He just knows it can’t end like this.

You need to think!

Then he remembers the wooded sanctuary, a place he doesn’t often frequent, though he’s aware it offers optimal privacy, maybe even peace. He wouldn’t know, but he’d be surprised if it was being occupied this time of night.

It’s decided, and taking her hand once more, he veers them in this new direction on a whim. It’s one last attempt to salvage the night with her, thinking this is now or never as he leads her into the godswood.

And he’s chasing an idea that something sacred could be forged here. He’s hoping it will when he lifts her hand to kiss it - the light brush of his lips willing her to accept his unspoken apology. Everything he isn’t saying, but feels.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you, my darling.

To his surprise, she cuts the silence then, effectively calming him as she unexpectedly begins thanking him for all he’s done tonight. He’s taken aback as she elaborates, unprepared as ever to receive her praise - the way it’s all spoken with so much appreciation towards him despite his active guilt.

He’s gracious nonetheless, accepting this foreign gift of gratitude although he feels undeserving of it. He can’t recall that he’s done anything truly noteworthy to have this deep impact, but her kind words still penetrate to leave a new mark on his heart. He wants this feeling forever, longing for it to last.

You’re not going to be an easy one to let go of, are you?

Aemond wonders, but really, he already knows.

you don’t have to be a ghost here amongst the living.

She hopes she’s covering all the points, that they’ve somehow been conveyed to him adequately. She’s basically thanking him for everything, hoping he realizes that it encompasses all the things - wine rescue, general rescue, providing social relief, his kindness, his care, his attention, his interest.

She’s borderline emotional thinking about it again, coupled with the ever-present knowledge that she’s literally so far from everything and everyone she knows. And its just actual fucking insanity that out of anybody this could have been, he was the one to…

She doesn’t know how to complete the thought. The one to...what?She looks at him again, really looks at him and it all clicks.

He’s the first person, the only person, that's ever made her feel alive like this, significant and appreciated in a way that anyone would desire. More than that though, when she looks at Aemond she feels more like herself. It’s like an awakening, a resurrection, and it can’t be downplayed. She’s just going to tell him.

“I’ve been alone in this life, mostly going through the motions and calling it living. Tonight, you’ve made me feel like I could live again. Really live…”

There isn’t a logic to it, and she has no expectations at this point when she cuts off the sentence and steps towards him. It's just something she needs to do, so she does, finally wrapping her arms around him. It's a risk she’s willing to take, just needing this connection in order to crystalize the moment for them by some physical means.

Her face disappears against the side of his neck and a moment later she’s closing her eyes, relieved as Aemond’s hands begin to glide across her back. It’s a gentle touch, instilling affection in every place he gives a comforting rub to. His soft response shatters her.

“Thank you for being here with me.”

Even through her layers of clothes, she can feel it - the way he goes from the small of her back, to up beneath her hair, touching the exposed shoulder blades and then back down again. His touch feels so natural, and even more so when his hands finally come to a stop at her waist.

It's automatic when he tightens his arms around her, pressing her flush against him. There’s an inherent awareness to the way she relaxes further then, understanding that it's safe for her to be here in his arms. And he’s glad it’s been conveyed so clearly, because he wants the closeness too, and it really can’t be overstated.

This means so much for them - experiencing such an emotionally charged moment, this great vulnerability. It brings forth the sensitive nature in him too, as he completely understands how she feels and what she needs, despite having only just met her.

Who has hurt you, sweetheart?

The moment feels infinite as his heart continues to soften towards her in the silence. This is very special - the way they hold eachother, and the way it's threatening a new kind of addiction for him.

Being needed by someone has always been one of Aemond’s deepest desires, just as being wanted by someone, flaws and all, has become a massive struggle. Somehow, she’s making him feel both ways simultaneously - needed and wanted.

It resonates as the greatest gift possible from The Seven.

you are flesh and blood, and you deserve to be loved.

She feels sheltered, accepted into his welcoming arms and in a way, into his life through their embrace.

The idea of this invitation reignites her spark, hoping this won’t be the end for them. It’s unfathomable to her that they wouldn’t be destined for eachother beyond this night, impossible in consideration of how warm his hands are as they remain on her back, moving in a slow caress.

Even the solidity of his chest is starting to do things to her, and it's so intentional when she lowers her hand from his shoulder to rest there instead. It’s intimate, she’s aware, loving the steady rise and fall where it lays, and how he also doesn’t seem to mind that she’s taken this chance.

She burns with ideas, everything fueled by their closeness - wanting to be undressed by him, to be fucked by him, utterly ruined by him. She has so many needs, but most immediately, she wants to lower his face to hers and kiss him hard while her fingers roam into his hair - tangling the soft perfection of it until it’s loose and wild.

She wants to do everything now that she thinks he wanted to do in the courtyard, aware that they’re being given a second chance to see this realized.

The occurrence of this is highly plausible considering he hasn’t let go of her yet, and it’s occupying her thoughts before the grandest of disruptions - the sensation of his lips pressing into her hair. She could sob at the beauty of it, how sweet he is, how deep it truly runs within him.

However, he speaks against her too soon, and the spell seems to break irreverently. Already his grip is loosening, and a distance is created when he pulls back from her, although he still keeps her within his arms.

She swears she hears the faint sound of his name being called now, distant and echoed, though she can’t be certain if it’s imagined or not. She doesn’t want to know, not really, but he provides this information to her, regardless.

“Everyone is searching for me.”

He indicates this reality with an all-encompassing motion towards the keep, followed by a long sigh. She knows it’s because of Aegon, just assuredly as he knows he’ll be speaking to the consequences of his actions very soon before the small council.

It's a serious matter that she can’t begin to comprehend, but the complexity of the Targaryens is vast, and she knows this isn’t a summoning Aemond can avoid. Even still, it feels like he’s being unjustly stolen away from her and she can only blame his impetuous brother for tearing them apart now.

Prince Aemond…

“Where is Prince Aemond? Locate him, immediately.”

and with one kiss, you inspired a fire of devotion that lasts for twenty years.

What she needs right now is a moment to gain some composure from the desperation that’s begun to seep into the very being of her. She hates this sensation, like she’s losing everything before she’s even had it - a slew of shattered dreams, all the what-if’s and could have been’s.

But no, this is something that should be, and she can’t just let him go. She’s afraid that if she does, he’s going to vanish completely, and with him, all their potential. It's a different sort of panic thats begun stirring within, but the reluctance she feels from him when he releases her actually encourages her, anew.

what kind of man loves like this?

It's true, Aemond doesn’t want this to be the end, but he needs this decision to be hers. Aside from not wanting to force feelings, a deeply flawed part of him needs validation from her. He needs to know if she sees him as someone worth her own pursuit.

If not, he’ll just be returning to his own personal hell sooner than expected, and this particular night will become nothing more than a fleeting memory. A brief moment in time, in which he’d felt completely understood and accepted - known only as Aemond, not Prince Aemond Targaryen or Aemond One-Eye or Aemond the Kinslayer.

A wistful smile emerges because there’s always room for doubt, but he thinks she feels the same way he does. If her sincerity and attention is any indication, it's clear enough. That in itself is so rare, especially when he considers the slew of people that have come and gone through his life, many of them with misplaced expectations, ill intentions, leaving scars both seen and unseen along the way.

It makes her more beautiful to him when he acknowledges the differences between her and those from his past. She is remarkable, and he knows she could be someone important to him - how it’s already begun to feel this way. He’s convinced further when she reaches down and takes both his hands in hers, telling him everything he needs to know, what he’s been praying to hear.

“I want to know you, Aemond.”

He knows what he’s going to do now, and it's a bit devastating the way he pulls her back to him forcefully, with purpose. Intoxicate her. And there’s not a moment to waste when he hears his name again, this time from the mouth of Ser Criston Cole, coming from the edge of the godswood.

They’re out of time.

He crushes his mouth to hers, maintaining control of the boundary by keeping a firm grip on her arms

No retreat or advancement allowed from you, darling one.

Aemond owns this kiss, and he makes her take everything he’s giving, and fuck! she takes it so well, angling her face to accept more of the onslaught, silently begging for it. And while she can’t really move with his fingers digging into her forearms now, she still manages to move closer into him when she rises on her toes, meeting his lips with impossible force.

She’s truly kissing him back, accepting all of it, taking everything as he continues with fervency - kissing in a way that has the potential to bruise lips and shatter the stars. It’s a beautiful awakening met with an abrupt end, as with all great things - phenomenal things, and so does their time together for the night.

When he leaves, she’s still standing in the same spot, breathless as she watches him exchange words with the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard before disappearing in the shadows.

Eventually she pulls herself together, swaying a bit on unsteady legs as Cole escorts her back to the main hall, reconnecting her with her cousin once more.

at night i dream of a love so heavy, it makes my spine throb…

Hours later, she’s lying in the darkness of her room, unable to sleep.

It's inconsequential as she relives their kiss over and over, reflecting on the sensation of Aemond’s mouth on hers - the way he had held her, how everything else had stopped, making it seem that just for a moment they were the only two lovers in existence.

Then she recounts the entire night, the chain of events that brought her to this current state. She recollects from memory the moment she first saw him, the moment he saw her - all the feelings that began to surface from that point and then flourish throughout the evening.

i dream up a lover who makes love like he is separating salt from water.

Stars! The look on his face when she’d kissed his injured hand had seemed wrought from pure love, and she can only hope it might be true, because it’s what she’s been feeling every minute since he left her.

Love. It’s madness, but she doesn’t care. And yet, she continues to mull over his departing words, his challenge following her intention to know him - leaving their fate solely in her hands.

Only three words and then he had surrendered the control.

“Then know me.”

@a-beaverhausen @boofy1998 @caramelcandescence @wanderingcl0ud

#aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond x oc #aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #prince aemond #aemond fic #hotd fic #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x y/n

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sleepyfaequeen · 2 years ago

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MASTERLIST

Request Info

requests: open

request count: dew it.

masterlist: still processing..

rules:

No neko reader(just don't/Kitsune allowed)

No scat

No piss

No vore

No younger age x older(no underage romance)

No degrading (there's a limit)

No, I can't do male character x male character/reader(some people are blessed with that writing type, plus it's been awhile since I've been able to do that).

I don't do character x character

If I take awhile to reply just know I'm busy. I have a life so just chill out a bit. I'll get to you when I get to you.

When requesting, please let me know what you want. Be as descriptive as you can. Let me know if you want a headcanon, one-shot or story. I'm doing my absolute best to satisfy you're eyes with my writing so don't be afraid and let me know.

Word count: it's a lot of words, you'll get more than a few paragraphs.

Things I will write:

I write for fem!reader (she/her pronouns)

Related to character prompts

Fluff

Smut/NSFW/Lime

Pregnancy

Periods

Angst etc.

Au's/modern

Crossovers

Fandom List I write for:

Overwatch

Jack Morridon/Soldier76

Gabriel Reyes/Reaper

Ana Amari

Mercy/Angela Zeigler

Genji Shimada

Hanzo Shimada

Symmetra/Satya Vaswani

Moira O'Deorain

Ramattra

Zenyatta

Sombra/Olivia Colomar

D'va/Hana Song

Widowmaker/Amélie Guillard

Junker Queen/Odessa "Dez" Stone

Sojourn/Vivian Chase

Kiriko Kamori

Niran "Lifeweaver"

Genshin Impact

Xiao

Diluc

Kaeya

Childe

Zhongli

Dead By Daylight

Onryō/Sadako

Huntress/Anna

Michael Myers

Trickster/Ji-Woon Hak

Artist/Carmina Mora

Path to Nowhere(every character but the young ones)

Bayonetta

Pokemon Violet

Final Fantasy 7

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beebbg · 2 years ago

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Request Page (yes ik this is like my third time doing this) ៸៸

꒰ Do's and Don'ts ↷

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎//Do!︰Smut, fluff, angst, headcanons (Nsfw︙Sfw), drabbles

→ Don't︰Weird kinks, racism, pedophilia, homophobia, Character x character, Character x Child! Reader

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎✦⇢

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ I write gn or fem reader. I also write mostly for women.

﹕Fandoms! ɞ

⸝⸝ Apex・Catalyst, Vantage, Lifeline, Rampart, Valkyrie, Bangalore, Horizon, Wattson, Wraith, Ash, Mad Maggie, Loba

�� Overwatch・Mercy, D.va, Ashe, Moira, Sombra, Ana, Symmetra, Zarya, Junkerqueen, Sojourn, Kiriko, Brigitte, Mei, Pharah, Tracer, Widowmaker, Illari

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎｡ Arcane・Caitlyn, Vi, Jinx, Mel, Sevika

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏✧ Detroit Become Human・Kara, North, Rose

ʚ The Last Of Us pt.2・Abby, Ellie, Dina

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ✿ Deathloop・Julianna, Wenjie, Harriet, Fia

#apex #apex legends #overwatch #arcane #detroit become human #the last of us #deathloop #x reader #black reader #headcannons #beedoesstuff(wrong)#bee’s fics

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vagabond-umlaut · 1 year ago

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One Day, Three Autumns

(Gojo Satoru x Fem! Reader; Arranged Marriage; Childhood Friendship To Complicated Feelings™️; Flangst; CanonCompliant; Non-Linear Narrative)

▸ each fic in this series is connected, but can be read as a stand-alone too! :)) ▸ please don't spam like and reblog! enjoy reading! <3 ▸ masterlist

⁕ Bronzen Glaze Oneshot of Gojo being High-Key Pathetic while Reader is Low-Key Pathetic Here— Author Loves The Dynamics Between Them So Much.

⁕ Mercury x Sulfur THE WEDDING NIGHT FIC NO ONE ASKED FOR YET I WROTE FT. PATHETIC GOJO & PATHETIC READER & THEIR BLURRY PATHETIC FEELINGS FOR EACH OTHER... [This Oneshot is 18+ Content -> Minors & Ageless Blogs Please DNI!!!]

⁕ Sojourn In The Sun Oneshot; Satoru & Reader Are So Cute, So Honest And So Kind-Of-Happy With Each Other Here; Silly Jokes Are Their Coping Mechanism; Takes Place Between JJK 221 & 236.

⁕ Honey & Maple Syrup Very Emotional Sex Between Gojo & Reader; Satoru's So Needy; Reader Is Pretty Soft Too; Brief Mentions Of Reader Being Mildly Injured In A Mission. [This Oneshot is 18+ Content -> Minors & Ageless Blogs Please DNI!!!]

⁕ Fall Versus Foliage Oneshot of Your Best Friend Being Gojo, Gojo's Best Friend Being Geto & Your Mortal Enemy Being Geto; Geto Suguru Makes His Debut; Takes Place Between Star Plasma Vessel Incident & Death Of Haibara.

#only i can reblog this. thanks! <3 #kit lists her series 📃

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heavymetalover · 5 years ago

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Call Me Daddy (Michael Langdon x fem reader)

{i imagined scruffy sojourn michael w this one but i left the description kind of open so yall can imagine whichever teehee}

Summary: Michael is about to become your step dad and the two of you have an unusual relationship…

Warnings: DADDY KINK DUH, smut, dirty talk, fingering, vaginal sex, dom!michael, hickies, rough sex.

WC: 5.5k

A/N: ive done the unforgiven… omg.

this is a different format from my other stuff. i didnt see anyone doing this and yall know me and my daddy issues I HAD TO. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE anon me, message me, whatever, if you want more parts cuz im down.

~~~~

You had an average run-of-the-mill life with your mom. The two of you lived in a sizable suburban Los Angeles estate; your mom worked for most of her waking hours to keep you comfortable and you worked your ass off to stay in your top college. You had a few friends that would pop into your life when your mom left town, a few boyfriends here and there, even your mom dated around. Everything felt normal until Michael came into the picture.

Your mom has been dating Michael for a few months now, but every time he’s around he brings an eerie feeling along with him. Despite being nearly half her age, he has the soul of somebody from the eighteen hundreds. The way he composes himself, how he speaks with the utmost confidence and how his stares linger too long; his glacial blue eyes always watch you like he can see right through your clothes.

You’ve been skeptical of him since the day you met him. When you shook his hand and accidentally removed one of his large rings, he nonchalantly told you to keep it. You decided to sell the huge diamond-encrusted Cartier ring and use the twenty thousand dollars to help pay for college.

Since then you’ve avoided the two of them in protest of their relationship. You knew it was juvenile to evade them, but the man turned you on more than you’d like to admit. His soft-waved blonde hair, fluffy lips, jawline for days, prominent cheekbones, and how can you forget the eyes… Everything about him looked planned, like he was designed to be flawless.

On a mundane weekend morning, your mom calls you from downstairs. “Y/n!” her voice echoes through the halls.

You stop reading your favourite book and take out an earbud. “Yeah?!” you yell back, looking up from the pages for a moment and waiting for her to say something else, but the house is silent. You pretend to ignore her call and go back to the story.

“Y/n!” your mom yells again.

You sigh and drop your book, rolling off of your bed and skipping down the stairs to see what fresh hell awaits. As you approach your mom, who’s opening her mouth to call you again, you smell something unusual. Something you haven’t smelt since your dad left. Cologne.

“Honey, he’s here,” your mom whispers to you, putting a hand on your shoulder. You try turning away to run back to your room, but your mom stops you. “Can you be nice for once, please?” she begs, squeezing your shoulder.

“Whatever, let’s get this over with,” you groan and shimmy her hand off of your shoulder.

Michael works at the dining table, setting up three plates and utensils. You’re planted to the ground in awe, you’ve never had to eat dinner with the two of them before. It crosses your mind that they must be confronting you about bypassing them these past few months, your fight or flight response is already kicking in.

Michael looks up at you, finally acknowledging you and capturing you in his ocean blue eyes with a nanosecond of contact. Your mom moves in between the two of you and takes some food out of a paper bag. “Michael and I wanted all of us to eat dinner together,” she skips to stand beside him. You widen your eyes at her and cross your arms in objection. She widens her eyes back, you can practically hear her nagging you to be polite.

Michael puts his arm around your mom. “Your mother and I thought it best for us to… start acting like a family,” he says.

Your eyebrows shoot up and you can’t hold back your smile. “A family?” you laugh. You purse your lips and start walking backwards, aching to escape Michael’s spell. “Mmm, I think I’ll pass,” you turn around to start walking away.

“Y/n,” your mom snaps. You stop in the middle of a step and twist back towards them, taking small, reluctant steps to approach their little function. “We have something to tell you,” she says and immediately after, vaults her hand out to you.

You take it hesitantly and look at her, still trying to figure them out and failing. “What?” you ask.

“No, honey, look at it,” she rolls her eyes, “look at my hand.”

You gawk at her hand, her third finger is dressed in a huge diamond ring. It looks big enough to pay off your whole house. You unintentionally let out a dramatic gasp and drop her hand, she continues to hold it up for you. “It’s the bloodiest diamond he could find in the LA area,” she explains, “We’re in love.” She smiles and places her hand on Michael’s chest, looking up at him with hearts in her eyes. He gifts a small kiss on her lips.

You scoff and shake your head. Any tension that you felt from Michael has dissolved. He’s been dating your mom for five months, five fucking months. Who does he think he is? Are they both nuts? “You’re joking, right?” you ask, completely stunned by how brash the whole situation is. “Are you guys pranking me?”

Michael grins at you, it makes you melt and you hate yourself for it. “Call me daddy,” he sneers.

----

It’s a quaint Wednesday evening when you decide to take a break from studying and grab a snack. You’re scrolling through Tumblr when you walk out of your room and smash your face against a sturdy chest. “Jesus!” you gasp, looking up at Michael standing in front of your door; one of his hands is in a fist, ready to knock on your door, while the other is behind his back. “You scared the shit out of me!” You playfully push his chest away from you, trying to shake off the sudden rush of adrenaline.

He drops his fist as he stumbles back slightly. It’s the first time you’ve talked to him since they announced their engagement. Michael moved in about a month ago and it’s been hard to ignore him since he sits, day in day out, typing away on his laptop in your living room.

“Sorry,” he apologizes. “But I have to admit it’s nice to hear your voice again.”

You lean against your doorframe, trying to act casual as if he hadn’t just knocked the wind out of you completely. “Did my mom come home from work or something? She send you here?” you ask, declining his attempts to meet your eyes, instead you stare at his lapel.

“No, I got you something,” he explains, wiggling the surprise behind his back.

“Another Cartier ring?” you joke. “Oh, or is it a new girlfriend? Because that would be even better.” His eyes find the ceiling in annoyance and it feels rewarding, you were starting to think he couldn’t be cracked. “Did you get me an apartment, so I don’t have to live with another failed marriage?”

“No,” he snaps back, starting to sound impatient with your infantile attitude. You straighten up at his belligerent tone. He slides into your room, keeping the gift hidden behind his back. “It’s thoughtful, something I know you’d like, but… if you’re hellbent on loathing my existence, why should I be so kind?” he asks. He somehow manages to speak reserved, yet impossibly intimidating. Every word that leaves his lips demands to be heard, it sends chills down your spine. “Right?” he prompts.

You take in a breath. “Right,” you force yourself to agree, mostly because you’re curious to see what the present is. Another part of you is getting bored of acting like a hermit and going days without social interaction. “Obviously it feels weird; I barely know you and you’re becoming my dad and you moved in, everything just seems so fast,” you explain yourself. You saunter back into your room to meet him. “I’ve been a bitch. I’m sorry, Michael. Seriously.”

He takes a step closer to you, you’re only inches apart. You can feel the heat radiating from his body and fight the urge to wrap your arms around him. “We’ll work on ‘Michael’ later,” he replies. You’re about to question what he means by that when he takes the present out from behind his back. He holds a black bag in between the two of you and you immediately recognize the store. “I heard you on the phone with your friend about something red, lacey, with a bow. I think I found it…”

You take the Victoria’s Secret bag from him without saying a word. You have no words to say. You don’t know if you should thank him or refuse the gift or slap him for listening to your personal conversations. Your mind races wondering if you’d gossiped about his good looks on the phone with your friend.

You silently pry open the bag and paw through the lingerie, mountains of cute panties and bras, digging through things you were never able to afford but always wanted. And, of course, Michael bought the red, lacey one piece you were talking about with your friend. There’s a stillness in the room as you look through the bag. “You bought all of this for me?”

“Yeah, I can’t see how your mom would fit into any of those.”

All of the pieces are just your size, it’s the perfect gift… just not from your stepdad. “How did you even know my size?” you stop looking at the bag and make the mistake of falling into his eyes.

“I went through your clothes,” he carelessly shrugs.

You drop the present by your side. “You went through my clothes, like, my lingerie?”

He slowly nods his head, acting as if it isn’t strange for him to invade your privacy how he did. You huff and he begins looking agitated with you again. “Would you like if I returned all this stuff? I thought you’d like it.”

“I do,” you mutter and kick the bag away from him, you’re not jeopardizing this gift with your uncontrollable sass.

“Good,” he spits back.

“Just… don’t think you can just buy yourself into the family,” you mock. You catch yourself subconsciously crossing your arms over your chest to give yourself a breast lift, but you don’t stop.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he smirks. He looks down at your cleavage and it feels like all the air is sucked out of the room. “You have quite the collection of lingerie you keep hidden at the bottom of your drawers,” he observes, “like a dirty guilty pleasure.” You peer up at him, again trying to read him, and again failing. He uses one of his fingers to hook onto the thin fabric of your shirt, your tits are practically pouring out and begging to be the center of attention. He tugs at the fabric, looking under your shirt and inspecting your boobs suffocated in one of your intimate Victoria’s Secret pickups. “Kitten’s all dressed up?” he whispers, his fingertips graze the embroidered details.

You bite your lip, anticipating the second he’ll rip the bra off your chest. “It’s all for you,” you tease, pushing your tits together even more, “I’m always dressed up for you, Michael.”

He breathes in, groaning under his breath. “I thought I told you,” his voice is low and intimidating, “call me daddy.”

You’re drinking in a breath of his cologne, shifting onto the tips of your toes to give his soft lips a rugged kiss, when the sound of keys rattling downstairs takes you out of it. Michael still stares at you, his fingers continue to linger over your clothed tits. “Michael!” your mom calls from downstairs.

You look up at him with fear in your puppy dog eyes and Michael grins. He shoots you one last, knowing, glance before leaving your room. He leaves you without saying two words. “Yeah, babe,” he answers your mom, closing your bedroom door behind him.

What the fuck just happened?

----

Holding back your gags, you grasp your friend’s hair as she projectile vomits peach schnapps into an expensive toilet bowl. Her phone rings in her pocket and you huff, digging through the pockets of the leather jacket you lent her and pulling out a vibrating iPhone. You pick up the phone with an ill “hello”, answering too late and looking down at the screen. She must’ve ordered an Uber a while ago, there’s a ton of notifications that the driver’s outside. “Oh shit,” you mutter under your breath. “Your ride is here!” you yell at her, trying to pull her onto her feet.

“What?!” she yells into the toilet bowl.

You roll your eyes and lean down beside her ear, “I said, your ride is here!” you yell over the thumping music.

Your friend stumbles around, trying to stand up in her six-inch heels. You pull her onto you and her head rests on your shoulder, she goes limp against you. “Stop, come on!” you shout over the music. “You have to g-”

You’re cut off by your friend puking onto an expensive mini dress you bought for tonight’s party. This shindig was supposed to be a fun little escape from your school life, your home life, Michael, all your stress. You expected to make new friends, meet hot guys, but instead you came an hour late and have been nursing your friend the whole night. You’re seriously going to kick her ass tomorrow.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, her breath reeking of throw up.

You toss her arm over your shoulder and start walking her out of the bathroom. “I’m going to kill you tomorrow, you know that?” you say in her ear and she lets out a small, apologetic whimper.

A cute guy who was talking you up earlier approaches the two of you. He holds two red cups in his hands and shrugs when he sees you. “What the fuck, y/n? You disappeared on me!” he talks to you over the bass-y music. “I got our drinks!” he shakes the cups in his hands and hands one over to you, as if completely ignoring your drunken friend hanging off of your side.

Your friend staggers, nearly bringing you down with her. The cute guy helps you pick her back up and you sigh, annoyed at how much of a disaster your night has turned into. He knits his eyebrows at your sour attitude, then finding the vomit on your dress, he looks back up at you. You see his doe eyes grow apologetic when he mouths a weak “sorry” to you, stepping out of your way. You shake your head as if telling him it’s fine; you just wish you had more time to get to know him.

You continue dragging your friend along your side and hear someone call out your name from behind you. You whip your head around; your hair irritatingly sticks to your lip-gloss. “Hope to see you again!” he calls after you. You nod in his direction and resume walking your friend, who is nearly passed out on your shoulder, to the front door. When you walk out of the house, you’re assaulted with the smell of salt water. Despite this night turning into one of the most frustrating nights of your life, at least you got to visit a Malibu beach house.

A big, black SUV is parked outside of the house and you rush her to the door. Opening the backseat and stuffing her inside the seats in the back. “The app says where you’re taking her, right?” you ask the Uber driver, your voice sounds muted from being struck by loud music all night.

He nods and reads out her address. “Y/n,” your friend slurs, gripping onto your arm with all her strength, “you’re a really nice… you’re a… you’re a really good friend, you know that? Like, seriously,” she pauses to hiccup, “thank you for taking care of me tonight.” Her words are so slurred that it’s nearly impossible to make out her compliment, but you just nod in hopes it’ll get her to let go. She drops your arm and hands you your pricey leather jacket, bunched up in a ball, before shutting the van door.

You throw on your jacket, protecting yourself from the ocean’s breeze, and watch the van drive away when you notice a familiar car parked across the street. The SUV blocked a four-seater Maserati parked on the other side of the road. Michael’s sedentary in the driver’s seat with a cigarette hanging from his lips. You balance yourself on your ridiculously tall heels and stomp over to his car. He doesn’t even see you coming, he’s leaned back in the driver’s seat reading a book.

You crouch down and knock on the glass of his window. His eyes meet yours for a second and he slowly rolls down the window. A mob of cigarette smoke escapes the car and he chucks the stick onto the pavement. You’re both quiet for a few moments, the crashing ocean waves fills up the silence. “How did you know I was here?” you ask.

He finally puts down his book and looks at you. “Just trying to be a good dad,” he responds.

“Ugh, ew,” you groan. “You’re my step dad.”

He adjusts his seat to start driving, his eyes looking you up and down as he does. “Looks like your night went a little… rough,” he jokes and nods towards the puke on your dress. “You need a ride?”

You look back at the party. As much as you wanted to live up the night, you’re already in too much of a bad mood to go back in there. It doesn’t help that your new dress is covered in puke, too. You turn back around to Michael, he awaits your answer with a cocked brow. “You can’t tell mom,” you sigh, walking around the car to get into the passenger’s seat. The luxury car’s butterfly doors obnoxiously open up for your entry. “Not a word,” you assure him as you slide into the leather seat.

He starts up the car and one of his Led Zeppelin albums begins to play. “I picked you up at the library,” he quips.

He starts driving along the empty coast and you decide to skip the seatbelt, you don’t want to dirty his car with your friend’s retch. His eyes glance over to your seat for a moment, he notices you second guessing the seatbelt and puts a hand on your thigh. You look up at him and intuitively try to tempt him, biting your bottom lip and batting your lashes. “I’ll protect you if we crash,” he whispers, his fingers lightly caress your thighs.

You put your hand on his and slide him further up your leg. He keeps one hand on the wheel, eyes on the road, but when his eyes do meet yours, it makes all the nerves in your core feel like a wave pool. Your dress is short enough for him to reach your panties without any hassle. Your hand is on his when his fingers begin to rub your pussy, still dressed in a pair of panties he bought you. “Baby’s already wet for daddy,” he says under his breath, kneading your clit in small circles.

You feel your stomach erupt with butterflies, you’ve never felt a nervousness so intense before. A rush of thoughts suddenly violates your mind, you try to shut them up but they keep coming. This is wrong. You shouldn’t be doing this. You’re disgusting for enjoying this. His fingers have been in your mom before.

You dig your nails into his skin and pull his hand away from you; bending over in your seat and clutching onto your stomach. You only had one drink tonight, you shouldn’t be feeling this sick.

“I-I’m sorry,” he stutters, “are you okay?”

“I think I need air,” you grumble through the sudden sickness. “Can you pull over?”

Michael only takes a minute to find an empty parking lot on the beach and pull into it. You get out of the car without saying a word to him and take off your heels, throwing them into the backseat of his car. You’re already starting to feel your anxiety subside as you shuffle through the cool sand and pace towards the erratic waves crashing on shore. This is one of the reasons you loved LA, the tons of tiny, empty beaches. The ocean at night, and how it constantly smelt like salt water, how it relaxed you.

The breeze blew through your hair, a part of you felt like running into the crashing waves, but a voice took you out of it. “Y/n!” Michael called behind you, over the sound of the whistling wind. He trudges in the sand to get to you; you faintly snicker at his dedication. “Are you okay?” he asks once he’s closer to you.

When you see him, face glowing in the moon light, golden locks blowing in the ocean breeze, face twisted with concern, it all settles. Everything feels like it’s in the right place. Your stomach, although still turning with butterflies, no longer feels sick.

There’s a pause between the two of you; both of you deciding to admire each other instead of the beautiful ocean view beside you. Then, it feels like everything clicks. Like the two of you mentally communicate your longing for each other, your desire. Both shutting your eyes and diving in for a kiss at the same time.

His lips smash against yours, sucking your face, and his tongue quickly invades your mouth. He kisses you like he’s craved your lips for years, passionately cleaning up your mouth with his eager tongue.

Michael works your jacket off of your shoulders and you shimmy it to the ground. He unzips your dress, the zip running along your naked back sends a shiver crawling down your spine. He abandons your lips for a moment to pull down your dress, exposing your bare chest and expensive panties. You’re too lost in lust to even realize you’re half naked on a public beach.

You’re both panting and releasing all of the built-up sexual tension. He stands back up and kisses you again, his hands cup your ass and he gives an echoed smack; his fingers creep down your legs. He grabs onto the back of your thighs and hoists you up, you lightly yelp into his mouth and wrap your legs around him. His large hands hold you up and he leans down, resting you onto the jacket you’ve thrown onto the sand.

Once you’re laid down, he begins rubbing your pussy again. His cold rings adding a different sense of pleasure as he rubs you into entropy. He slides your feeble panties to the side and spits down on your cunt, shoving his finger inside you. You moan at the sudden intrusion, taking in a breath of the salt-scented air. “That’s it, baby girl,” he whispers, adding in another finger, “I want to hear you moan for daddy.”

You take in a breath and whimper as he curves his fingers inside of you, slowly pulsing against your g-spot. He touches you as if he already knows which parts make you crumble. “Ooh yeah, daddy,” you cry and grind on his fingers, pushing him deeper inside you, “right there.”

“You’re my dirty little slut, huh?” he asks, gliding in another finger. Your eyes roll back in pleasure. “Little girl likes to get fucked by her daddy?” He adds another finger, completely stretching you out. Your breath gets caught in your throat and you can’t reply. “I asked you a question.”

You meet his cold eyes for a second, before you throw your head back in pleasure. “Yes!” you breathe out, feeling the heat rise in your body. Your sensitive cunt throbs under his gluttonous fingers, persistently fucking you and begging for more. “Yes, oh, keep fucking me just like that, daddy!”

His fingers find a rhythm inside of you, constantly bringing you to the brink of climax and slowing down. “Such a dirty little girl,” he teases and spits on your soaking cunt. He pulls out his fingers and holds them to your lips. You grab his hand and suck on his long fingers, tasting the cool metal rings mixed with the sweet taste of your pussy.

You sit up and lock your lips with his again. Both, you and Michael, unbutton his shirt; you want to feel his flesh against yours as soon as possible. When you get to the bottom, you slide your hands up his body and square the shirt off of his shoulders. His perfect, porcelain skin shines in the moonlight. You want to appreciate it for a moment, but he’s already unbuckling his belt.

He’s propped on his knees, unzipping his black pants and bringing them down to pull his erection out of his briefs. It springs out when you start grabbing for it, he moves back and clicks his tongue. “My greedy little girl,” he mocks, “you don’t get a taste until daddy says you do.”

He pushes you down with one of his hands. His touch is so delicate, yet so commanding. Everything he does is done with conviction and a power that only you could dream of, he is inherently dominant over you. He strokes his long, girthy length over you, you’re practically drooling at the sight. He spits on himself and rubs it into the head. “Spit on it,” he orders.

You sit up and weakly spit on the tip of his cock; it’s too late when you notice your mouth is dry from nervousness. He shakes his head. “You’re so pathetic, you can’t even spit on me right,” he sneers, divorced from the nasty words leaving his lips. He presses his dick against your folds and your fingers curl into your jacket, awaiting the moment he plunges into you. “Say the word, baby girl, say you want me,” he’s lingering at your entrance.

“Please,” you whine, your pussy is beating against his hard cock, “please dad.”

He pushes his head inside you and you grab his arms for support, digging your nails into his skin. He’s so thick, you’ve never felt something so large obtruding your tight cunt. He moves in slowly, reading your stunned facial expressions to see if he should continue stuffing himself inside of you. You let out tiny weeps as he digs deeper into your hole, but you can’t manage much more.

Michael thrusts himself into you until he’s balls deep, even he can’t help but groan. “My little girl is so fucking tight,” he grunts under his breath. He starts to hammer himself into you, going so deep that you feel like pushing him back, but you can’t bring yourself to do it. His cock is so thick that it hits every nerve you could imagine; it’s hard to gather a single word.

He lets out a small chuckle at your reticence. “My innocent baby’s never felt a real cock before, huh?” he taunts, still pounding his length into you. You open your mouth to speak, but settle on shaking your head. One distinct tear runs down the side of your face while stifled cries pass your trembling lips with each time his balls smack into your ass. “You’re taking me like a good fucking girl,” he admires, “my good little slut.”

He lifts up your leg and rests your foot on his shoulder. You’re twisted onto your side, trying to look over your shoulder to see how vigorously he pounds into your cunt. Michael’s new positioning hits exactly in your g-spot, you feel your leg shaking under his grip. “H-holy shit,” your voice trembles, you let out a built-up breath. “Keep going, daddy! Right there, right there, I’m so close,” you’re begging, voice is flooded with desperation. You don’t care how childish you sound, you want nothing more than to come all over Michael’s big dick. “Don’t move, please, please,” you grab onto his arm again.

Tears overflow your eyes when you look into his. Just seeing his determined light blue eyes peering back at you makes you unravel even more. He has no remorse for how weak he’s making you, how vulnerable you’ve become, his unmistakable dominion turns you on.

He listens to your wails, finally granting you the satisfaction you’ve been begging for and plows into your g-spot. Your grip on him gets tighter as he thrusts harder, you’re almost certain he’s going to leave some swelling deep inside your cunt. “Your dick is so, fucking, good,” you breathe in between thrusts.

Michael doesn’t give up, keeping up the same pace and fucking you exactly how you want him to. You’re about to praise his long cock some more when you’re thrown into climax. You try looking back up at him, but you can’t say a word; your mouth hangs wide open with nothing but small chokes croaking out. He can see how dazed he’s made you and shoves your face into the ground, pushing your nose against the leather of your jacket. “You’re going to take daddy’s cock like a good little girl,” he seethes, suffocating your head into your jacket. “Don’t come,” he demands.

He continues punching your g-spot with his huge cock, you feel your pussy spasming under his rough thrusts. He holds both of your arms back, shifting you into doggy-style. His balls slap against your sore clit and you feel yourself starting to ejaculate. “Fuck!” you scream into the breeze of the empty beach. Your cunt twitches and gushes its balmy juices all over Michael’s hard cock.

He slows down his pace and pulls your arms up towards him, you feel his heaving chest against your back. “What did I just fucking say?” he fumes, tugging your arms even closer to him. “Answer me.”

“You told me not to come,” you answer in a syrupy, naïve voice.

He grabs both of your tits to push you flush against him, maintaining his rough thrusts into your cunt. “That’s right,” he whispers in your ear, “baby didn’t fucking listen.” He smacks your tits with both of his hands, striking you hard. You jump at how ruthless he hits you, it makes your stomach flutter again. His full lips lug along your neck. “Remember who you belong to,” he speaks into your neck, sending an iciness throughout your entire body.

Michael digs his teeth into your skin, sucking up your flesh while he continues massaging your breasts, pinching at the hard peaks your nipples have formed. He sucks so hard it stings, you wonder how that would feel on your pussy. His love bite begins to hurt and you shift your head away from him, he snickers. “Who do you belong to?” he whispers, lips chafing the shell of your ear.

He pinches your nipples even harder and you sob in pleasure. “Mmm, you,” you respond, looking over your shoulder to give his lips a frail kiss. “I belong to you, daddy.”

He takes in a deep breath as if shaking off your spell and regaining his confidence. He pushes you onto the ground again and goes back to fucking you like a ragdoll. “You better remember that,” he breathes, mercilessly pummeling himself into you again.

He holds both of your arms back once more, driving himself into you so hard that you’re concerned about cervix bruising. His pace slows down a bit and you look back at him, his mouth drapes open and he stares down at the back of your head. He pushes you away as he orgasms, savagely shoving your face back into the ground, as you feel his warm seed spilling inside your wet cunt. Michael groans from deep within his chest, letting out a long sigh when he’s done. “Oh, fuck,” he moans, “fuck, you sexy bitch.”

You let out a little giggle at this and he joins. He hauls himself out of you and you feel all of your muscles relax. You shift onto your back, looking up at Michael in disbelief. You’re too caught up in euphoria to comprehend what just happened. All you can think of in this moment is how fucking good he was. Even Michael has a dumbfounded look on his face.

He shakes his head and liberates a nervous laugh, “We’re so fucked up.”

You can say that again.

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