#sorry if I got one of the questions wrong usually I will write them down on a post it when I am doing ask games

[rekino2114]

Death devil x male reader scenarios

A/n:this is a collection of some small scenarios I had in mind for death that weren't long enough for a full fic some I had in mind ever since she was still fami. Genuinely the more I write for death the more I love her

Disclaimer for this one: I don't know Japanese, and I am probably very wrong, so blame Google translate. Also, don't question the logic of this cause they're supposed to be speaking Japanese so it really doesn't make sense

"We need to find you a human name"

Your girlfriend put down the food she was eating and looked at you with those piercing pink eyes of hers

"Why?"

"I can't just go around saying that my girlfriend is called death"

"I've heard humans with weirded names"

"I.....can't deny that, but don't you think people are gonna get suspicious if they know your name?"

"And why should that matter? If someone starts bothering me I can just scare them until they give up and if they're really persistent I'll just deal with them"

"But you don't have any paperwork and you need to find a human name for those"

"And what would I need paperwork for? Boring human procedures don't interest me"

"To get married for example, you can take my last name but for that you need a human first name and that can't be death"

Death looked lost in thought for a while before resuming to speak in her usual emotionless tone

"......so I can't get married to you unless I get a human name?"

"I guess-"

"Alright then, I'll come up with one'

".....o-oh ok, I didn't think it would be this easy"

"Please I'd do much more to continue being with you"

"Alright, so you got any ideas? oh, and the name can't be fami. I'll admit calling yourself fami when you actually weren't famine was a genuis move, but you need to find another one"

"I wasn't going to use that anyway"

"Then what is it going to be?"

"I.........do not know"

"Really?"

"Sorry, I am not fully familiar with human names, also it's weird to think about changing your name......well I suppose I already did that once but still"

"Oh yeah I get it let me think"

She nodded and resumed eating while you sat opposite to her with your hand on your chin thinking hard about the name for some minutes, until you had an idea

"How about shin?"

"Hm?"

"Doesn't shi mean death? And shin is an actual name right? So it still works do you like it?"

She looked at you even more enigmatically before nodding softly

"Shin......I like it"

"Oh really?"

"Yes its nice"

"OK alright then shin it is"

"Alright........but still call me death in private"

"O-oh of course"

You deadpanned at the sight of your girlfriend dumping in the entire box of cereal she had in the much smaller bowl causing a mountain of small chocolate flavored circles to stand inside and on top of the bowl but it was way too early to deal with her weird tendencies plus you had gotten used to them

"Worthless"

That caught your attention as you took another sip of your hot drink and looked up at death yeeting the box at the wall and starting to eat the cereals spoonful after generous spoonful

"I suppose the cereals are good at least"

"What's wrong?"

"Hm?"

"You looked disappointed when you opened the box"

"Oh yes, I was looking for the toy"

"...........what?"

Death picked up another box of the same brand of cereals and turned it around to reveal the back showing an announcement in bold brightly colored letters that advertised an action figure of a cartoony mascot hidden in some boxes of the cereal

"However when I opened the box the cute toy was nowhere to be found. I will have whoever is responsible for this decapitated"

You were like......65% sure she was joking, but it's always hard to tell with death's lack of expression or any emotion, so you didn't want to take the risk

"C-calm down, it says it's only in some boxes looks like you just got unlucky"

"Oh......I suppose it's true, but it's still disappointing"

"Why are you interested in that toy anyway? I didn't take you as the type to like stuff like that anyway"

"It's cute plus I like his attitude"

".....what do you mean his attitude?"

"His determination to do anything to get the cereal is inspiring, even if all of his plans always end in failure he never lets go of his objective and relentlessly pursues it. It's inspiring really, a representation of humanity's relentless spirit and determination that I admire"

".........death did you......watch the ads for this cereal?"

"Yes, once they came on the tv and I got interested so I watched all of them"

".............you got actually invested.....in cereal ads?"

"Yes, it's one of the better human shows I watched"

You blinked twice genuinely wondering if the woman in front of you actually was the strongest devil in the entire world who was literally this close to ending the entirety of humankind before she met you, but just sighed again and decided to start your own breakfast

You dropped some of the same cereal in your bowl now, understanding why death had been so insistent on buying that specific brand the last time you went grocery shopping but stood shocked when you saw a small plastic toy coming out of the box and resting on the cereals in the bowl

"..............."

You looked up and saw exactly what you expected death staring right at the action figures, once again you sighed and handed her the toy

"Here take it"

"..........really?"

"Yeah of course, it's not like I like it that much anyway"

She quickly grabbed it and started playing with it, twisting its arms and moving it around the table, it was actually kind of adorable to watch. After a few more seconds of playing, she put the toy in front of her chest and hugged it protectively

"Thank you so much, I will treasure your gift with my life, just like you"

".........i-it's nothing"

The next two ideas were given to me by: @michaelaftonhasjoinedthechat thanks

"I'VE GOT IT!"

You put the plate aggressively above the table making sure bot to break it, death moved her pink glowing gaze between your exhausted form while you were trying to catch your breath and the food in front of her

"More food for me? Thank you, you're really been spoiling me with meals lately, is there something special going on?"

You continued breathing heavily, taking a drink of your energy drink before speaking almost yelling in between breaths

"I've spent *breath* these past two weeks *breath* making the perfect dish for you"

"...?"

You took a deep breath and calmed down, wiping sweat from your forehead and now being able to talk in full sentences

"You know how I've been taking cooking classes?"

Death nodded

"And how I've been feeding you food for these past days and asking what you thought of it?"

Another nod

"Well now I have done it! I have made the perfect dish according to your tastes, I took everything you told me you liked and made you the most perfect food possible"

"......I see, can I try it?"

"Obviously, if you couldn't then why would I have done it in the first place?"

Death was taken aback by your unusually aggressive tone

"Oh....You're right I apologize"

You sighed and took another sip of your energy drink

"No it's fine I'm sorry....I'm just.....it took me way too long to make this and now I'm sleep deprived, I'm not complaining mind you, I'm doing this because I love you it was just.... tiring, I hope you like it at least"

"I don't have a shadow of a doubt I will as they say"

Death grabbed the utensil and took a bite out of the dish you made and.....she gasped and her eyes widened it was genuinely the most surprise you had seen out of her in a long while

"So.....what do you think"

After she finished swallowed death started drooling, looking at the food. She ignored your question ans started scarfing down all of the food on her plate without thinking about etiquette or getting her clothes stained or anything else really

Once she finished eating in record time she placed the silverware down before grabbing a napkin you placed next to her, expecting this exact result

".......I.....assume you liked it?"

She finished wiping her mouth and looked at you with her usual emotional stare

"It was the best thing I have ever tasted in my immortal existence"

You sighed in relief, took another energizing sip, and bowed, death, slightly misunderstanding the gesture, started clapping......stopping when she heard a thud and saw you collapsing out of pure exhaustion

".......oh"

Death got up and started carrying you bridal style to bed, you stirred and woke up seeing her staring at you

"....death?"

"Please don't overwork yourself"

"...o-oh yeah sorry"

"It's alright, I just don't want you to be exhausted like this, if cooking that delicious meal causes you to end up like this everytime then I'm more than willing to never eat it again"

"N-no, it's not that. It's my fault. Really, I just worked too hard trying to make it perfect"

"Well it was perfect so at least you reached your results......however"

She lowered her head to kiss your forehead

"I truly dislike seeing you in this state, so remember to take breaks alright? Not even the greatest food in the world is worth seeing my boyfriend like this"

"......thank you"

"By the way how old are you?"

"Hm?"

"Since you're the death devil and all I was curious, I mean i always assumed you were pretty old every since you told me you were a devil but isn't death supposed to be like the oldest fear every living being has in common?"

The devil stopped eating and looked up for a second before her gaze came back to you

"May I tell you a story? It's about how and when I was born"

"Sure"

You sat on the pillow in front of the table and locked eyes with her as she cleared her throat ready to start speaking

"An immeasurable amount of time ago the first being that considered itself alive realized something.....one day it would no longer be, it would cease to exist like the leaves in trees that didn't exist yet, be forgotten by being whose idea wasn't even born yet only existing as an idea a concept of the first life in the world and nothing else......once it had that realization it started living differently, it took the smallest precautions, started taking less risks, whatever those may have been been, all because of one simple idea, a law of nature that every single living thing, human, plant, devil, animal follows with incredibly few exceptions......everyone wants to live as long as possible and die at the latest possible opportunity, some even do not want to die at all despite how impossible that is.....and the first living being followed that rule as well.......even the progenitor of everything around us....was scared of death and once it realized its own mortality....."

Death finally breathed, having not taken a breath during the entirety of her speech. She raised her eyes now, looking at you again with a gaze that made you freeze for no real reason

".....that's when I was born"

You know death didn't mean it but her sheer presence made it hard to breathe you only relaxed slightly once she finished the story because she had resumed eating

".................."

"I don't exactly remember when that was but if I had to take a guess I'd say i'm......around 810 billion years old"

"................really?"

"Approximately so"

".......i guess I'm into older women then"

Warning:this one is pretty suggestive and is probably the result of the many dirty thoughts I had about her. And also my writing sucks even more than usual cause again I don't know how to write smut oneshots

It all started when death came over to you and started kissing your face for no apparent reason, sure it was weird that she did it so out of nowhere but death was such a good kisser that you certainly didn't complain to receive more

Then the kissing moved to your lips, and you two engaged in a heated make-out session for a while. You saw death's face go red, which was unusual considering how muted her skin tone usually was, she was the pale rider after all. But what caused you to become even more surprised is that she quickly started straddling your hips and breathing in your ears

"......y/n.....what I'm feeling right now.....it's the first time I've ever felt anything like it, it's something more than normal love"

You blushed even more. Her closeness made it so you could feel all of her curves pressing against you and her hot whispers made you feel just as turned on as she was

"...d-death"

"Please y/n I want to make you happy in any possible way, please let me make you feel good"

She planted a bite on your neck, however it didn't hurt at all it felt more like another one of her amazing kisses, she continued leaving hickeys across your neck until she reached your lips pulling you into another passionate kiss.

When she pulled back, she looked at you again and then, without warning, started to remove her shirt. You blushed even more at that and looked away for a second but death grabbed you by the chin and turned your head to stare at her face

"Y/n....don't be shy, look at me, at my body, do I......look beautiful?"

Your blush deepened, but you did as said and started scanning her torso. She really did look stunning

"You look more than bea-......WHAT THE HELL IS THAT!?"

Death blinked looked at herself and then you before having a realization

"Oh have you never seen a woman naked before y/n? It's alright there's nothing to be embarrassed-"

"NO I MEAN WHY IS THERE A GIANT GASH ACROSS YOUR BODY!?"

She looked down again and emitted a sound of understanding while you continued staring at the giant cut that was present from below her chest all the way to above her crotch

"Did I never tell you about this?"

".....n-no you didn't what the hell even is that?"

"Some time ago, before I met you, I tried to remove all of my organs from my body to see if I could die......as you can see i was unsuccessful"

"................"

"Do not worry though, I have put all of my organs back in their original place.....I'm fairly certain of that at least, I'm not completely familiar with human anatomy and the internet can be unreliable at times so I can't guarantee everything is where it should be.....not that it matters anyway"

".......s-so you're just ok with living with that forever?"

"Why not? It doesn't hurt.......or does that make me less attractive in your eyes?"

For some reason she sounded more worried about the possibility of looking less attractive to you than the gash actually hurting or being an inconvenience

".......no it's fine, to be honest I should have expected something like this when I started dating a devil, you still look beautiful with it it's just......gonna take a while to get used to"

"I understand, I'm sorry for not telling you earlier"

"It's alright just......whenever we go to the beach or the pool....please wear a one piece swimsuit"

"Alright........could we resume what we were doing earlier?"

"........yes"

And with that she kissed you again and placed her on top of you making you fall on the couch and starting to take off your shirt while you were still making out

You don't know exactly why you agreed to go with her, maybe cause you were hungry too or just wanted to stay with her but probably it was because you really did love her so much but no matter the reason you are not sure if it was worth standing in a McDonald's parking lot at 3:54 AM with little to no sleep

Death had woken you up and demanded a midnight snack, the problem was that you had planned to go grocery shopping the next day so your fridge was rigorously empty of any edible things so the solution was obvious, drive to the closest fast food and grab some pick up

You rested your head on the wheel as you turned around and saw death getting into the car with two bags of food in her hands, she gave you one and placed the other on her lap

"Thank you again, I really needed this"

"Yeah alright whatever"

"I promise I'll make it up to you"

You sighed and grabbed one of the burgers from the bag as death did the same

"It's really fine, I don't mind.....just next time let's do this during the day"

Death nodded and took a bite out of her burger. You were about to do the same until you noticed something in your burger, causing you to sigh

"......dammit"

"Hm? Whats wrong?"

"No it's nothing, I just don't like pickles but they're still in the burger"

"........what?"

You turned to see death looking at the burger with what you assumed was indignation

"I specifically asked that yours should have had no pickles.......and they still didn't listen"

"....i-it's fine really, I wasn't hungry anyway"

"....I'll fix the issue"

"Wha-"

Before you could finish your sentence, death wasn't in the passenger seat anymore, you don't know if she teleported or was so fast that you genuinely didn't see her but you quickly ran out too and entered the restaurant to see her arguing with the overworked underpaid teenage girl at the register

"I don't see anything wrong with the burger"

"There are pickles"

"And?"

"My boyfriend doesn't like them"

"So what am I supposed to do about his baby palate"

Death narrowed her eyes at his comment but tried her best to maintain her composure

"I need a new burger"

"I am not making another burger at 4:00 am cause you ordered wrong, you're lucky I even made you the first one, you know I shouldn't even be here, my stupid boss-"

"I could not care less, I need a new burger and you are going to make it"

"And the hell would I do that?"

"Because I ordered one without pickles and you still added them, You made a mistake so now fix it, isn't that common human decency?"

"Fuck off weirdo, I'm not making your stupid boyfriend another burger just because he can't handle a little bit of pickles"

In that moment you knew the poor girl was fucked, as soon as she finished her sentence death grabbed her by her uniform making her look up at her while she was glaring at the girl with her piercing eyes

"Apologize to y/n"

"W-wha-"

"I don't care if you called me weird or whatever, what I care about is you insulting my boyfriend because of his tastes, apologize and make him a new burger, do you understand?"

"...........i-i-"

"Do you understand?"

"I-i'm sorry"

Death let go of the girl's uniform as she started running to the back to make the food while you approve your girlfriend sweat dripping down your face

"And give us free fries"

"Y-yes ma'am"

"........did you seriously just scare to death a teenage girl cause she put pickles on my burger?"

"No......I did that because she disrespected you"

"...I.....I see"

"Don't worry I'll give her a tip later for the good service"

[thistle-wrote]

Husbands

cw: established poly relationship, anal, vaginal sex. Authors note: for the first time in my life, I get to give one of those ridiculous notes to preface my fic. as I was writing this my house was swarmed with BEES so I'm sorry if it's bad lmfao. John Price X Simon Ghost Riley X Reader.

“John?” John glanced over at you, his focus mostly on the newspaper in his hand.

“Yes, princess?” 

“Love, why is Simon in the guest bed?” You question him, you weren’t upset by any means, truth be told you love it when Simon comes over, even more when he stays for a while it’s just when John crawled into your bed last night he hadn’t mentioned Simon was with him.

“Probably because he’s tired.” John said not looking up from the paper, it was the kind of plain, dry statement you usually got from your otherwise adoring husband. You met his gaze with a rather unamused expression, a silent demand for an actual answer.

“Needed some love from baby girl, that's all, we had a rough go round this time.” He states, leaning back farther into his recliner. You watch him as he gives a slight wince at the pain in his side. You hate that. John was clearly feeling as though that statement was enough of an explanation, and for the most part, it was.

You understood little of your husband’s job beyond the simple and watered down explanations he gives when he comes back from missions, still, you understood enough to know they needed extra love and care for a while afterwards, Simon is no different except for the fact he’s easier to deal with.

You make your way down the hallway, feeling the soft new carpet that you begged John for beneath your feet, muffling your steps. You open the door to the guest bedroom to find Simon sprawled out on the small bed.

“Si?”  You cautiously speak, you know for a fact he is not sleeping, the man rarely sleeps as is but definitely not in a bed two sizes too small and especially not after going through God knows what.

“Honey.” You probe again, walking now fully into the room and sitting down on the white crinkly duvet next to where he’s lying. His eyes are open but still, you get no response, you look him over noticing the new cut on his cheek, the facial hair he hasn’t bothered to shave yet, the bags under his eyes, the way his blonde hair sticks up in every direction from tossing and turning all night.

You never have loved the way he looks after a mission, always worse off than John, you know that John just hides it better but you worry for them both.

“Gotta tell me what you need, baby boy.” You mutter trying not to let the worry in your face show while brushing your fingers along the curve of his cheek, feeling the rough stubble that he will no doubt shave within a few days. He looks up at you, for a brief moment you can see the relaxed expression, like for a second he forgot about everything, everything but you. 

“I’m hungry.” A soft smile finds its way to your face. You lean down to place a soft kiss to his chapped lips.

“I’ll make you something.” 

As you cook you think of Simon, of John, you think of how lucky you are to not only have an amazing husband but to have the man in your guest bedroom. John doesn’t say it enough and Simon won’t ever admit it but the three of you have found a rhythm, this is Simon’s home as much as it was yours and John’s. It’s better when he’s home.

“Cookin’?” John asks after a few minutes, walking halfway into the kitchen and leaning onto the door frame.

“Yes.” You respond softly looking up with a smile, where John and Simon differ is mostly in the way that they treat you, neither one bad or wrong but different. John saw you, his little wife, as some sort of angel; he’s told you as much. He never asks or demands anything of you. You don’t work; you only cook or clean out of your own volition. To him, you’re more of a precious artifact that can’t be tampered with.

Simon is different, he’s a little more closed off, so you need a more aggressive approach, he’s learned over the years that your demands for him to tell exactly what he wants will be met with not hostility, but a soft hand and a loving voice, doing for him exactly what he needs. You’re sure that John wanted breakfast just as much as Simon did, but John would never ask for it.

As you cook, John remains in the kitchen, not speaking, but there’s a quiet understanding between the two of you, it’s comfortable, loving, and warm despite John’s current condition he wants to be in your presence.

After a long stretch of comfortable silence, you speak again. “Simon looks like he hasn’t slept in a week.” You mutter. You know that despite him not always behaving like he does, John cares as much for Simon as you do. Simon and John have a relationship that is difficult to explain, not only in how John allows him into both your home and marital bed. But also, how John relies on Simon to take care of you when he can’t, to meet you at the petrol station to fill your tank when he’s closer, to call and check on you when his phone dies. John expects Simon to have the same kind of care for you as he does.

“He hasn’t.” John’s simple statement makes you stand on edge a little, you love Simon, John knows that. You know when they are gone doing things that they won’t explain to you, Simon has John to look out for him, but they are men. A pat on the back from John does not have the same effect that a tender embrace or a home cooked meal does.

Once the simple meal of toast, eggs, and sausage was cooked, you made John a plate, sitting in front of him with a small clink of ceramic against the granite island. He smiled, a wordless “thank you.“ as you made Simon a plate carrying it with you to the guest bedroom.

You didn’t bother with a knock when you entered the bedroom. You set the plate on the nightstand, then sat in the same spot you had previously.

“Sit up, love.” It’s a demand, a loving demand, but a demand, nonetheless. He does as requested.  You never wish for Simon to be wearing a shirt, but at this moment, seeing the bruise along his torso and the bandage on his arm, makes you almost wish he were wearing one. Your incessant need to mother your men at war with your desire to focus only on what you could control; you could control breakfast.

“Here.” You hum, placing the plate on his lap. His tired eyes find yours. As Simon eats, you don’t move, you just chatter, talking to him, as though he were responding you watch his silent nods as he shovels food into his mouth as if he would never get to eat again.  As Simon finished his plate you began to pick it up, taking it to clean when you felt a big rough hand wrap around your wrist.

“Don’t go.” His deep voice echoed through the room, not loud, or demanding but a clear plea. You nodded, understanding what he needed in that moment was not breakfast in bed or space but rather just your presence. 

You move over the bed, making a mental note to buy him a bigger bed for the guest bedroom since he’s the only one who stays in it. You cautiously curl up into his side, pushing your legs beneath the covers to intertwine them with his own. Simon wrapped his arms around you and sighed deeply.

It was a satisfied sigh. You let the large man manhandle you, allowing him to pull you where he sees fit with your head now resting against the inside of his shoulder and your fingers grazing along his tummy. He speaks finally for the first time without you prompting him to do so. “Missed you.” It’s quiet like a confession he doesn’t feel he’s allowed to make.

“I missed you too, baby.”  You don’t hold the same reservation about voicing your adoration for the man curled up next to you. A soft kiss grazed your lips as he pulled you further into his chest.

“Love you.” he murmured against your lips, your want to say it back was stopped by his mouth, continuing to move against yours, holding your arm, as if he feared you trying to pull away. Things with Simon have always been silent, actions rather than words. While he is silent, you are fully aware he is asking for something in the way his hands wandered from your arm to the small of your back, to your ass. 

A desperation to be close, close where your bodies can meld together. When his lips moved from yours to your neck you let out an involuntary little whine. His soft, loving kisses, turned into something more, an outlet.

“Si.” You whine out. He, despite being tired and drained from the past month, let out a laugh and an almost condescending chuckle, sure the sweet boy had been waiting for soft kisses and breakfast in bed, getting to cuddle with the captain’s missus but he was hungry and not for food.

You let out a little gasp when his hand slipped down the front of your leggings. “Si.” You repeated it again this time, breathless, longing.  He let out a groan when his fingers swept between your folds.

“There’s my girl.”  He said, his fingers gliding along your slick sex. You had no words left, no protests either. Already the world around you grew hazy, and before you knew what happened, your T-shirt and leggings were in a heap on the floor.

Simon took his time watching, touching, kissing. He drew orgasm after orgasm from your body with just the deep plunge of his fingers.

“Well, that’s a pretty sight.”  A deep voice hummed from the doorway. Normally, you would acknowledge the presence of your husband but the way your lover was working his fingers into you could make even the smartest of women feel dumb.

Simon didn’t respond, just glanced over through his dilated pupils, merely continuing as John crossed the bedroom sitting down on the duvet.  For a moment you thought he would just watch His lieutenant pull sweat noises from your lips, but you believed you may have seen God when his thumb made contact with your clit.

“Give us another, pretty girl.”  You weren’t sure in that moment exactly who the words came from; you were unable to respond. All you knew was that the words were being spoken to you. 

And you did, not that you could help it. It was almost instantaneous, the way your body tensed before releasing. You drenched Simon’s torso, you didn’t even realize what you’d done at first, you squirt so rarely.  Once their hands came to a halt, you blinked you opened your eyes. Embarrassment worked its way onto your already pink cheeks.

“I’m s…” Your apologies were instantly cut off. “Shut up.” The words weren’t mean despite the quickness and aggression in them. It wasn’t mean, it was desperate. Shirts were ripped off, pants unzipped. While you lay there heaving and trying to come down from your high.

There was zero protest from you when you were lifted from your spot on the bed. You were pulled to lay on top of Simon‘s chest. Even in your limp and already fucked out state, you had half of mind to protest simply because of his bruise. The words died in your throat though, as your husband knelt in front of you.

“Be good okay, Pretty?” John said, positioning your legs, pushing your knees against your shoulders as Simon held the underneath of your thighs. You nodded, both men seemingly took that as their go ahead.

Simon pushed himself into you, a sensation you had gotten used to throughout the years. He was big, but he likes your ass, so it’s not an abnormal feeling either. You whine and wiggle a little at first, but as he settles, your body got used to the stretch, as you tipped your head back John too, began nudging your wet hole with the reddened, hard tip of his cock.

John, however, did not give you the same consideration as Simon, there was no time to get used to the stretch. He plunged himself to the hilt, touching your cervix. In an instant it was as if everyone let out a sigh of relief, like this, despite the responsibilities and lives of every person, was exactly where they were all meant to be.

Both of your men began moving, each at their own pace. Each grunting and groaning. You don’t believe in heaven, it has always seemed an abstract concept. But this? This has to be it.

As they both rutted into you, you whined. “Don’t start crying on me now, princess.” John’s deep voice commanded. You obey as best you can. Simon squeezes on your thigh as he continues his relentless pace. The huffing and gripping onto his arms is all you can do to keep from screaming in pleasure.

They each continue with rapidly increasing speeds, speaking filthy things to you as they near their individual climaxes. “Milkin’ me fokin’ dry.”  The first words from Simon’s mouth in a while, an indication of just how close he was. 

John was not far off, his breathing was rapid, his grip on your knees nearing on painful. His strokes got harder, rougher. Then all at once you could feel him snap, you could feel the warmth of him spilling into you. His pace slowed as he rode out his orgasm.

Simon did not stop. Soon his pace too slowed as he filled you up with him. 

You all lay there for a moment, no one speaking. Just breathing in the comfortable, love filled space. You always know exactly what to do to give them the little TLC they need.

CoD Masterlist

[augustwinesworld]

𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬—𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

What if your eyes looked up and met mine one more time?

description: 

pairing: dr. michael robinavitch x  female ob/gyn attending! reader

genre: hidden pregnancy…maybe? smut.

warning: explicit smut (p in v), oral (f! receiving), DRY HUMPING (sooo hot), unprotected sex (never do this in real life, ever—couldn’t help myself lmao), age gap relationship (present time! robby late 40s, reader mid 30s—flashback! robby late 30s, reader mid 20s), problematic power dynamics (in the flashback reader is an intern, robby is a junior attending), inappropriate use of hospital property (?), female reader.

notes: idk what happened. this wasn’t in my outline. I started fleshing out the chapter and BOOM, the smut just appeared. Also, I am so sorry to any filipino people reading this, if I butchered the tagalog please lmk. THIS WAS NOT BETA READ.

word count: 10.3 k.

extra: moodboard | playlist | ☆:**:. 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐞 .:**:.☆ (ko-fi)

Feel free to #𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 (◕‿◕✿) *:･ﾟ✧ if you have any scenarios in mind! I might not write everything but I’ll respond to everyone.

series masterlist: 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬

12 years ago...

The vibe was off.

It wasn’t the usual exhaustion from a tough shift or hospital malaise—it was sharper. The kind of wrong you could taste in the back of your throat.

Robby could feel it the second he stepped onto the floor. 

Felt it when his gaze skimmed across the nurses’ station, caught your pink-scrubbed form bent over a chart—and you didn’t look up.

Didn’t flash him the usual quick smile. Didn’t so much as acknowledge him.

Good, he thought viciously. Better that way.

He knew he was being short—clipped orders, tight jaw, no eye contact—but he couldn’t seem to stop it. It was either that or let something uglier bleed through.

You weren’t any better.

You charted like the pen was a weapon, avoided him like a live wire. No smart remarks, no quick glances. Just silence and a careful, perfectly crafted space between them.

Which made it worse. Somehow. 

He stayed terse, barking out orders with a little more edge than necessary.

You stayed busy, answering questions without once meeting his eyes.

They orbited each other in a strange, broken rhythm—like magnets flipped the wrong way, close enough to feel the pull but fighting it every step of the way.

When the call came over the PA—Trauma incoming. OB consult needed. ETA four minutes—he felt it like a crack down his spine. 

Of course.

Of course it had to be you on consult rotation today. Of course it had to be on his case.

He reached the trauma bay first, pulling on gloves with brisk, jerky motions. You arrived seconds later, steps light but purposeful, pink sneakers squeaking faintly against the tile.

You caught sight of him and flinched so subtly most people would’ve missed it.

He didn’t.

 You hovered at the door like you considered staying back. 

But then you squared your shoulders, locked it all away behind that bright, professional mask he hated so much, and stepped in beside him.

A nurse at the desk, watching them assemble, snickered under her breath, teasing, “uh oh. Dream team’s back together.”

There was a ripple of laughter from behind the desk—not cruel, exactly, but knowing. Like the whole fucking hospital had gotten a whiff of whatever was simmering between them lately.

Robby forced a half-smirk, the kind he used to disarm patients’ families in bad news consults. 

“All part of the service,” he said dryly, snapping on a pair of gloves. “Premium package: expertise and entertainment.”

It got the intended effect—a few more chuckles, a little of the tension bleeding off the room.

But when he glanced sideways, you were already moving toward the gurney bay, chart in hand, shoulder brushing past him.

Over your shoulder, syrup-sweet, you chirped, "Just smile and nod—it’s easier that way.” 

The nurses chuckled, thinking you were just poking fun at yourself.

Someone called after you, “Ain’t that the truth!”

“Lucky you. You get to watch us work our effortless magic."

The nurses cracked up, tossing you good-natured jabs. But Robby felt the gut punch underneath it.

Effortless.

Right. 

The bitterness laced through honey.

But he caught the way your fingers tightened around the edges of the chart you held. Caught the way you shifted a fraction farther from him—no closer than you absolutely had to be, not even to grab a sterile gown.

He almost said something.

Almost reached for you.

Instead, he turned toward the incoming gurney and bit down hard on whatever reckless thing was clawing up his throat.

When they reached the trauma bay, the patient was already there—a woman in her late twenties, panting through a contraction, one hand braced under her swollen belly, eyes wide and terrified.

"Name's Emily," the nurse called quickly. "Third baby. History of a ventricular septal defect follow-up, but no set delivery plan. Presented in active labor about an hour ago. No prenatal records on file yet. No beds upstairs, so she’s ours for now."

"Vitals?" He asked, already snapping on gloves.

"Stable for now. Cervix was seven on arrival. Labor’s progressing fast."

He flicked a glance toward you, and caught the tight nod you gave, all business. 

Still so damn new, scrubs just slightly too crisp, name badge gleaming, but already standing your ground like you’d been born for this.

No panic. No dramatics. Just pure focus.

"We’ll need NICU on standby when the baby’s out," you said, voice steady. "And page Cardiology for a newborn ECHO, stat."

"On it," a nurse answered, jogging off.

Meanwhile, you stepped closer to the bed, voice softening as you addressed the laboring woman directly.

"Emily, you’re doing great," you said, one gloved hand resting lightly against the patient's shaking thigh. "I know it hurts, but you're not alone, okay? We’re right here with you. We’re gonna take care of both of you."

"My husband—" Emily gasped between breaths. "Where's—"

One of the nurses answered quickly, squeezing her shoulder. "He's on his way, sweetheart. There was a pileup on the bridge—traffic’s slow, but he’s coming."

Emily nodded shakily, biting down on a cry as another contraction tore through her.

The intern immediately stepped in, resting a reassuring hand on Emily’s arm. "You're doing so good, Emily. Breathe with me."

You turned to a nearby nurse. "Page Dr. Levin. Let them know labor's progressing quickly."

The nurse nodded and hustled away. 

Robby hovered close, not interfering, just...watching. Ready. His hands itched to help, but he knew better. This was her case to lead. And hell, if he wasn’t a little awed.

When the nurse returned, slightly breathless, she reported, "Dr. Levin's tied up with another delivery. They said you're clear to manage—hold steady."

For half a heartbeat, something flickered across your face—the barest tremor of uncertainty.

He saw it. Of course he did.

But then you lifted your chin, took a deep breath, and turned back to Emily with firm hands and a gentler voice.

"Okay, Emily. Looks like I'm here with you for now. You're not alone. We're right here."

Emily’s eyes—wild with fear—locked onto yours. "Is my baby okay?"

"She's strong," the intern said firmly. "She's a fighter, just like you."

Emily squeezed her hand—a desperate, sweaty grip—and nodded, teeth clenched against the next contraction.

There it was. That thing you had. That quiet, steel-threaded kindness no textbook could teach. You just had it, in every fiber of your being.

The next hour blurred.

Emily’s labor accelerated at a breathtaking pace. There was barely enough time to pull together a sterile field. Barely enough time for you to snap on gloves and don a gown before the baby crowned.

"Almost there, Emily," you murmured, voice low and encouraging. "You’re doing beautifully. Just breathe."

The patient whimpered through another contraction.

"It hurts," she gasped, panicked.

"I know," you said—gentle, but firm. "It means you’re close. When you feel the next urge, I want you to push right through it. You can do this. We’ve got you."

Robby was there at her shoulder, mirroring her calm, matching her rhythm. He coached the patient through each final push while you supported Emily with both words and hands, working seamlessly together.

You moved in perfect tandem without needing a single word.

"Big breath, Emily—now!"

The baby slid free, slick and furious, and Robby caught her deftly, heart thudding—clamping and cutting the cord.

"Female, vigorous, crying," he called out.

"Taking her for ECHO! Mom informed!" a NICU nurse shouted, rushing the newborn away, tiny fists punching the air.

Emily sobbed, half in relief, half in terror.

"They’re checking her heart," you reassured, leaning close. "That's all. She's strong."

One last glimpse of tiny fists and furious wails—then gone.

Emily clutched at her gown with a trembling hand. "My husband—"

"Still on his way," Robby said quietly from her side. "He knows you're both okay. He’s getting here as fast as he can."

Emily squeezed her eyes shut, another broken little sob escaping, but she nodded, trusting them because she had no choice. Collapsing back onto the bed, half-sobbing, half-laughing.

Robby exhaled slowly, swiping a forearm across his forehead as he watched you work. Gentle hands palpating the uterus, checking for bleeding, even whispering reassurances too low for him to catch. 

Emily cracked a watery smile at them. 

And he saw it hit. The way you blinked hard, throat working around whatever emotion you were swallowing down. 

God, you cared. You cared so much it made him ache. 

He turned to find you stripping off your gloves.

"You good?" 

You didn’t even look up.

"Fine," you said, too quickly. Your brows furrowed briefly—just a flicker—as your hands moved lower, more deliberate now.

"Uterus firm?" he asked under his breath.

"Borderline," you murmured, careful to keep your tone light, soothing the patient with your free hand. "Placenta delivered intact. No tears. Mild vaginal bleeding—expected. Nothing alarming, yet."

Before he could say anything else—before he could betray how hard he was trying not to reach for you—the charge nurse leaned in.

"Still no beds upstairs," she said. "Mother's stable. She can stay put for now."

He nodded. You nodded.

And just like that, the moment disappeared—tucked away like something too dangerous to look at directly.

You turned back to work. 

The current pulling you both under, once again.

It wasn’t until nearly an hour later—after two more traumas and a screaming match in a back hallway neither of you would even remember the details of—that the call came.

"Your patient, Emily" a nurse said, tugging at her sleeve. "She says something hurts. Down there."

Your forehead furrowed. Instinct snapped into place.

"Vitals?" you asked sharply.

"Stable for now. She's pale, though." 

Without thinking, you gestured for Robby to follow—habit, muscle memory—but he hesitated. Watched you.

Still, he stepped in behind you.

When they got to the room, Emily’s husband was already there, sitting at her bedside, hunched over her hand like it was a lifeline. He looked like he was about to cry. 

“She said it hurts," he said immediately, desperate. "She said it feels wrong—please, can you—?"

“We’ll take care of her," you said, already pulling on gloves.

At Emily’s bedside, it took seconds to see it: a deep, dark bulge along the right labia, swollen and angry under the skin.

You pressed gently. Emily cried out.

"Hematoma," you muttered.

"Expanding," Robby confirmed, grim.

Your eyes met, just for a moment, over the patient’s trembling body. 

Then you moved. Hands colliding, breath held, adrenaline buzzing through every shouted word.

"Type and cross two units. I want blood at bedside!" Robby snapped.

"Two large-bore IVs, wide open," you called to the nurse. "Start fluids—ringers, fast."

"Ready the sterile tray. Lidocaine. Scalpel. Suction!"

The portable scanner whined to life as they prepped the site. One nurse darted in with meds, another with a sealed tray.

"Ready?" he said.

"Ready."

The blade kissed skin, and a flood of blood spilled out, hot and dark and wrong. Way too much blood, too fast. Way deeper than a simple hematoma.

The suction whirred to life as they worked, fighting to keep up with the flood of blood. 

But your gut twisted. Something was off.

“Emily,” you said, clamly, “I know it hurts, but stay with us, okay? Just breathe. You’re safe.”

Emily let out a broken moan, almost animal. Suddenly her blood pressure monitor started to shriek.

"Ultrasound, now," you snapped.

The tech swung the wand over Emily’s belly—and there it was: fluid pooling deep in the abdomen. Liver involvement. Bleeding into the cavity.

Recognition hit like a gut punch.

“Fuck. It’s not just the hematoma. It’s systemic.”

"HELLP?" Robby asked tightly.

"Or DIC, probably both," you answered, voice flat. "Page Dr. Levin—911."

No simple fix. No easy out. A fucking bloodbath.

One of the nurses bolted from the room.

“Pressure's tanking,” a nurse called. “Sats dropping!”

“Keep packing! Give a bolus now—what’s the status on the blood?”

“Almost here!”

“We need to move now,” you said under your breath, voice slicing through the rising disarray.

“I’m aware,” Robby snapped, harsher than intended.

You recoiled, just for a second, then planted your feet and met his eyes again.

Emily cried out, this time weaker.

"Prep for surgery!" He barked.

Gloves snapped on. Tray rattled. He grabbed a line. You grabbed suction. You complemented each other seamlessly. The fucking dream team.

Everything was chaos. 

Gurneys squealed. Monitors howled. Gloves snapped on in a dozen frantic beats.

Dr. Levin stormed through the door, barking orders—body already covered in a half-tied surgical gown.

"Vitals?" she demanded. "Blood loss? Labs? Is the OR ready?"

Robby stepped back instinctively, clearing the way. He was there to help if it were needed, but he knew it wasn’t his fight anymore.

He caught a glimpse of you across the chaos—bloodied, but still beautiful—as you followed your attendings' lead, and it kicked something vicious inside him.

Dr. Levin snapped a glance toward you. "You scrub or you step out," she said, curt but not cruel, simply expecting a quick answer. 

But he saw you hesitate—just for a second. 

You turned and saw him. The husband. Still there. Still clinging to the bedside, white-knuckled and weeping quietly now, his hand shaking as he tried to hold onto Emily’s fingers through all the tubes and wires.

In that instant, your mind was made up.

"I’ll stay with him," you said, quiet but certain.

The words knocked the breath out of him, almost leaving him stupid.

Without another word, you peeled off her bloody gloves, yanked on clean ones, and crossed to the husband. Soft hands guiding him out of the blast zone.

Robby stayed where he was, frozen. Watching and wanting. 

He had no right to feel this. No excuse. And still—it was there, scorching him from the inside out.

The husband crumpled halfway into the hallway, sliding down the wall, burying his face in his hands. You went with him, unflinching. Dropped into a crouch beside him, your hand bracing lightly between his shoulder blades, anchoring him when the rest of the world was spinning out.

You murmured something, words Robby couldn’t catch over the shriek of monitors and boots pounding past. 

But he knew the cadence. Knew the shape of it.

You were praying with him.

Not loudly, or taking the lead. Just quietly, like it was the only thing you had left to offer. The only thing that mattered.

God, it wrecked him.

Don't do this, he thought. Don't you dare go to her. Don't you dare make this worse.

But he was already drifting—helplessly, blindly—toward you like a man leaning into a fire without noticing the heat until it was too late.

You shouldn't be able to gut him like this. Not yet. Not like this.

But you did.

He turned toward the door without waiting for orders. Not because he wanted to leave. But because if he stayed another second, he was going to lose the last thread of control he had left.

Because some reckless, broken part of him already knew: you didn’t even have to touch him to own him.

You already did.

He stayed longer than he should have. Long after the OB team left the ER. Long after the adrenaline bled out of the room, leaving only the wreckage behind.

He found himself leaning against the wall across from the trauma bay, pretending to review his chart, pretending not to watch you.

You were still sitting with the husband. No gloves now, no sterile gown, just you and your pink scrubs. He could see your face was calm, but your voice was still too soft to hear from where he stood.

Then a nurse approached, murmuring something in your ear.

Robby’s gut twisted before he even heard the words. He could see it in the nurse's face, in the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

The patient hadn't made it.

He watched—couldn't not watch—as you rose to your feet, moving carefully toward the husband.

Watched the way your hands hovered for a second, wanting to reach for him, not sure if you should.

Watched the moment the words hit.

The husband reeled back from her like you'd slapped him. A choked, animalistic sound tore out of him, and for a second Robby thought he might hit you. 

He moved instantly, stepping forward, already halfway between you. He was ready to use himself as a barrier—no hesitation, no second thought. But the man didn’t strike.

He didn't. He just broke. Collapsed into your arms like a man whose world had ended—because for him it had.

You held him without flinching. Held him like you’d been built for this, for carrying other people's grief when it got too heavy for them to bear alone.

Robby’s throat burned.

He turned his head, couldn't look anymore.

By the time he looked back, the damage was done. The husband was crumpled on the floor, sobbing. And you sat with him—shoulder to shoulder—saying nothing.

After a while, someone from NICU came and talked to the husband. Something about the baby. 

A chance to go meet his daughter. A chance at something salvageable.

The husband staggered away, still weeping.

And finally, finally, you were alone.

You sat there for a moment longer, head bowed, hands limp in your lap. Then you stood, moving like someone twice your age, and started toward the back hallway.

Robby followed without thinking.

"Hey," he called after you, low.

You didn’t stop.

He caught up easily, staying at your shoulder.

"You did good," he said, rough. "You stayed."

Nothing. Not a glance. Not a breath.

You barged into an empty on-call room without slowing. He followed.

"You could’ve scrubbed in," he said, almost defensive now. "That was a big case. A huge learning opportunity. You let it go."

You stripped off her bloody scrub top and threw it into the bin with a vicious flick. The sound of it hitting the mattress was louder than it should’ve been. 

He edged closer.

"It was...decent," he fumbled, hating himself for not being able to say what he meant without faltering. "Uhh—selfless. You did the right thing."

Still nothing. An awful fucking silence.

Something in him twisted sharp and stupid. "You should be more careful about getting attached," he said before he could stop himself. 

God why the fuck did he say that? How is that the only thing that came to mind? What a fucking idiot. 

Now that made her come back. You turned slowly and leveled him with a look so furious it made his mouth go dry.

He’d never seen her so angry. Furious, yes. But something deeper too. Something that had his gut clenching before you even opened your mouth.

"That's rich," you said, voice shaking with rage. "Coming from you."

He opened his mouth—tried to speak even. 

Too slow.

"You think this is about getting attached?" you asked, stalking toward him. "You think I stayed because I’m green? Because I don’t know any better?"

He took a step back, but you followed, relentless.

"Maybe because I’m soft? A little bit stupid?"

He shook his head, but it didn’t matter.

"No, Robby. I stayed because someone fucking had to," you hissed. He swallowed hard, jaw flexing.

"You think I don’t know what’s going on?" you said, voice raw now. "You think I don’t feel it too?"

You jabbed a finger into his chest, not hard, but enough to make him flinch. "You think I don’t know what this job costs? You think I don’t know exactly what this does to us?" Your voice was going hoarse now, brittle from all the things you hadn’t said for weeks. “What it does to you?”

"You’re not the only one scared, Robby. You’re not the only one who knows this is dangerous. I get it." Her voice cracked, fury burning through it. "But you don't get to use that as an excuse to punish me for something we both feel."

He swallowed hard and opened his mouth, but you cut him off—you weren’t done.

“You kissed me. And then you disappeared. For whole goddamn week. Not a fucking word.”

Your eyes were wild, glassy. “You think I didn’t notice? You think I didn’t feel it too?”

You stepped in, close enough that he could smell blood mixed in with whatever coconut-vanilla soap you’d used that morning.

"You act like we’re fine one second and then you treat me like a fucking stranger the next. You pretend none of it’s happening—and when it does, you shove it all onto me like it’s my fault."

You took a shaking breath, close enough now that he could feel the heat rolling off you.

"I see it in your face," you whispered, furious and gutted all at once. "You don’t look at me unless I’m fucking up. You don’t talk to me unless you’re trying not to want me."

He said your name, wrecked, a broken apology without words. 

You flinched like it physically hurt to hear it. 

"Don’t," you said. "Don’t you dare say my name like that."

And for a second, just a second, you stood there, breathing hard. Rage and things said undone, bubbling between them.

He reached for you without meaning to. You didn’t stop him. 

When your bodies crashed together, it wasn’t soft. It was rough, and messy, and inevitable, and everything you’d been avoiding. 

His hands landed on your waist like he'd needed something to hold on to—like you were the only solid thing left in a world he no longer trusted. You grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, hauled him closer with a force that was almost violent. 

He was fucked. 

You were fucked. 

You were both fucked. 

Everything you’d buried under sharp words and longing glances and the unbearable weight of being near each other for so long without touching.

A mix of harsh breaths, spit, heat. Your nails scraped down his arms. His hand found the back of your neck, pulling your mouth harder and harder against his like he could climb inside you and disappear.

God, you were warm. Warm and trembling and there, finally there.

He broke the kiss just long enough to look at you—lips swollen, eyes glassy, breathing uneven like you’d run miles just to get to this moment.

“I hate you,” you whispered, voice cracking once again.

“I know,” he said. It tore him open.

You grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked him back in.

Your bodies locked like puzzle pieces that never should’ve fit, but somehow did. You pushed him until his back hit the door and then kissed him again, deeper, slower now, like you needed to make sure this wasn’t a dream. 

He let you take control for a second, hands hovering at your waist, not sure where to touch, afraid of pushing too far. Thinking that maybe he didn’t deserve to. 

But sensing his hesitation, you took his hand and placed it flat over your heart.

“Feel that?” you asked.

His fingers curled instinctively, as if to shield it.

“I feel it,” he whispered. “I feel all of it.”

And maybe it was the sincerity in his voice, or the way his eyes looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that had ever made sense—but something shifted.

His fingers skimmed the curve of your jaw, then lower—groping at your thighs as he lifted you, effortless, like he'd done it so a hundred times in a hundred other lives. You gasped into his mouth but didn't pull away. 

Your legs tightened instinctively around his waist, the heat between you sparking sharp and immediate. 

He didn’t break the kiss as he carried you to the cot, lowering you onto it with aching care. Your spine hit the mattress, and your breath caught, but he was already there again, bracing above you, forehead still brushing yours, waiting. 

Always waiting—for you.

You breathed like that for a beat, into each other’s mouths. You clutched at his waist, your anger still burning low in your gut, but your mouth was soft now when it met his again.

His hands came up to your face, tentative. Fingers stroking the wet curve of your jaw, tracing the outline of your cheekbone, brushing damp hair back from your forehead. He kissed you like you were breakable. Like you’d splinter if he pushed too hard.

But you were breaking already.

Leaving your mouth, his lips kissed your wet cheeks. Trailing down to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat. One kiss at a time. Slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing you.

Your fingers curled into the hem of his shirt and slowly pulled it up. He let you. Raised his arms. Let you see him. Not just the body, but him. The man you’d seen come apart over the course of a hundred sleepless shifts, who’d touched you once and vanished into the walls after. The man who looked at you now like he was terrified and in love and trying not to drown.

His hands found you again, sliding under your soaked top, touching skin like it was a secret. You shivered at the contact, the warmth of his palms.

“Say stop,” he whispered.

But you didn’t. You didn’t even hesitate.

Instead, you leaned into his touch like it was the first real thing you’d felt in weeks.

He smiled—barely, just a flicker—and it broke you a little more. Because underneath everything, the storm of them, he was still gentle. Still him.

“I’m scared,” you admitted against his neck.

His arms came around you fully now, pressing you to his chest. “Me too.”

And that truth, soft and wrecked and shared between them, was what made this real.

You pulled back just far enough to cup his face in both hands. Her thumbs brushed the edge of his cheekbones. Her eyes searched his—like you were daring yourself to believe him.

This wasn’t just lust.

This was every moment you hadn’t touched.

Every glance across the trauma bay. Every almost. Every held breath. Every second of wanting that had turned into hurt.

It spilled over now, like it couldn’t be contained.

He kissed you again, slow, like a vow. His hands cradled your hips, not to take, not yet—but just to hold. Just to be close.

When you rested your forehead to his, you were trembling.

“Don’t let go,” you said.

He didn’t answer. Just kissed you once more, softer than any kiss that came before it.

He’d never let go.

His palms skimmed your waist, memorizing the soft give of your body. The subtle rise and fall of your breath. His thumbs circled the skin just beneath your ribs—bare now, exposed by the thin hem of your top riding up.

Your pulse beat fast at your throat. He kissed it. Then lower.

You shivered.

You wouldn’t meet his eyes, but you didn’t pull away. Not even when his hands slid under your top and flattened against your back, not even when his mouth brushed the hinge of your jaw.

“Hey,” he whispered. His voice had gone gravel-soft. “Look at me.”

You did. Slowly. Like it cost you something. So he kissed you again, slower, so he wouldn’t have to face the hurt gazing back. 

Like he meant to prove something.

You let him undress you like you were giving permission for something you didn’t quite understand. He stripped your slowly, like the unraveling of a secret. Your top first. Then the bra beneath it. 

His fingers trembled as he touched you, like the mere touch of him would corrupt you.

When you tried to cover yourself with your hands, he caught your wrists gently.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said. “Please”.

So you let him. You let him see you. All of you.

And Robby just—stared.

You were completly undone, mouth kiss-bruised, your chest rising fast, like you hadn’t taken a full breath in weeks. Your skin was balmy, a little salty with sweat. You were trembling. But you didn’t hide. Not from him.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, reverent. Like he wasn’t sure if he was swearing or praying. “You’re—” 

But no words came to mind. Instead, he just dropped to his knees. 

You gasped. One hand flew to his shoulder like you needed to steady yourself, like the sight of him there—kneeling, breath heavy, lips parted—was almost too much.

His mouth went directly to that sweet spot, where he could feel your pulse racing. He sucked gently, feeling the thrum of your heartbeat echo against his lips. 

The scent of your bodywash—sweet and golden—rose up around him like steam. 

It clouded his senses, made his head spin. He felt drunk on it, on you, on the fact that this was real. That you were letting him close. That he had your skin under his mouth and your hands in his hair had your breath catching just for him. 

God.

He blinked—like he had to make sure this was real, like he didn’t trust what his eyes were seeing.

What had he done to deserve this? to deserve her? 

He cupped one breast gently, reverently, and kissed the curve with a kind of aching awe. Your skin was hot here—almost scorching to the touch, like the heat was rising from somewhere deep inside you. 

His fingers traced delicate paths along your ribs, brushing the swell of your breast, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps that bloomed under his touch. He could feel the hitch in your breath, and even the way your body leaned into his hands like it had been waiting for this

“Fuck,” he murmured, voice thick. “You’re so beautiful.”

He circled her nipple with his thumb, slow and lazy, watching it tighten under his touch. Then he bent to take it into his mouth, sucking softly, then deeper. You gasped—high-pitched and raw—and grabbed fistfuls of his hair like you’d needed something to anchor you.

“Robby—”

He groaned at the sound of his name. God, that did something to him. Something deep and helpless and animalistic.

He switched breasts. Licked the sensitive skin before drawing it into his mouth. Your back arched against the thin mattress, hips shifting restlessly beneath him, like your body couldn’t decide whether to rise into him or melt into the sheets.

“You okay?” he murmured against her skin, still panting. “I can stop. Say the word and I’ll stop.”

“No,” You breathed. “Don’t stop.”

And thank fuck, because he couldn’t have even if he tried.

He dropped back to his knees, hands sliding up your thighs until they met the waistband of your scrubs. He looked up.

“Can I?”

You didn’t speak—just nodded again, hard.

He hooked his fingers in the waistband and peeled everything down. Scrubs. Panties. All the way to your ankles.

When he looked up again, he had to pause.

Because you were bare in front of him now. Completely. Sweat beading lightly at your sternum. Breathing so hard he could hear it—ragged and real.

His mouth went dry.

He swallowed. 

His hands were shaking, but he didn’t even care. 

He ran them down the outside of your thighs, slow and sure, until they found the bend of your knees. He gripped them, spread her open just enough, like he needed to feel the shape of you there, the trembling tension of your body under his hands. 

Your skin was silky under his palms, your thigh muscles fluttering like they weren’t sure whether to resist or give in.

His breath caught in his throat, and he sank lower, drawn in by the scent of your skin, the impossible softness of it, the way you let him take his time.

He kissed your hipbone. Your lower belly. Tasting salt and skin and the ghost of your perfume—sweet and dizzying. Dragged his cheek along the soft inside of your thigh, inhaling the heat of you. Behind that bodywash, he could smell the faintest edge of something else—something completely yours.

It filled his lungs, made his head foggy, like he’d walked into a heatwave and couldn’t find the exit. Until the only thing in the world was you.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“So are you,” you whispered back, fingers slipping into his hair.

He let out a breath, forehead pressed to your stomach. Your nails scraped lightly against his scalp—just enough to sting. He liked it. He wanted more of it.

“I’ve never wanted something so badly,” he said it so quietly, he was surprised you heard him.

Your hand slid into his hair. “Me neither.”

Then your grip in his hair tightened, not guiding—just holding.

So he knelt lower, shoulders between your knees, hands still on your thighs.

He kissed the tender skin at the crease, where thigh met pelvis, and felt you twitch beneath him. His heart was pounding. His mouth dry. And when his mouth finally touched you—just a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue, truly tasting you for the first time—you whimpered.

You whimpered.

A tiny, involuntary sound—high and helpless and half-ashamed—but it cracked something in him. He moaned into you, deep and guttural, and started again. Licking you slowly. Carefully. Like you were something sacred, and this was a prayer. 

The taste of you. The smell of you. The feel of your thighs tensing under his palms.

You were gasping now, uneven little breaths, and he could feel every sound you made in the flex of your thighs, the clench of your fingers in his hair. When you tugged—hard enough to sting—he groaned again, sharper this time, and pushed his tongue deeper, tracing circles, lines, little teasing patterns.

It was too much and not enough all at once.

Your other hand reached down blindly, landing on his shoulder, digging in as you rocked against him. He let you. He wanted you wild. He wanted you wrecked. Unraveled. Every breath a surrender.

“Robby—” you gasped. Not a request. Not a protest. Just his name stripped bare.

He slid a finger inside you, slow and careful, groaning at the sudden wet heat gripping him tight.

“God, baby,” he whispered. “You feel... fuck.”

You clenched around him, your back arching slightly, your breath catching on a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob. He paused, eyes flicking up.

“You okay?”

“Don’t stop.”

So he didn’t. He added another finger, curling them just enough, angling until—

“Oh,” you breathed out. “Oh my God—”

That. That.

He latched his mouth to your clit, and sucked. Slow at first, almost tentative, then faster, more confident. Catching the rhythm of your hips and matching it, feeling you get closer with every broken whisper of his name, every helpless whine. 

Your hand in his hair twisted hard, and he didn’t care. It only drove him harder, deeper, hungrier.

You came with a cry—his name falling from your lips like a sob—and he stayed right there, holding you through it, licking and kissing you softly through the aftershocks. 

You trembled beneath him, gasping, hips jerking involuntarily every time he brushed you again.

He didn’t stop until you whimpered something like “please,” all airy and ruined.

You were panting when he rose again, chest heaving. Your skin was scorching hot. Eyes glassy and unfocused. Lips bruised and parted. 

He kissed your stomach again. Your ribs. The underside of your jaw.

When your mouths met again, it was nothing like the first time.

You kissed him like you needed him to know. Like everything you hadn’t said was being poured into him through her lips. Like you were burning—and somehow, he was both the match and the water. 

Your mouth opened against his, tongue slick and hungry, and he tasted you—really tasted you now. The sweetness of your skin. The heat of your breath. The faint echo of your own release still on his tongue.

You moaned into him, and his whole body tensed. Every muscle tight, every nerve ending screaming. He’d never felt this kind of hunger before. Not even close. It was overwhelming, terrifying. Addictive.

Your hands fumbled at his waistband, fingers clumsy with urgency. You were shaking, breathing like you’d run a mile, and your mouth never left his for more than a second.

“Please,” you whispered, voice wrecked. “I need you.”

The word nearly brought him to his knees. 

He pressed his forehead against yours, closed his eyes, and tried to breathe.

Because this was happening. You were asking for him. And there wasn’t a part of him—body or soul—that didn’t already belong to you.

“I need you too,” he said. And this time, it cracked.

You pulled him in again, and he kissed you like he meant it.

Like he was starving.

Like he'd been drowning for years, and you were the first breath of air.

Because he had. He had wanted this—you—for so long it had carved itself into him. And now you were here, under him, around him, letting him in.

Your legs tightened around his hips. Arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him closer, closer, until your chests pressed together, skin to skin, heart to heart.

All he could hear was your breath hitching.

All he could feel was your nails digging into his back, dragging him down like you couldn’t bear a single inch of space between you.

All he could taste was your name, unspoken but alive in his mouth.

He doesn’t let you go.

Not after you cum, not after the trembling quiet that settles over you like fog. His face stays buried in your stomach, the heat of his breath still spreading over damp skin, his hands still firm around your thighs like he’s anchoring you in place. Like he’s not ready to surface. Like he might never be.

You’re shaking. Slowly, silently, in that post-release unraveling. And he holds you through it—like he’s the only thing that can keep you from dissolving entirely.

You thread your fingers through his hair, not gently, not just affection. It’s grounding. A silent I’m still here. A don’t stop touching me.

But then he shifts. 

Your chest was still rising fast when his eyes meet yours—blown pupils, damp cheeks—and you look at him like you can’t believe he’s still there.

And he is. He’s not moving. Not pulling away or deflecting or pretending any of it meant less than it did. He stays above you, arms braced, heart hammering, caught in between whatever feelings you’re not ready to speak out loud.

He watches you trying to catch your breath and thinks: I did that. I got to do that. And it should scare him. It should make him bolt. But instead, it roots him in place. Makes him feel something terrifyingly close to home.

“I—” he starts, voice low and hoarse, but you don’t let him finish.

You pull him up to you. Fist your hands in the collar of his shirt and drag him up until your mouths meet. Kisses him open-mouthed, tasting yourself on him, swallowing the sound he makes into your throat. And when he groans—low, guttural, reverent—it vibrates through you like a second climax.

He breaks the kiss only to mouth at your jaw, your cheekbone, the soft, sensitive skin beneath your ear. Your body arches instinctively into the drag of his weight—hips tilting, thighs parting again, already needing more.

He’s not asking questions anymore, he’s moving on instinct.

When he shifts his hips, the front of his scrubs drags along your thigh—and her gasp punches straight through him.

You lift into it, chasing the contact like it isn’t just friction—it’s relief, a damn finally breaking open. Your legs tighten around him, and you grind against the hardness still trapped between you. It’s clumsy and frantic, but you want him, and he can feel it.

His breath shudders as you grind up again, the soft heat of you dragging against his hard, aching length through far too many layers. It’s clumsy, maddening, perfect. He clutches at your hips like he can’t bear to let you move without him.

And God, you’re killing him—rubbing yourself over him like you’re trying to carve the shape of him into you. Every movement makes him sink deeper into it. He buries his face in your shoulder and lets out a low groan, hips instinctively answering yours.

If they stay like this much longer, he’s not going to make it. He’s going to cum just from the feeling of you writhing against him. Clothes in between or not. 

“Robby,” you whisper, almost a warning, almost a plea.

He hears it. Feels it. Freezes for half a second like he needs permission to keep going.

Your hands fumble between them—fingers unsteady and impatient—and he realizes you’re trying to undo his scrubs. The drawstring catches, knots. You curse softly, and he feels himself smile.

“Here,” he whispers, his voice gone rough, and he helps you. Together, you tear through the last of the barriers—cotton and a little hesitation and whatever thin line you’ve been pretending still exists.

And then he’s bare—finally—his scrubs kicked off, forgotten, the cold air licking over his flushed skin as he covers you again.

Your eyes drag over him—his chest, the line of his stomach, the flush across his throat, and that downright sinful happy trail resting a top his navel. 

No more barriers. No more restraint. He chokes on the sound it drags out of him, the way your thighs fall open to cradle him, so ready for him.

He’s not calm anymore. Not careful. His control’s gone. He fits himself between your legs, shaking with it, dizzy from wanting you for so long. His hands frame your waist like he’s afraid he’ll fall through the moment if he doesn’t hold tight.

You’re everything he’s never let himself take. And now—God help him—he’s about to.

Your damp skin. The way your eyes darken as you drag them over him. He shudders under the weight of it. Not just desire—reverence. 

He touches you again. Slowly, trying to memorize you. Trying not to lose his mind.

And when he settles between your legs, it's not dominance. It's gravity. It’s surrender.

And for a moment, you just look at each other.

Then he reaches down—between you—and touches you again, runs his fingers through the wetness there, swears under his breath when he finds you still open, still aching.

“I don’t—” His voice cracks. “I don’t have anything.”

“I’m on the pill,” you whisper. “And I trust you. Just—”

You break off. Her voice fails under the weight of the moment.

But your hands say it for you. The way you pull him down. The way you guide him.

The way your whole body opens.

He’s shaking as he lines himself up. Not from fear. From restraint. But also from something softer.

He has to breathe through it just to hold himself still.

You’re slick and hot and open beneath him, and when he lines himself up, it takes everything in him not to just take. 

But this is you.

This is you.

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, and the sound you make—sharp, helpless, real—almost breaks him. Your back arches, nails dig into his skin, and he feels you take him in like you were made for this.

Like he’s not an intruder. Like he belongs.

Your fingers curl around his shoulder blades, your back arches, and you gasp—a sharp, involuntary sound that drags straight from your lungs.

He groans, deep and raw, like he’s trying not to collapse.

You’re hot and tight and soaking, and he slides, trying not to rush, trying to make this last. But it’s overwhelming—you’re overwhelming—and his whole body is tense with the effort of not falling apart the moment he’s fully inside you.

When your hips finally meet—when he’s there, all of him—you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for ten years.

He doesn’t move.

Just rests his forehead against yours. Your noses brush. Your eyes open at the same time. And there’s nothing guarded left between them.

“This…” he says, barely audible. “God. This feels like…”

He never finishes. But you know what he means.

It feels like everything.

And then he starts to move.

Not fast. Not frenzied. Just deep. Slow. Like he’s building something, not just chasing release. His hips roll into yours with purpose, with rhythm, with care. Every thrust stretches something inside you that hadn’t been touched in quite some time—something you didn’t realize you’d been starving.

You wrap your legs around him, thighs cradling his waist, trying to bring him closer, deeper. He answers with a groan, thrusts harder, presses a kiss to your cheek, your temple, your lips.

It’s not just sex. Not to him.

You moan his name—quiet, almost shocked—and it wrecks him. Because he wants to answer it with everything.

So he holds your hand. Laces your fingers tight and pins it above your head—not to trap you, but to stay connected. To prove he’s still there.

He doesn’t say what he’s thinking.

That you’re undoing him.

That he might never recover.

That this is the beginning of the end, and he’d do it all the same.

He moves inside you like he’s afraid to wake from this—like each thrust might break the spell. Slow at first, reverent, then deeper, as your body rises to meet him, to welcome him in like it’s been waiting.

And maybe it has. Maybe you both have.

Your hips lift, chasing him. Your fingers press into your shoulders, then his hair, pulling him closer. Your mouth parts on a breathless sound, and it undoes him. Everything about you undoes him.

He’s not thinking anymore.

He’s feeling—with every inch of her wrapped around him, every soft gasp, every whispered plea. His heart pounds like it’s trying to speak for him. Like it’s trying to climb up his throat. 

Every slick slide of your hips is a plea, every arch of your spine a surrender he wasn’t sure he was ready for. It overwhelms him—how much you give, how much he wants. It’s too much and still not enough.

He buries his face in your neck and lets himself break there, lets himself believe this is real, just for a second. That he gets to be here. That he gets to love you like this—without shame, without hiding. 

Even if he’s never said the words. Even if it’s only here, in the silence between your bodies, that he ever could.

And somewhere in the middle of it—sweat-slick skin and shaking limbs and your name on a loop in his head—he chokes out, “God…” he pants. “You feel so good, I can’t—”

He thrusts deeper, slower. Shuddering. “I don’t wanna stop.”

It slips out without thought, raw and hoarse and truer than anything he’s ever said. “I don’t know how.”

His voice cracks on it.

You go still for a second, your breath caught between you.

Then your hand finds his jaw, trembling slightly as you coax him to look at you. And when he does—eyes blown, lips parted, ruined in the most beautiful way—you whisper, “Then don’t.”

Your other hand moves through his hair, cradling the back of his head as he rocks into you.

“Stay here,” you breathe, forehead against yours. “Just like this—with me.”

He stills for a breath.

God, you’re soft even now—sweet in a way he doesn’t deserve. And the way you say with me like you actually believes he belongs there—like you’re offering him something permanent—he can’t bear it. He won’t let himself believe in it, not really. But fuck it, does he want to.

He presses his mouth to your shoulder to keep from saying something too honest. To keep from telling you he’s never felt more home than right here, skin to skin, heart to heart.

“I’m here,” he mumbles against your skin. “I’m not going anywhere.” A lie. A wish. A prayer.

And maybe you hear the crack in it, or maybe you’re too far gone to notice because then you’re falling apart beneath him, and the sounds you make aren’t words at first—just broken, breathy sounds punched out with every thrust.

“Oh—God—Robby…” you gasp, almost whines. “Please—don’t stop—don’t ever stop—”

Then your voice breaks into soft, helpless babble.

You shudder beneath him, thighs trembling around his waist, and when you fall over the edge, you clutched him and let your nails leave marks down his back.

“Michael,” you breathe.

Then again—broken, urgent. “Oh, michael.”

And he’s gone. Gone.

As he hears his real name fall from her lips, he knows he’s falling. Knows he’s already too far gone.

He stutters out a sound like a sob. And then it hits him.

Your body tightens around him, gripping him like you never want to let him go. Like you won’t. The way you pulse around him—hot, frantic, relentless—undoes him completely. It’s not just the friction, not just the pleasure, it’s you—all of you—wrapped around him, crying his name like a prayer.

His breath catches in his throat. He tries to hold on, tries to stop, but it’s no use.

He spills into you with a groan, low and wrecked, his face buried in the curve of your neck, one arm locked tight around your waist. His whole body shudders with it. Like he’s giving something back he didn’t know he still had.

He keeps his eyes clenched shut. Like if he doesn’t look, the world can’t take this from him. 

They lie there like that, both of them shaking, breathing into each other. Your hand still in his, fingers sticky with sweat. Her chest pressed to his, rising and falling as their pulses slowly begin to settle.

Then—quietly—you let go.

Your fingers move to his hair, soft, reverent, stroking through the damp strands. 

He stays buried in her neck, doesn’t want to lift his head. Doesn’t want to ruin this by speaking aloud, by naming it, by asking for something he knows he can’t keep.

But your touch undoes him all over again.

No one's touched him like this in years—maybe ever. Like he's not just wanted, but known. Like he could stay.

He swallows hard against the burn in his throat, his hand still gripping yours, like if he lets go, the moment will slip through his fingers and vanish.

“Robby,” you whisper.

God, he loves that. How you sabor his name whenever he says it out loud. Trying to feel every syllable and how they roll on her lips. 

A little louder: “Robby…”

His breath stutters. He clings to the moment like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered.

And then you say it again, louder, almost sharp now—“ROBBY.”

His eyes snaped open. 

Bright light. Cold air.

The sound of his name—still echoing. But it’s not your voice anymore.

He’s standing just outside Trauma Room Two, a clipboard in his hand, with Dana waving her hand in front of his face like she’s been doing it for a while.

“Jesus, Earth to Michael,” she says. “You good?”

He blinks. His throat feels raw. “Yeah. I—I’m fine.”

Dana doesn’t look convinced, but she lets it slide—for now.

He pivots away before she can press further, walking down the hall like the fluorescent lights might burn him alive. His heartbeat still hasn't evened out. Every breath scrapes. Every step is a reminder that the past is bleeding straight into the present, and there’s nowhere in this goddamn hospital to hide from it.

He passes the nurses’ station, trying not to limp through the ache still in his chest, and that’s when he hears them.

Perlah and Princess, whispering in Tagalog, throwing glances in his direction like he can’t feel them.

“‘Yung reaction niya kanina? Sobrang weird,” Princess murmurs.

“Alam mo, baka may history sila nung babae,” Perlah whispers back.

He doesn’t know what they’re saying. Not exactly. But he knows what it feels like.

He knows the sound of people talking around him—about him. He can feel the weight of their stares, the way they try to glance without being obvious. 

He catches Princess miming a fainting motion and Perlah responding with a wide-eyed shake of her head.

“Ang drama, ‘di ba?” one of them breathes. “Parang teleserye.”

They laugh, restrained but not unkindly. He knows it isn’t malicious. It’s curiosity. Speculation. The kind that blooms in places like this, where drama is the norm and gossip moves faster than blood through a vein.

Still, it grates.

Not because they’re wrong—but because they might be right.

Because he doesn’t have the language to explain it, even if he tried. Because there’s nothing he could say that would make this feel any less insane. Because some part of him—the part still stuck in that flashback—is screaming that he deserves to be talked about like this.

He keeps walking.

He doesn’t look back.

The files are digital now, stored on hospital tablets and synced between departments. He finds one, signs in, and scrolls until he lands on what he shouldn’t be looking for.

Noah. Age: Nine years, three months. 

Sex: Male. 

Arrival: cyanotic and unconscious after blunt trauma from an SUV. Brief cardiac arrest in transit. Bleeding from a head laceration. Resuscitation successful. 

Blood type: AB positive. A rare enough match—compatible with his. And yours.

There’s no last name listed. Just “Mother: information withheld at patient request.”

His thumb freezes above the screen.

Noah.

He stares at the name for too long.

The word blurs and sharpens, then blurs again.

Noah, from the Hebrew—nuach—rest, comfort.

It’s almost funny.  Or cruel. Or divine.

He doesn’t know which.

Because it’s not just a name. Not to him. Not now.

It’s a prayer.

It’s a mercy he’s long forgotten how to believe in.

It’s the kind of name whispered into linen blankets after a war. The kind spoken over sleeping children in stories passed down like blood. The kind rabbis preach about during parsha Noach, reminding congregations that even in destruction, there’s survival. That even in floods, there’s mercy. That one man, alone and chosen, can carry a future in the bow of a boat. 

A name that carried the future in its hands. A name that meant someone made it through.

Noach matza chen b’eynei Adonai—Noah found grace in the eyes of God.

He swallows hard.

He hasn't thought about that in years.

Not since he stopped showing up to temple. Not since he stopped believing God had anything left to say to him.

This isn’t about loss. Not yet. This is about the possibility of something that lived.

The irony isn’t lost on him. He hasn’t known peace in years, not the kind that stays. Not the kind that sinks into your bones and says, you can stop running now.

He thinks of the Shema. The words that still curled around his ribs when he can’t sleep. Not a shield, exactly—more like a thread. A thread he pulls when the world spins too fast, when grief makes the ground tilt.

Shema Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad.

He closes his eyes.

He doesn’t know what he’s praying for. He just knows it feels like a prayer.

A boy named Noah. Nine years old. Hit by a car and still breathing. And his blood type—compatible with Robby’s. And hers. No listed father. No last name that gives anything away. Just—

Noah.

A name that shouldn’t mean anything, but feels like it knows him.

Like it’s been waiting.

His mouth goes dry.

He tries to focus on the chart again. On the vitals, the scans. Anything to keep the rising panic from pushing through his ribs. But he hears footsteps behind him and doesn’t even need to turn around.

Dana.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she says. Half-pissed, half-worried.

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit,” she snaps, tugging his arm. “Come with me.”

He doesn’t resist.

They step outside through the staff doors, onto the ambulance bay. Dana lights a cigarette, doesn’t offer him one. Just waits, arms crossed and her gaze burning through him.

He stands beside her in silence. Watches as rain starts pouring in. The once sunny sky now a dull gray.

He doesn’t know where to start. Or maybe he does.

“There was a girl,” he says finally, voice raw. “Before I came here.”

Dana raises her brows but says nothing.

“We We were together,” he says quietly. “A year and a half. She wasn’t just some girl—I loved her. Like, deeply. Fully. The way people only do once.”

Dana squints at him through the smoke. “And you left her?” 

He nods. Once. Like the motion itself hurts.

A pause. The words come slower now, heavier. “Didn’t say goodbye,” he admits, voice breaking on it. “Didn’t give her a fucking word. I didn’t even tell her where I was going. I just disappeared. She woke up and I was gone.”

Dana doesn’t blink. “Jesus, Robby.”

“Yeah,” he snaps, his voice sharp with guilt. “Yeah. I know. You don’t have to say it—I say it to myself every goddamn day.”

He looks away, toward the street, where red lights blur in the rain. “She loved me. I know she did. And I—God, Dana. She was everything to me.”

Silence stretches between them. The rain hisses around them like static.

“I thought I was doing her a favor," he says. "I thought if I left… I don’t even fucking know. Maybe she'd be better off without me."

Dana lets the silence linger, smoke curling from her lips. Then she exhales sharply through her nose. "You’re an idiot."

He flinches, but she’s not done.

“You think you saved her? That wasn’t mercy, Robby. That was cowardice."

He bows his head soaking it all in. The taste of the word coward still burning on his tongue because it’s true. It's what he’s called himself every day since. Not in passing. Not just once. But like penance.

Dana watches him for a beat, then steps forward—barely a shift, but enough to make the air between them feel tighter. She speaks quieter now, but it still lands like a blow.

"You didn’t just disappear, Robby. You broke something. Something real."

That’s when it hits him. All at once.

His chest caves in on itself, his throat locking up around something sharp and guttural. The rain feels like needles now, every drop stinging against skin that suddenly feels too thin.

He steps back like her words were physical. Shakes his head once, hard, like trying to dislodge the thought before it roots.

“No—don’t—” he rasps. He tries to look away, but even the shadows feel too loud. His hand grips the railing behind him, white-knuckled.

“She—fuck.” He drags a hand down his face. His voice goes lower, fraying at the edges. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t lie awake every night trying to rewire it—trying to un-ruin it?”

And then quieter.

“I haven’t let anyone close since.”

Dana doesn’t move. Doesn’t rush in. She just lets him crash against the weight of his own words.

“You loved her,” she says, softer this time. “And you punished her for it.”

“I punished myself,” he snaps—but even he knows it’s not the whole truth. “I thought if I buried it deep enough, maybe it wouldn’t rot everything else.”

A pause. His breath shakes. Then he goes still, like he’s finally flatlined.

Dana takes one last drag from her cigarette, flicks it away into the rain.

“So what happened today?”

He presses the heel of his palm to his eyes. “I saw her. With a fucking kid”

There’s a pause—too quiet, too long.

Then: “How long ago was this?”

“Ten years.”

Dana stiffens. Her mouth parts like she’s about to say something, then closes again.

“The kid is…”

“Nine,” he says.

And that’s it. That’s the moment.

The math doesn’t just hang there—it detonates, slow and sharp, slicing straight through the humid silence.

Dana lets out a long, quiet, “Shit,” but there’s no real surprise behind it. Just gravity. Just confirmation.

Robby’s expression doesn’t shift, but something inside him buckles. His throat works like he’s trying to swallow glass.

“She looked exactly the same,” he murmurs, barely audible. “Like time skipped her. But then I saw the kid. And he had eyes like—”

He cuts himself off.

Dana’s voice is gentler now, but steady. “Like yours.”

For the first time all day, he doesn’t try to outrun it. He doesn’t shift the blame or dodge the truth or bury it under sarcasm. He just lets it hit him. Full-force.

The ache of it, the finality—the years lost, the silence, the what-ifs.

He might’ve left her.

But he didn’t just leave her.

He left them.

And now, the cost of that choice stands in front of him with wide brown eyes and a crooked smile—one he might’ve passed on without even knowing.

next chapter ↠

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[p1astr81]

hii! i saw you're taking requests and i was wondering if you'd do one for oscar piastri with a reader whos like really affectionate and whos love language is physical touch but maybe she thinks its too much for oscar so she stops like touching him all the time and kind of pulls away? i’m sorry my explanation doesn’t make much sense but i’m sure with your writing it’ll be really good (please make it like really really angsty)

Your first mistake was reading your hate comments under a post about you and Oscar. Taken without your knowledge, the video showed you clung onto Oscar’s arm as you exited a restaurant.

Your second mistake was listening to the comments and believing them.

The seed had been planted, sprouting the idea that so much physical affection wasn’t Oscar. It wasn’t what he wanted and you forced it onto him. Perhaps you even made him uncomfortable.

“You almost ready to go?” He had one hand on the car door, the other was occupied by his phone. He looked back at you with a raised brow in question.

You were busy reapplying your lip gloss. “Yup!”

You walked side by side into the paddock. Strangely, you had yet to take his hand in yours. His hand brushed against yours like an invite. Instead of taking his hand, you occupy your hand with your purse instead.

He noticed, rendered it as strange, but didn’t comment on it.

Your strange habits continued through the day. You didn’t move your chair closer when you sat down. You didn’t kiss his cheek before he got in the car for qualifying, not so much as a hug even. When he qualified on pole, you smiled, but you didn’t hug him. Everything was strange with you. He knew something was up.

As you left for the night, he put his hand on your lower back. Conveniently, you’d dropped your water bottle right after. You crouched down, Oscar’s hand slipping from you. When you stood up, you put some distance between the both of you so that I would be awkward for him to try to resume his hold on you.

This was more than strange. Something was deeply wrong. That became evident when you only pecked his cheek before going to bed.

He’d decided that he would wait for tomorrow. Perhaps it was just an off day.

When you casually dodged his kiss the next morning, he knew it wasn’t just one off day.

He had to clear the air before the race.

He stood in the suite, leaning against a wall located across the room from you. You were singing softly to whatever song was in your head. “Did I do something?” He asked suddenly. No lead up. Just silence and then a bomb.

You put down your straightener, chuckling. “Yeah. You put it on pole and now you’re going to win.”

He shook his head, measured steps crossing the room. He stopped next to you, leaning against the desk you were sat in front of. His hands were in his pockets, virtually relaxed but mentally shaken. “That’s not what I meant.” He adverted his eyes to the window before his gaze found your soft and confused eyes again. “Did I do something to you? Or say something?”

You laughed again, shaking your head.

Oscar could tell the sound was fabricated.

“No. Why would you think that?” You tilted your head.

He sighed, shifting his position against the desk. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Laughing, you tried to dismiss him. “I haven’t been-“

“Yes you have. All day yesterday. You’re usually all over me but yesterday… nothing. Not even a real kiss.”

Chewing on your lip, you picked up your straightener again. He watched as you ran the hot tool through your hair. You still hadn’t said anything. You continued to straighten your hair, flattening three more strips before the silence killed him.

“Will you say something? Please?”

The hot tool was dropped onto the table with a loud clatter. “Maybe I realized I’m too clingy for you.” You only glanced at him, then your eyes trained on the desk. Jaw clenched, breathing measured.

He scoffed, offended at the accusation. His hands left his pockets to cross over his chest. “And who put that idea in your head?” When you stayed silent for too long, he held your face in his hand and forced you to look at him. He softened when he saw your eyes brimming with tears. “Oh. Was it me?”

“No.” You hiccuped, still trying to hold back your tears. “Do you still love me?”

“Yes.” He didn’t hesitate. “Why would you think—where is this all coming from?”

“Your fans.” You felt the first tear slip. He wiped it away before you got the chance.

“What?”

You hiccuped, more tears falling as the memories of their words echoed. “They- I- you- they said that I’m too clingy and that you obviously don’t like that or me in general.”

He wanted to be angry at people. He wanted to find who they were and tell them off to their faces. But his heart was aching in his chest. “Honey, they don’t know you better than I do. They don’t know me.”

“But-but- they-I saw you. in the- in the video.” You could hardly get your words out, hiccuping like crazy.

He tilted his head and crouched down beside you. “What video?” He was so gentle, so caring.

But you didn’t see any of that through your hysterics. “The video! After we left the restaurant on our date. Someone video’d us and- and you looked to annoyed.”

He took your hands, led you over to the bed to sit you down. “Aw, hon, I was annoyed. But not at you. Never at you.” He shook his head. “They gave us the wrong wine again.”

A sharp exhale left your lips. A sound of disbelief. “What?” Your quiet voice squeaked.

“I didn’t say anything because I hadn’t thought you noticed, and I know you hate correcting people.” He smiled and squeezed your hands. “I love how clingy you are. My day isn’t complete if you’re not attaching yourself to my arm or texting me a million times.” He held your face in the palm of his hand. Your cheek was slick with tears and warm from blush. “I spent all of yesterday spiraling because I didn’t have my koala climbing my arm.”

You laughed at him and found a home in his chest, burying your head there. He stroked your hair and muttered reassurances in your ear, telling you over and over again how he loved you and your clingy ways.

[papayainsectorone]

Nothing Personal.

summary: you show up after a breakup, not really heartbroken, only to be met with Lando’s usual mix of sarcasm and comfort between teasing banter and shared fries, a way-too-smooth suggestion changes the dynamic

content: 18+!! smut, nsfw, friends-to-lovers, fuck, oral (f!receiving + m!receiving), teasing, dirty talk

word count: 5.4k

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader a thought: new series who dis i clearly cannot overcome my ln4 obsession so... guess who got his own series now lol. i hope you enjoy it!! feel free to hit me up if you wanna be on the taglist alsooo — new divider?? made it myself?? it’s cute right?? let me have my moment walls are way too thin - series

Lando’s couch is still too deep, too soft, and far too familiar. Your legs are flung over his like they always are—like muscle memory—and his hands rest on your shins, thumbs moving in lazy circles while you tear into a box of fries like they personally wronged you.

Somehow, this is the only place that makes sense tonight.

“It wasn’t even good sex,” you mutter, chewing aggressively.

Lando lets out a bark of laughter, tipping his head back. “That’s the worst part.” “No,” you say, pointing a fry at him like a gavel. “The worst part is wasting three months on a man who thought eating you out was some kind of annual treat.”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re joking.”

You just glare at him. “I’m genuinely considering writing a Yelp review.”

“Leave a voice note,” he suggests, voice deadpan. “I’ll animate it. ‘Hi, I’d like to report a man for crimes against pussy.’”

You laugh, loud and short, and it echoes into the comfortable silence between you—the kind only years of knowing someone can earn.

Because this? This has always been you and Lando.

Since you were kids sneaking out of karting camps to buy energy drinks and snacks, since you watched his first podium in your pajamas screaming into his voicemail. Since your first heartbreak, when he brought you a single Ferrero Rocher and said, “I’m shit at feelings, but I know this one’s your favorite.”

You were the first person he told when he got his F1 seat.

He was the first person you called after losing your virginity—drunk on cheap cider, whispering into his voicemail like it was a state secret.

When he started getting morning boners, you were the one he told, beaming with this stupid, smug pride.

“Rise and shine, baby,” he’d said, holding up a hoodie in front of his crotch. “I’m a man now.”

You’d almost pissed yourself laughing.

People always assumed there was something more—always. Teachers, teammates, partners. But there never was. You were chaos and sarcasm and trust, not slow-burning desire. The kind of friendship built on late-night FaceTimes and brutally honest advice and knowing exactly how to make each other laugh when it really counts.

It had always been a problem in past relationships.

“Too close,” they’d say. “Too flirty.” But neither of you ever cared.

Because Lando had always been your person. Still is.

You’d crash at his place more often than not—after parties, after races, after long days that didn’t even need an excuse. Sometimes you’d show up with nothing but takeout and he’d just nod and slide over on the couch. No questions. No explanations.

The walls in his flat were thin—paper-thin. You heard the whispers, late at night, from the girls he dated. Their voices just sharp enough to cut through the drywall. "Why does she stay over so much?" "Why don’t you send her home?" "Are you sure she’s just your friend?"

Lando always told you about them. Not to make you feel bad. Just... because he told you everything.

And yeah, sometimes you felt sorry—guilty, even—for being the shadow in the corner of his relationships. But you never apologized. Because it was always Lando and you. You and Lando. Friends. Always friends. The kind who knew the worst and best of each other and stayed anyway.

You knew the way he took his tea. The way his knee bounced when he was nervous. The way his voice dropped when he was pretending not to care. And he knew the song that always calmed you down. The nickname only your dad used. The face you made when you were about to cry and didn’t want anyone to notice.

There was no one else. Never had been.

So it wasn’t exactly surprising that you ended up here—on his couch, legs draped over his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. Lando sat casually, one hand resting on your shins, the other stealing fries from the carton balanced on your stomach. Your head was tilted just enough to eat, the rest of you sprawled comfortably beside him. In the hallway, your hastily stuffed suitcase waited—silent proof that this was where you always landed when the rest of the world fell apart.

You sigh, flinging a fry into your mouth. “Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking. Three months and not one orgasm that wasn’t self-made.”

He looks personally offended. “You stayed with someone who gave bad sex?”

“I’m mentally ill,” you say, deadpan.

Lando groans, loud and dramatic, flopping his head back against the couch. “At least you were getting laid!”

You smirk. “Oh, poor baby Lando. Don’t tell me world-famous F1 driver isn’t getting any.”

He squints at you, skeptical. “I’m serious. It’s not like that.”

You arch an eyebrow. “What, the women throwing themselves at you just aren’t your type?”

Lando shrugs, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t have time.”

You tilt your head. “You make time to beat Max at sim racing at 2am, but you can’t fit in a blowjob?”

That earns a crooked grin, but it’s softer this time—almost sheepish. “I don’t want hookups. I don’t want it to be… awkward.”

You blink. “Hookups are literally meant to be awkward. That’s half the point.”

He laughs, but there’s something under it. A flicker of honesty. “I mean, yeah, but—I want good. Not weird silences and ‘this was fun, see ya.’ I want someone who knows me. Who won’t make it feel like a transaction.”

You sit with that for a second, caught off guard by the realness in his tone.

And then he looks at you.

And you’re already looking at him.

Something curls in your stomach.

“I mean…” you start, voice quieter now. “You could be getting laid.”

The words are light, teasing on the surface—but they land heavy between you.

Lando doesn’t smile. Doesn’t deflect.

He just blinks. Slowly.

His hand tightens slightly on your shin.

“Don’t fuck with me,” he says, voice low.

You blink at him. “I mean… I wouldn’t necessarily not fuck with you.”

Lando stares at you like you just offered to punch him in the face and hand him a trophy for it. Then he abruptly shoves your legs off his lap and stands, muttering, “I think you’re having a stroke,” as he walks toward the kitchen.

You twist around on the couch, tracking him with your eyes. “Lando. It’s not like I’m in love with you.”

He pauses.

“It would just be—convenient?” you say. “You need someone. I need someone. We know each other. Why not?”

He turns slowly to look at you, like you’ve just asked him to join a cult.

“Why not?” he repeats, incredulous. “I know about a million reasons why not.”

You scoff. “What, do you not think I’m hot?”

He laughs—really laughs. “I’ve known you since you had one front tooth at age seven and would only wear mismatched socks. How could that possibly be hot?”

You gasp, mock-offended. “Wow. Wow.”

He grins. “What? You think I’m hot?”

You shrug, a little too casual. “I’ve obviously had worse.”

That wipes the smirk off his face.

He stares.

You can see the wheels turning behind his eyes—quick math, risk analysis, moral breakdown. His brow furrows. His mouth opens, then closes again. You swear he stops breathing for a second.

Then he says it.

“Fuck… okay, I guess. But we need rules.”

You groan. “Oh my god, Lando.”

“I’m serious!”

“Fine. Rules,” you say, throwing your arms up. “What, like no spooning after?”

“No sleeping in the same bed.”

“No feelings.”

“No one finds out.”

“No drama.”

You point at him. “No falling in love.”

He mirrors the gesture. “No ruining the friendship.”

You reach out your hand and he takes it instinctively, falling into the rhythm of a secret handshake you made up when you were twelve, all palms and slaps and pinky swears.

Your fingers lock one last time and neither of you lets go.

Not right away.

And when he pulls you closer, it’s like gravity.

The smirk fades from his face. Yours too.

You don’t know who moves first, only that his mouth is on yours again and this time there’s no pause. No second-guessing. Just the sharp, charged click of teeth and breath and want.

He kisses you like he’s proving a point.

You kiss him like you’re trying to win.

There’s nothing slow about it. His hands grip your hips like he’s allowed to and yours tangle into his hoodie, yanking him closer as your knees press into the couch cushions. You’re already climbing into his lap when he groans into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, lips brushing your jaw. “This is so fucking weird.”

“Shut up,” you breathe, nipping at his neck. “Less thinking, more undressing.”

“Bossy,” he mutters, but he’s already lifting your shirt over your head. You help, clumsy and rushed and laughing a little when you get stuck halfway.

“You’ve done this before, right?” you tease, breathless.

“Not with you.” His voice dips lower, eyes dragging down your chest like he doesn’t know where to land. “Not like this.”

It’s cautious for half a second—his hands smoothing over your waist, the slow drag of his thumbs just under the band of your bra—but the second you reach for the hem of his hoodie, it sparks again. Like pulling a match against the box.

Everything ignites.

Clothes come off in fast, impatient pieces. You laugh when his sock gets caught on the couch. He curses when your belt loops fight back. There’s a short, chaotic scuffle over who gets to be on top—until you push him down with a smug look and he just stares, breathless and flushed, like maybe this was a terrible, amazing idea.

“You’re gonna have to back up all that shit you’ve talked over the years,” you say, hovering above him. “Mr. ‘I’m so good in bed I should get Michelin stars.’”

He groans. “I literally never said that.”

“You literally did. Karting camp. Fifteen years old. You said—quote—‘I’ll be better than anyone she’s had before.’”

His hand slides up your thigh, grip tightening. “Fifteen-year-old me had ambition.”

“Fifteen-year-old you had a big mouth and was barely not a virgin anymore” you grin.

He smirks, eyes dark. “And you’re the one who raved about that guy who said you gave the best head of his life.”

You blink innocently. “It’s not my fault I’m talented.”

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, dragging you closer by your hips. “Prove it.”

Your smile sharpens.

His laugh cuts off halfway when you grind down on him again, slow and deliberate. One of his hands fists in the fabric of the couch while the other roams up your side, touch hotter now—more confident. Still careful in flashes, like he doesn’t quite know what parts of you he’s allowed to touch, even now.

You lean forward, lips ghosting over his. “Nervous?”

He exhales sharply. “I just… didn’t think the best head of someone’s life would come with a pre-roast.”

“You get what you pay for,” you whisper, and then you slide down his body.

“Fuck,” he groans, tossing his head back.

You pause, breath hot against his skin. “What was that? I thought you were the one with ambition.”

His breath catches when your mouth touches his abs. And again when you look up and raise a single eyebrow—taunting, smug, completely in control.

He grits his teeth. “Okay. I deserved that.”

You hum in response, slow and deliberate. “Damn right.”

Your fingers tug at the waistband of his boxers, and Lando’s whole body goes taut beneath you. It’s subtle—barely a breath—but you feel it.

He’s nervous.

You pause, looking up from where you’re knelt between his legs, hands braced on his thighs. “You okay?”

His eyes snap open. “Yeah. Just…”

“Never imagined me here?” you tease, voice low and laced with a grin.

He huffs out a breath, shaky. “Not like this. Not ever. And definitely not while terrified I’m about to embarrass myself.”

You laugh softly, warm and fond despite yourself. “Relax, Norris. I already know all your worst secrets. One more won’t kill you.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s gratitude in it—like your teasing steadies him more than reassurance ever could.

You hook your fingers under the fabric again, slower this time. “Let’s get this off, then. Time to see what you’ve been bragging about since puberty.”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, throwing an arm over his face.

You pull the last piece of clothing down, inch by inch, deliberate just to watch him squirm.

And then your teasing falters—just a beat.

Okay. Maybe not all talk.

He peeks from under his arm, a smirk creeping back in. “You good?”

You clear your throat, recovering. “I’ve obviously had worse,” you echo back with a wink.

He groans like you’ve wounded him.

And then you lean down again—mouth brushing skin, warm and careful, letting him feel your breath before anything else. You start slow. You always do. One hand on his hip, the other anchoring you as your mouth finds him, slow and deliberate and way too confident for someone who’d been joking about this two minutes ago.

Lando’s hand jumps to your shoulder instantly, fingers twitching. “Holy shit.”

You hum, eyes flicking up—pleased, knowing, smug as hell. You’re good, and you know it. And now so does he.

He tries to keep quiet. Tries to breathe evenly. But it’s all unraveling fast—the shift of his hips, the way his mouth falls open with a soft, helpless sound that’s definitely not friendly.

He mutters your name once, like a warning. A plea.

You don’t stop.

You sink deeper, slow and practiced, using your hand when you have to, mouth when you want to. And you want to a lot.

“Okay,” he breathes, voice breaking. “Okay—Jesus—I get it, he wasn’t lying.”

You smile up at him, lips curling around him as you draw him deeper into your mouth. Your tongue flicks over the sensitive ridge just beneath the tip, teasing that delicate band of skin before gliding up to circle the slit. The reaction is immediate—his breath stutters, and he chokes on a moan, hips twitching as he struggles to hold still.

“Oh my god.”

He’s twitching beneath you, squirming, practically begging now—your name spilling from his lips in broken whispers. It’s fast, it’s messy, it’s too good.

Your name again, this time a warning “Fuck... I´m gonna—Jesus—don´t stop” And you don’t stop. You don’t even slow down. If anything, you push harder, chasing that edge with him.

And when he finally breaks—when his hands grip tight, back arching off the bed, curses torn from his throat like a prayer—it’s your name he chants, again and again. Shaky. Wrecked. Reverent.

You pull off slowly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Then you crawl up his body, smiling like sin, like you know exactly what you just did.

He looks dazed. Destroyed. Wrecked in the most satisfying way.

“I told you,” you whisper against his ear. “Talented.”

Your body stretches over his as you settle on his chest, breath warm against his skin, heartbeat still pounding under your palm.

Lando's eyes are half-lidded, completely blown out, one hand resting on your lower back like he doesn’t quite trust gravity anymore.

He exhales hard. “Fuck.”

You smirk into his collarbone. “You lost all your other vocabulary, Norris.”

He laughs—short, breathless, still wrecked. “No seriously, that was… I mean, you really do have bragging rights about that.”

You prop your chin on his chest, smug. “Told you.”

His hand slides up to brush lightly down your spine. “How the hell am I supposed to recover from that?”

You grin wider. “Come on. That all you got?”

He blinks at you, mouth twitching. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” you tease, eyes gleaming. “Big talk for years, and now you’re all ‘oh no, I need to lie down.’”

He stares. “I just had my soul removed via your mouth and you’re taunting me?”

“I’m motivating you,” you say sweetly.

He laughs again, one of those quiet, incredulous laughs that bubbles up from his chest. “Well, I was gonna say something cocky but now I’m wounded.”

You raise a brow. “Say it.”

He bites back a smile. “Just thought it was common knowledge that… y’know, eating out is for annual events only.”

You smack his chest. “Twat.”

He’s grinning like an idiot now, clearly pleased with himself even as your hand lingers, half-playful and half warning.

And then—before you can fire back another insult—he moves.

You’re flipped fast, the room spinning for half a second before your back hits the cushions and he’s above you, eyes dark and mischievous.

“Oh,” you say, breath catching.

He smirks, voice low. “Guess what day it is.”

You barely manage to answer before he’s already sliding down your body—slow and deliberate, hands dragging over your thighs, your waist, your hips. You squirm under him, anticipation crackling through your veins.

He kisses the inside of your knee.

You arch a brow. “You’re just doing this to prove a point.”

“Obviously,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin again, “but I’m also an overachiever.”

His mouth finds your inner thigh and your breath hitches.

This, you realize, is very quickly about to become a competition.

And neither of you plays fair.

He kisses his way down your thighs, hands dragging slow, like he’s taking inventory.

“Still not taking this seriously,” you murmur, but your voice betrays the way your body’s already reacting to him—hips shifting, stomach tensing.

Lando lifts his head just enough to give you a wicked grin. “I’m insulted. You think I don’t rise to a challenge?”

You hum. “So dramatic.”

“I just think,” he says, lowering again, lips brushing close—too close—without quite touching where you need, “if you’re gonna make bold claims about your talents, I should be allowed to respond in kind.”

You squirm as his breath fans over you, and when you go to snap something smug back, his mouth finally meets you over your panties.

Everything derails.

It’s not tentative. There’s no awkward fumble, no hesitation. Just heat. Intention. A surprising kind of focus that makes your breath catch and your hands fly to his curls like instinct.

He hums into you, and you curse softly, head falling back against the couch cushion.

“Fuck, Lando…”

You feel him smile. Bastard.

He slides the fabric to the side and keeps going—slow at first, like he’s mapping out every reaction, every shift of your hips, every sound you make. He starts adding his hands, fingers anchoring you wide open, thumbs brushing soft along your thighs as he buries himself deeper in it.

It’s not rushed. It’s not polite.

It’s intentional.

And it’s driving you insane.

You’re panting now, fingers gripping his hair, one leg hooked over his shoulder because you stopped pretending to play it cool somewhere around the second time he moaned against you.

You manage to glance down once, and the sight nearly finishes you—him, flushed and focused between your thighs, like he’s memorizing you.

“Okay,” you breathe out, voice high and wrecked. “Okay. I take back everything.”

He doesn't stop.

“Lando.”

A flick of his tongue. A curl of his fingers.

You break.

Your hips jerk, your back arches, a sharp cry tears from your throat and you feel everything all at once—your blood rushing, your pulse crashing, the way his name leaves your mouth like muscle memory.

He slows down only when your hands tug at his hair—not to pull him closer, but in surrender.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, dazed, boneless against the cushions.

Lando crawls back up over you, and for a second, neither of you says anything—just panting breaths and the shared knowledge of what just happened.

Finally, he grins, breath still hot against your cheek. “So… just annually, huh?”

You laugh—half-gasp, half-shocked. “You’re an actual menace.”

“And you’re blushing,” he says, full of smug satisfaction.

“Am not.” You give his shoulder a playful smack.

“I mean… maybe we shouldn’t limit that to once a year,” you say, casual but breathless. “Wasn’t exactly terrible.”

He tilts his head, eyes glittering. “Not terrible? Sounded like more than that to me.”

You snort, cheeks warming again. “Okay—fine. It was actually pretty fucking great.”

He rolls onto his back beside you, both of you still catching your breath in the hazy silence that follows.

“You still think this was a good idea?” he asks, eyes on the ceiling.

You turn your head, grinning. “Amazing actually.”

He laughs and it feels like nothing’s changed.

[takes1]

UHMMM hello, RAN HERE to request 😭😭😭 Please could I have an NSFW scenario where experienced!shortreader with a size kink devours inexperienced!lev and tries to teach him a few things. RIDING this man till he dies. Please and thank you. 😝❤️

clingy!lev crushing on reader

i cant tell you how real of a phenomenon this is. thank you for the opportunity to write thiiiis. ohh man i hope this finds the right freaks bc i am into this. absolute two-parter. titled 'the lev brainrot' in my notes.

warnings. recreational alcohol consumption. nsfw to follow. minors DNI

details. fem!reader / porn! with! plot! (this is the plot) / praise kink / size kink / clingy!lev / inexperienced!lev / experienced!reader / 'mom-friend' reader / bar setting / heavy drinking / best friend!kuroo / college au! / manager?trainer?reader / aged-up characters / 2k words / reply to be added for part two!

links. my masterlist. more haikyuu. my ao3. PART TWO HERE. my imagines. my request box

You called him Haiba, not Lev, because you didn't want him getting the wrong impression. There were only a handful of players, all seniors along with you, that you called by first name-- he plainly held the most animosity toward them.

Of course, you weren't ignorant to his little attachment.

It took the form of him grasping at straws to find something to talk to you about, usually in rushed attempts between warm-ups. Or asking you obvious, sometimes repeat-questions about ailments he hypothetically did or did not have. Or, when the team went out for morale events, he worked like a dog to sit or stand next to you.

You once asked him: "Haiba!"

"Hm?" His attention was fully captured, his attempt to receive forgotten. The ball rolled past him on the floor and his teammate across the gym groaned, "Yes-Yes ma'am?"

That wasn't your intention, to distract him. You sighed and picked the ball up. A handful of new members called you 'ma'am' but Lev was by-far the worst offender.

"You have any sisters?"

"I do!"

He looked like he was about to tell you his entire life story, so you threw the ball back at him and urged him to keep practicing, instead.

Maybe that had something there. It could connect with how he didn't take as easily to the senior guys on the team. If he wasn't accustomed to handling dude-dynamics with brothers, it made sense that he might seek the comfort of a somewhat-familiar presence, like a sister.

Still, that idea didn't hold much weight when you considered his time playing competitively in high school. He spoke about the friends and experiences he made there with fervor and excitement. He got along with guys. He wasn't shy, he wasn't reserved, and he didn't have problems speaking up.

Your curiosity got the better of you at one of your team outings.

The local bar on the square was packed on a Friday night. The team barely got seated, but once you were all comfortable, it was a rowdy and fast kind of evening that zoomed right through decent hours. You were all buzzed already from the restaurant you walked there from-- the idea to 'keep it going' was indulgent, and probably your first mistake.

Kuroo took the seat right next to you like he had at the last spot, but laughed, capturing your attention, and stepped back down.

"Oops! Sorry, Lev! That's your spot buddy, my bad- my bad," He cackled, and brushed the seat off for him.

It was only kind of a joke. You blushed, forearms prickling up, at the looks and snickers it generated from the rest of the team.

Lev took too long to decide if he should sit there. Kuroo shimmied into the seat across from you with a smirk.

"Just- just sit down," You pulled the chair out more so his legs would fit, and lowered your voice to something nicer, "Lev, don't mind that dumbass."

You were left to smooth it all out, as usual.

The guys often joked, in his absence, and on occasion right in front of him, that he had an obvious crush on you. You didn't like to entertain it, because it made things super awkward. Somebody had to put their foot down, or else the whole team would get too unprofessional and potentially mean-natured to the new guys. You found yourself advocating for him, giving every excuse to call it something else. Lately, you were married to the sibling idea.

Lev sat down, but slow, and armed with an odd look.

All you paid notice to was how he didn't need to jump or climb up the way you did, to get into the tall, narrow chairs.

The waitress came around, already horribly busy, and you helped her by facilitating some semblance of focus amongst your friends.

You patted the table, leaning all the way over Lev, to get Yaku's attention, "Hey- hey! What do you want?"

"Oh! Uhhh- rum'n'coke, please,"

Thankfully, it spurred a string of just rum and coke orders down the length of the two tables you had corralled together. You sighed, rubbing your face, at how stupid they all got when they were together and tipsy. You got three orders of jalapeño poppers for the table and had to forbid anyone else from revising theirs, after hearing such a great idea.

You also ordered something incredibly strong and tipped her well.

Then, it took a while to relax. Kenma helped, seated on your right- you watched him play Mario Kart on his Switch and sipped on your water. But you could feel Lev's weird, fresh energy, and wished Kuroo had stayed. You had three years of goofing around with him, and now he was all the way across the table. This place was too loud to hear much of anything, so you were barred from a lot of easy-to-make conversation with old friends.

The food, the drinks, and the three pitchers of beer they ordered, couldn't come fast enough. It took about seven levels of playing for your orders to start floating around the table to their designated owners.

12 guys + 3 baskets of jalapeño poppers = 20 seconds of frenzied grabbing, followed by 2 minutes of silent seething and burned tongues for the rest of the night. You grabbed five and placed them on a napkin, to eat on slowly.

Lev was already done with a tall glass of Michelob Ultra.

"Are you kidding me?" You watched in shock and awe as he wiped the foam from his upper lip and set the empty thing down.

"What?" He laughed, "Those are spicy!"

They, almost certainly, were not spicy. His tolerance must have aired more on the 'lighter' side. That went largely ignored, though, as you watched him pour a second glass with perfect angle and precision.

His arms were long and could reach far into the center of the table, especially if he leaned forward. You subconsciously began to catch up with your own drink, eyes glued to the way his lats were visible through his shirt as he pulled his glass back in.

You squinted at the face he made when he sniffed the rim of it.

"Do you like beer? Or--,"

Lev couldn't hear you. He leaned in with an amused grin, and you caught a whiff of something that smelled good enough to make you smile a bit.

Some of his hair brushed your cheek from how close he got to listen.

"Do you like that stuff? Or are you just drinking it to look cool?"

When you pulled away, he was staring at your yummy drink held close to your mouth- then your nose, and back up to your eyes. He closed the distance again.

"You think I look cool?"

You laughed and pushed his shoulder back lightly- he laughed, too, and shrugged, "I mean- if it's working, yeah!"

Anytime you wanted to talk, you would look at Kenma, then down at his game, and eventually lean towards Lev, instead.

The way he looked at you made you all warm and fuzzy. Like he wanted to hear what you had to say soo badly. He was eager, and jumped at the opportunity to get close, to feel your voice brushing by his warm ear, a light touch on his arm, or his leg.

The night was a crash course in what kind of person he was. You learned a lot about him.

"Ohh! Oh! An older sister!" Your eyes lit up, your hypothesis confirmed at last. Lev nodded with a big grin, no idea why that made you so happy. But you didn't smile much at practice, so he didn't pry.

You pushed yourself up and slapped a hand in front of Kuroo, hard, on the table. He was grinning as you pointed a stiff finger at him.

"I told you!!"

"I'm sure you did!" He yelled back with a laugh, "What the hell are we talking about?"

As you sat back down, Kuroo caught Lev staring shamelessly at your ass. He snapped his fingers at him like he was trying to get a puppy's attention. You didn't realize that's what he was doing.

"He has an older sister!"

Kuroo rolled his eyes. This hill you were going to die on was getting excavated as you preached, so confidently, that it was your unmovable mountain. But- who was he to take away your beacon of hope? Dance on the dirt mound all night. He'd help you out of the mud in the morning, because you were his friend. And he thought your little quirks were funny enough to entertain.

Blind to the very argument against your excitement -Lev, staring hard down through your 'going out' top- you explained, "That's why! Kuro- you were dead wrong!"

Kuroo's belly-laugh was not what you were after.

"Oh- ohhh fuck! You're too cute- ahaha! You really are!"

You crossed your arms. Lev gulped down another glass, a needed endeavor, to be buzzed enough to keep talking to you. Talking, or yelling, rather, to Kuroo had already lost its novelty because he could never just let you be right, for once.

"Yooo!! Lemme get some of those!"

Yamamoto's hand was already in your reserved stack of food.

You swatted it away, hard.

"Fuck off!"

He retracted right away, faked a sob, then yowled- it was nothing in volume compared to the bustle of the noisy bar.

Lev hummed next to you. It sounded like a word, so after you were done laughing at Yamamoto, you turned your attention over and felt a fun whoosh as your vision lagged. You blinked for a long second, and set your drink down with a giggle.

That was officially enough.

"What did you say!" You asked Lev.

"What!" He yelled over the music.

You giggled and pulled on his shirt at the shoulder hem to get him to lean closer. His grin was horribly handsome, his engrossed eye contact so cute, and you found yourself unable to stop your giggles. You rested your warm forehead on his shoulder.

He smelled good. Like a pricey, foreign cologne. You were still gripping his sleeve.

Out of all the guys here, none of them were as cute as Lev right now.

That handsome smile was back on his face, "You called me Lev earlier!"

You were confused, for a moment. What? When? Why?

An incomplete excuse, if you had ever heard of one, "Must've been- uhh, well, I think Kuro called you Lev, so-!"

When you let go of him, you missed the feeling. Your fingers were cold and wanted to hold something, so you picked your drink back up and finished it. Only after, when it all went to your head, did you realize you had already decided not to do that.

Kuroo startled you when he spoke at you from behind. You quickly fell back into your never-ending string of giggles at how silly it was.

"You want anything? I'm starting a tab!" He asked you over the music.

The sound of that appealed to you, but you knew better.

"I'm- whew-- Yeah," You laughed, and rubbed the top of his hand, nodding, "I'm good-I'm good! Don't give me anything."

Kuroo lingered for a few breaths, analyzing you from over your shoulder, then directed a mean squint to Lev.

"You tell her to keep up with you?"

It was a far reach and a confusing question. The pretty boy's hesitant head shake pissed him off a little more than it should have.

"Make sure she drinks water," Kuroo announced to him, within earshot, and rubbed your shoulder again with a goodbye-pat.

He stayed a few seconds longer, looking for the best route to get to the bar, then directed his attention back to Lev. His hard grip was a painful on his shoulder, purposefully squeezing him. A warning.

"You wanna stare at'er all fuckin' day, then let her get this drunk? I know what you're doing," Was a vicious, eerily quiet, mutter.

"Don't be a prick," He shoved him, just a little, when he walked past.

In reality, it was just a bit of misplaced concern. Lev turned his head, thoroughly intimidated, tracking Kuroo all the way to the bar.

"Um-,"

His nerves seemed to fall away when he looked down at your pretty smile, how you were still finding everything a bit too funny. Plus, your body was really getting to him. Maybe it was because you kept touching him.

Again, he had to lean down far to speak to you, "(Y/n)? Uh... Kuroo- he isn't your boyfriend, right?"

Regardless of sobriety, you would've laughed really hard at that. Your hands gripped around his arm; this time, unnecessarily, and enough to make his blush strong and vibrant.

"Oh my God! No!"

Lev laughed with you, lightly, with eyes still on Kuroo, far away.

"Ohh, this is gonna sound so terrible-," You laughed under your palm, debating on whether on not to keep talking, but Lev gave you this 'I wanna know so bad' look, and you just couldn't stop yourself, "But he's not my type. Not at all."

An incredible wave of confusion took over his pretty features.

"He's too smart for me- it's kind of, I dunno, like-- I wanna call the shots, do all the thinking, y'know?"

It's not that Lev identified as being dumb, but the proclamation made him hard, and simultaneously view you as more capable. He didn't know the first thing about girls, but you seemed to know enough for the both of you.

Transfixed, he nodded along, halfway-listening to you ramble, halfway-focused on flexing his arm for you.

☆VIP☆

@integers @paradoxicalwritings @yuchacco

my masterlist. more haikyuu my request box

taglist.

none! reply to be added

future details/sneak peak: afab!reader / riding / overstim / size kink / handjobs / multiple orgasms / top!reader / puppy love!lev / loss of virginity / begging / needy!lev / dacryphilia / + more

[nakylvr]

— ESPRESSO

kim donghyun "leehan" x gn!reader

summary: the coffee shop you regularly go to has a new employee, a kind male your age who always seems to write your name wrong. too bad you'll never notice his attempts at talking to you, right?

warnings/tags: fluff, barista!leehan, barista!taesan mention, mild language, super short sorry

my first boynextdoor post!! requests are open for these lovely lads 🫶 i might do a pt 2 for this but for now this is it!

"y-yn?"

you hear your name, or, an attempt to say your name as you stand aside from the front counter waiting for your coffee. you walk up and grab your drink from the employee, turning it around to see another complete butchering of your name written on the cup. when you look at who's working the cashier, you see the same male you've seen the past few weeks. the one who has taken your exact same order these past few weeks, and still manages to spell your name wrong leaving his coworkers struggling to pronounce whatever he wrote.

he's cute, which is the first thing you noticed about him. his hair long enough to outline his perfect face, his brown eyes that looked like they were chocolate, the warm smile he always had on his face. god, why did this place have to get all the cute people as employees? he must be new too, judging by the way he keeps looking back at his coworkers to ask questions about the drinks and what sizes they come in. also by how nice he seems to be for the overwhelming holiday season for local coffee shops.

as you take a sip of the drink, you look at the time on your watch and realize you're running late. walking by the front counter, you go right by the male who hesitantly reaches his arm out to try and talk to you, but you don't notice as you walk out the door putting your phone to your ear.

"do you really think this is going to work?" taesan asks leehan, leaning against the counter.

"positive," leehan nods his head. "it just...may take some time."

"yeah, no shit," taesan rolls his eyes. "what are you even trying to get out of this? i'm the one actually making the drinks. you just take the orders and spell their name wrong every time."

"well," leehan starts. "they're cute, and i want to get to know them."

"so you think by writing their name wrong repeatedly will want them to talk to you and not get irritated by your incapacity to spell?" taesan raises an eyebrow at his friend.

leehan lets out a sigh, dragging his hands down his face. "i don't know! i'm trying, okay?!"

"terribly," taesan mutters. "maybe actually try to have a conversation with them. you never know what could happen." he shrugs lightly.

"yeah, i guess," leehan nods.

the next morning, you walked into the coffee shop looking like you got up five minutes prior. you got essentially no sleep the previous night, and were in desperate need for a strong coffee instead of your usual. you stop in front of the counter and a male walks up to it from behind it, the same one you'd seen the past few weeks.

"hi," he says with a smile. "you gonna get your-"

"i need a quad shot iced americano."

"oh!" leehan lets out in surprise at both you cutting him off and your tone. "not-not your usual?" he asks.

you shake your head. "not today, sorry."

"no! it's okay!" leehan quickly changes the order on his side and grabs a new cup, giving a look to taesan who was already pouring the original drink for you. "uh. uhm."

you raise an eyebrow at the confusion growing visible on the barista's face, clearly not knowing how to do something. "is everything okay?" you ask.

"yep!" leehan nods quickly, clearing his throat as he writes your name on the cup. "you're all set!" he smiles.

you blink a few times, staring at him confused. "you haven't charged me yet."

"don't worry about it!" leehan's smile stays on his face. "my treat," he says before he can think.

a blush forms on your face realizing you just got your drink for free, shyly nodding your head and pushing some of your hair out of your face. "well, thank you..." your voice trails off.

"donghyun," he answers, his smile growing bigger.

"thank you, donghyun. i really appreciate it," you say, smiling back at him.

"it's not a problem," he shakes his head, his hair flowing with him. "really."

"yn?"

sending a gentle smile leehan's way, you walk over to the other side and take your drink from the black-haired male you always saw with leehan. looking at the cup, your smile grows bigger at the sight of your name. walking back up to the front, you hold the cup up in front of leehan.

"finally got my name right, hm?" you say, smiling still. you turn the cup a little bit more, failing to notice leehan's eyes widening in fear as you see numbers scribbled on it, making you confused. looking over the numbers, you realize it's a phone number. slowly lowering the cup, your smile grows bigger as you look at the male in front of you. "and more, huh?"

"uhm," leehan lets out awkwardly, shifting on his feet. "i was hoping i would be able to talk to you more," he admits, a shy smile on his face. "but i didn't really know how to go about it."

it all clicked in your brain then. "so you were writing my name wrong on purpose?" you question, but the smile remains on your face.

"yeah," he nods.

"do you have a paper and pen?" you ask, leaving leehan looking at you confused.

"here," taesan pops out of nowhere, handing you a pen and pad from his apron pocket, nudging leehan lightly before walking in the back.

scribbling your number down on the paper, you tear the page off and hand it over to the male who's staring at you in bewilderment. "here! in case the marker wipes off the cup or one of my friends tosses it," you tell him.

taking the paper from you, leehan looks it over and his face instantly turns red realizing it's your number. "oh! gotcha!" he nods, shoving it in his pocket.

your phone dings, and you pull it out of your pocket to glance at it before putting it back away. "well, i gotta get going. but, it was really nice talking to you a bit, donghyun," you say, grabbing your drink.

"yeah, you too," leehan smiles. "i'll text you after my shift!"

smiling back at him, you open the door and wave. "i'll be waiting!"

as you walk out the door, the bell dinging as you leave, there's a dumb, lovesick smile on leehan's face as he leans against the counter. he glances around, seeing no customers in the store before pumping his fist up in the air. "hell yes!" he exclaims.

"you're a fucking idiot," taesan rolls his eyes, walking back up front.

"be quiet!"

[parfaitblogs]

ive got quite a few... but we will start off simple and with something ive been DAYDREAMING about for a while

so reader is a new forensic scientist that started a lab in office for easier analysis of evidence (garcia reasonablism and best friendedness obviously) and earlier seasons reid likes to go in and hang out with her often and just be with her and they are both idiots in love and the first kiss is super rushed and akward; TEETH ROTTING FLUFF

i am too cryptic i fear but i will sell my left kidney for this fic PLEASE

spencer reid x forensic scientist!reader. fluff. 1.4k words. s1 spence!! descriptions of a case (typical cm stuff). std discussion? sorta? it's about a victim. reader doesn't have one don't worry. they're nerds your honour. 

a/n: i am SO sorry this took me so long?? writing fluff is not my strong suit (clearly). i researched bacteria for this fic. and std's. if penelope garcia looked up my search history she would ask why i'm asking about how to treat chlamydia. if the science talk is wrong, no it's not this is MY alternate reality. also i am but a wee acting major i know nothing about science? ANYWAYS thank u for the request angel it was so fun to write i hope i did it justice ♡ 

"Hey... I brought coffee."

Your head lifted from the computer screen you had been staring at for the past hour and a half, blinking your eyes to readjust to a light that wasn't blue — you were a big believer in warm toned overhead lights or nothing, and it was your first order of business upon getting a lab in the Quantico building. 

Your eyes softened upon recognising the man in your doorway, and your hands outstretched towards him to take the paper cup from him. 

It was a particularly gruelling case — a man putting victims through a meat grinder (charmingly so) meant your ability to positively ID victims based on... well, anything you'd usually ID them on, was out of the question. You were down to tampered with blood samples, and you were getting nothing. 

"Angel. Sent from heaven, I swear," you said, taking a sip of the warm, sweet (because anybody who drinks coffee black should be locked up) beverage that would help you in the long run. Spencer Reid's lips twitched into a smile — anxious, like the rest of him usually is whenever he's in your lab — and he dropped his gaze to the floor with a small shrug. 

"I thought you might need it. I know it's hard. This case," he said, and you nodded your head with an affirming nod.

"Tell me about it," you mumbled, spinning around in your chair, back to your computer, waving him over. "See this?" you pointed to the list of findings in one of the samples.

Your breathing hitched when you felt him behind you, not expecting him to be so close, his own breath audible by your ear. 

He hummed quietly as he read through the list, and you turned your head to the side to look at him. His lips were pulled into a frown as you watched him register everything — and God, was he pretty. "Yeah... Salmonella, Enteritidis, Listeria... they're all bacteria you can find in chicken. Raw chicken, to be precise. Did they send you chicken blood by mistake?" 

"That's what I thought," you said, snapping out of your Reid-induced-haze, and clicked at your computer until you pulled up another list. "But then I found these as well; Streptococcus mutans, Porphyromonas gingivalis, Fusobacterium and Lactobacillus. From the same sample. And I cross-checked it with all of them, and they're all like that. So I sent that to Garcia and asked if she could do some looking into butcher shops in the area, and she came up empty. So now I'm at a loss."

"Weird," he murmured, leaning further forward over your shoulder to stare at the screen a little more intently, and you found your breath hitching at it. Again.

"What do you see?"

"Chlamydia trachomatis."

"Oh. Yeah, all of the samples have it," you explained, and he nodded his head, before turning it to look at you. 

"Well, what do you do when you have a sexually transmitted disease?" he asked.

"Me? I don't—I don't know. I've never had a—" you cut yourself off when you saw his lips twitch into a smile, and your brain caught up with what he had just said, and your lips parted in an 'o' shape in realisation. "You'd go to your doctor."

"And if they all have it, then that means that—"

"—it's the UnSub whose got it," you cut him off, eyes lighting up as you sat up straighter. "Oh my God, I don't know how I didn't make that connection. Spencer Reid I need to reiterate that you are an angel sent from the heaven above, I could kiss you."

His eyes went wide, and his entire being froze, followed swiftly by you yourself freezing too, words you let spill past your lips registering a second too late. 

He stared at you. You stared at him. It was an awkward game of who would look away first, and it went on for hour long minutes. You needed to clear your throat but refused to, your lips opening and closing as you searched your brain for something — anything — to say to break up this tension.

"Are you serious?"

It was a meek whisper, and had you not been so hyper focussed on his lips, you probably would've missed it. You forced your gaze up to his eyes, catching the red tinge on his cheeks, mirroring your own. You decided if the one in a billion chance of a black hole swallowing the earth decided to happen now, you wouldn't complain.

"I mean, no," you force past your lips. A sentence you soon sorely regret when you watch a flicker of what you recognise to be hurt flash across his face. Maybe your brain made that expression up. Maybe it didn't. If it did, it was too late to consider that option, because you were already rambling again. "Unless you want me to be serious. In which case yes, I am totally serious. If not, then I'm not."

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and an embarrassingly nervous laugh left your lips. 

"Yes. I'm serious," you finalised. Because at least if he found that embarrassing and didn't feel the same back, you could kick him out of your lab and avoid him until you manage to swap units. Or move halfway across the world. Whichever came first.

Neither needed to come first, it seemed. Because his tense body shifted, turning to face you, his own eyes seemingly locked on your lips, the same way yours were only minutes prior. 

"Is it okay if I..." he trailed off, a hesitant hand reaching up to your face, waiting for your confirming nod before his fingertips relaxed on your cheek. You weren't even kissing him yet, and you already felt that nervous-excited mix pooling in your stomach.

He was in the same boat as you, his own breathing hitching when you didn't pull away instantly from his touch. But then he simply stared at you, for maybe a minute too long, because an exasperated sigh left your lips before you could stop it.

"You know, you actually have to put your lips on mine to kiss, Spencer," you say, and though your intent wasn't to fluster him, you did. 

"Yes, I—um, I know. I've just never... what if I screw this up?" he stammered, and your lips pulled into a smile. 

"Worst thing you can do is be a bad kisser."

"That's embarrassing."

"Just a little," you agreed with a nod, watching his face fall, and you laughed at the expression. "I'm kidding. It's not that hard, and you're good at everything."

"Not this."

"You don't know that."

He fell silent, and you knew you had won the verbal argument — he was certainly still disagreeing in his mind, but he was always good at picking his battles. 

But you knew he was never going to kiss you first. Not when one hand was flexing weirdly by his waist, unsure of what to do with it, and he was so awkwardly holding one cheek with the other. 

It was the only reason why you placed two palms on his own cheeks and pulled his face towards you. He let out a shocked yelp that had you laughing for only a second, cutting the sound off short with your lips on his. 

Spencer Reid was in fact good at everything. 

He was hesitant at first, and you wondered if he was ever going to kiss you back. But he did, and then you wondered if he was lying about never kissing anybody before.

Because he was insanely good, and the way he kissed you was maddening and addictive and it seemed you were (addictive) as well, for he was chasing your lips even when you tried to pull away. So you didn't, and instead allowed him to keep kissing you with so much pace and force you thought you'd break. 

"Spence... can't... breathe," you gasped out, and he pulled back in an instant, his eyes going wide. 

He was stammering out apologies that fell on deaf ears, because you were staring at him and he was gorgeous. In every sense of the word. With hair that had fallen into his glassy eyes, cheeks as pink as his lips that were screaming to be kissed again, need for oxygen be damned. 

And actually, if the one in a billion chance of a black hole swallowing the earth decided to happen now, you would complain. Very loudly.

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated dearly ♡

[solxamber]

Hi! Just wanted to say I’m in love with your TWST writing. Was just reading the white rabbit series and I’m hooked. In part 3 we see that White Rabbit! Reader is 100% not ok, mostly because nothing has changed. They still have all their work to do, all their school work, all the “requests” from the NRC boys and staff, and they are STILL being teased. Sure the teasing may have changed a little but it’s still there. Reader is still being brushed aside, not listened to. Characters like Crewel and Leona may say they like the change, and that kinda hurts? They like reader being burnt out and just so worn down? Everyone seems to have comments on what they think, but have they asked what our little rabbit thinks? What reader feels? Do any of them realize just how much our White Rabbit actually does for everyone?

I kinda want to see White Rabbit! Reader snap again and just get teary eyed and say how the other overblots got support and can change, but reader still has a role. Reader can’t stop doing their work. They just can’t care anymore because it’s clear others don’t care about them. If others think it’s so good for them to be like this then what does that mean? Reader doesn’t want to be stressed out. They don’t want to lash out and hurt others, they never did. But they just feel so worn and done with it all.

IDK I just see it being such good hurt/comfort fic material. Rabbits may be prey but they aren’t just weak and defenseless. Our little rabbit thought has just had enough. I’d love to see your take on this.

Hope you’re doing well!

White Rabbit! Reader Aftermath

Original Ask ; Rabbit Overblots ; Overblot Aftermath

Characters: All NRC + Staff, Rollo, Neige, Che'nya

hi! I'm sorry it took so long, it went way too long and got out of hand. i hope you like it <3

Riddle Rosehearts:

Riddle noticed something was wrong. It was in the way your shoulders sagged under the weight of another endless list of tasks. It was in the way your normally brisk pace had slowed, as if each step you took was through quicksand. But he didn't say anything—not at first.

You were always like this, weren’t you? Always running late, always fretting about something. He just assumed it was your usual nervous nature.

Except, it wasn't.

The change was subtle, but there was something different in your eyes now. Something darker. You still did the work, you still completed each task with quiet efficiency, but the politeness had taken on an edge of detachment. You weren’t anxious anymore—you were done.

"Here's the report you wanted," you said one evening, handing him a set of documents. Your voice was flat, no longer laced with the apprehension he’d grown used to. There was no fidgeting, no desperate need for approval in your tone.

Riddle paused, looking up from his desk. "Is everything alright?" The question was curt, almost accusatory, as if he was more irritated by your change in demeanor than concerned.

You gave him a tired smile. "Does it matter?"

His brows furrowed. "Of course it matters! You’ve been acting strange."

You laughed—a bitter, hollow sound that sent a shiver down his spine. “Strange? No, Riddle, I’ve been tired. You’ve never noticed that before, have you?”

The air between you stilled, a suffocating weight pressing down as he processed your words. You were always so compliant, so willing to go along with everything. He’d assumed you preferred it that way. After all, hadn’t you always done your work without complaint?

But now, seeing the exhaustion etched into your face, the lifelessness behind your eyes, he realized he’d been wrong. He’d taken your compliance as a given, never once considering the toll it had been taking on you.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he asked, but the question felt hollow even as it left his lips.

“Would you have listened?” you shot back, your voice soft but cutting. “When have any of you ever really listened to what I have to say?”

Riddle swallowed hard, the sting of your words settling deep in his chest. He prided himself on fairness, on order, but he hadn’t been fair to you. He hadn’t been listening.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice quieter now, tinged with something that felt dangerously close to vulnerability. “I should have seen it. I didn’t realize how much I was asking of you."

You shook your head, not in anger, but in resignation. “I’m not asking for much, Riddle. I just need someone to care. Really care.”

For the first time, Riddle felt helpless, unsure of how to fix what had been broken between you. But he stepped forward, awkwardly placing a hand on your shoulder, trying to offer some comfort—an unspoken promise to do better.

“I’ll be better,” he murmured, “for you.”

Trey Clover:

Trey always noticed things. The way you bit your lip when you were nervous, the way your eyes darted around as if you were constantly expecting something to go wrong. But now, things were different.

It wasn’t the nervous energy that worried him. It was the stillness.

You sat at the table in the Heartslabyul kitchen, staring blankly at the open textbook in front of you. You had come to help him prepare for the next Unbirthday Party, like you always did, but tonight you barely spoke.

Trey placed a cup of tea in front of you, watching as you absently reached for it. “You okay?” he asked gently.

You blinked, as if snapping out of a daze, and gave him a tired smile. “I’m fine.”

But you weren’t. You hadn’t been for a while now.

Trey sat down across from you, resting his elbows on the table as he studied your face. “You don’t look fine. You’ve been quiet lately. More than usual.”

You shrugged, staring down into your cup. “Just tired, I guess.”

Trey wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t good with words, not in the way Cater or Riddle were. But he didn’t need words to see that something was wrong. The way your hands trembled slightly as you held the cup, the way your shoulders seemed to carry the weight of the world.

“You’ve been overworking yourself, haven’t you?” he asked, voice soft but firm.

You let out a dry laugh. “When am I not overworked?”

Trey frowned. “That’s not fair to you.”

“No, it’s not,” you agreed quietly, setting the cup down. “But it’s what’s expected, isn’t it? Someone has to keep things running smoothly.”

He reached out, gently taking your hand in his. His fingers were warm, steady—a stark contrast to the coldness you felt creeping into your bones.

“You don’t have to do it alone, you know,” he said, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You can ask for help.”

You shook your head, the weight of his kindness almost unbearable. “And burden everyone else? I don’t want to be a problem.”

Trey’s grip on your hand tightened slightly. “You’re not a problem. You’re important. To all of us.”

You looked up, meeting his gaze for the first time that night, and the sincerity in his eyes nearly broke you. He meant it. He really meant it.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, tears welling up in your eyes. “I’ve just been so tired, Trey. I don’t know how much more I can take.”

He stood then, moving around the table to pull you into a gentle hug, his arms wrapping around you with a quiet strength that made you feel safe—really safe—for the first time in weeks.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, resting his chin on top of your head. “I’ve got you.”

Cater Diamond:

Cater was all smiles and sunshine. That’s what people saw. But he noticed things—small things, cracks in people’s facades. He was an expert at it because he had so many cracks of his own.

So, when he saw you dragging yourself through the day, your usual nervous energy replaced by something much darker, much heavier, he didn’t ignore it.

“Hey! Let’s take a selfie!” he chirped, pulling out his phone as he bounced over to you.

You blinked, staring at him like you hadn’t heard a word. “I’m not in the mood, Cater.”

Cater paused, lowering his phone. That was definitely not like you. Normally, even if you were frazzled, you’d humor him. You always did.

“You sure?” he asked, tilting his head as he scrutinized your face. “You’re looking kinda down, you know.”

You sighed, rubbing at your eyes. “I’m just… tired, Cater. I’m really tired."

Cater dropped the playful act immediately, his smile fading as he tucked his phone away. “You wanna talk about it?”

You shook your head. “No one wants to hear me complain.”

“Come on, don’t be like that,” he said, sitting down next to you, his tone uncharacteristically soft. “I’m here for you, okay? What’s up?”

You hesitated, biting your lip as the weight of everything threatened to crash down on you. “It’s just… everything. No one listens. No one notices. I do all this work, and no one cares. It’s like I’m invisible.”

Cater frowned, reaching out to place a hand on your shoulder. “Hey, that’s not true. We care. I care.”

You shook your head, tears stinging your eyes. “Do you? Do any of you? Or am I just the White Rabbit, always running around, doing everyone’s bidding, never being heard?”

Cater’s heart ached at the pain in your voice. He’d been so wrapped up in his own facade, his own distractions, that he hadn’t realized just how much you were hurting.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his usual playful tone replaced with sincerity. “I should’ve noticed. I should’ve asked sooner.”

You sniffled, wiping at your eyes as you tried to hold yourself together. “It’s not your fault. I just… I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

Cater pulled you into a tight hug, resting his chin on your shoulder as he whispered, “You’re not alone, okay? You’ve got me. You’ve got all of us."

Ace Trappola:

Ace wasn’t exactly the most sensitive person in the world, but even he wasn’t oblivious to the way you had been acting lately. You were quieter than usual, more withdrawn. It wasn’t like you at all.

“Yo, what’s up with you?” Ace asked as he plopped down next to you in the courtyard, his usual smirk in place. “You’ve been acting super weird lately.”

You didn’t even look up from your book. “I’m fine.”

Ace narrowed his eyes. “Nah, you’re not. You

Ace narrowed his eyes. “Nah, you’re not. You’re like, super off. What’s going on? You never act like this.”

You finally looked up from your book, your expression weary and drained, like someone who had been running for far too long. “I’m just… tired, Ace.”

“Tired?” He scoffed, nudging your shoulder. “We all get tired, but you look like you’re about to keel over.”

You sighed, closing the book and turning to face him. “It’s not that kind of tired. It’s the kind of tired where you’ve been working non-stop, doing everything everyone asks of you, and no one ever bothers to ask if you need help.”

Ace blinked, clearly taken aback by your bluntness. He opened his mouth, then closed it, frowning as if he didn’t quite know how to respond. “Wait, is this about all the stuff we’ve been asking you to do? ‘Cause I didn’t think—”

“That’s the problem, Ace,” you interrupted, voice tight with frustration. “No one ever thinks. You all just assume I’ll do it, and I do, because I don’t want to let anyone down. But I’m tired. I’m so tired.”

He shifted awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “Look, I… I didn’t realize it was that bad. I just figured you liked doing stuff like that—keeping busy, you know?”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Liked it? I do it because I don’t have a choice. You all ask, and I say yes because that’s what’s expected of me. But no one ever asks if I’m okay, or if I need a break.”

Ace’s smirk was gone now, replaced with an uncharacteristic seriousness. He didn’t like feeling guilty—he hated it, in fact—but there was no denying the weight of your words.

“...Damn,” he muttered, looking away. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to… you know, pile all that stuff on you.”

You slumped back against the bench, the exhaustion finally catching up with you. “It’s not just you. It’s everyone. But I appreciate the apology.”

Ace was quiet for a moment before he nudged you again, a little gentler this time. “Hey, listen. I’m not exactly good at this whole feelings thing, but… you don’t have to do all this alone, okay? Next time you’re feeling burnt out, just say something. I’m not completely heartless, you know.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good,” Ace said with a grin, his usual cocky tone returning. “And don’t worry, I’ll be the first to jump in and tell everyone to back off. I got your back.”

For the first time in a while, you felt a little lighter. “Thanks, Ace.”

Deuce Spade:

Deuce always noticed when something was off, especially when it came to people he cared about. So when you started acting distant, quieter than usual, it didn’t take long for him to pick up on it.

He found you one afternoon sitting by the fountain, staring blankly at the water. You didn’t even notice when he approached, lost in your own thoughts.

“Hey,” Deuce said softly, sitting down beside you. “You okay?”

You blinked, looking over at him like you hadn’t even realized he was there. “Oh. Deuce. Yeah, I’m fine.”

He frowned, not buying it for a second. “You don’t look fine. You’ve been really quiet lately.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “I’m just… tired. It’s been a lot.”

Deuce tilted his head, his concern growing. “A lot of what?”

You hesitated, unsure if you should even bother explaining. But then again, Deuce wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t someone who would brush you off or tease you for feeling overwhelmed.

“It’s just… everything,” you finally admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “All the tasks, the work, the pressure. It’s like no one ever stops to think about how much I have on my plate. I keep doing everything they ask because I don’t want to let anyone down, but I’m at my limit.”

Deuce’s frown deepened. He had always admired your work ethic, your ability to handle so much without complaint. But now, seeing you like this—so drained, so worn out—it hurt him in a way he hadn’t expected.

“I didn’t know it was that bad,” he said quietly, his voice laced with guilt. “Why didn’t you say something?”

You shook your head, your eyes cast down. “Would anyone have listened?”

Deuce was silent for a moment, his jaw clenched as he processed your words. He hated that you had been carrying this burden alone, that you felt like no one cared enough to notice. He wasn’t good with words, but he wasn’t going to let you suffer in silence anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. “I should’ve noticed. I should’ve done something sooner.”

You glanced up at him, surprised by the intensity in his eyes. “It’s not your fault, Deuce. I just… I didn’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not a burden,” Deuce said, his tone resolute. “You’re one of the strongest people I know. But even strong people need help sometimes.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten, and for the first time in weeks, you felt the weight on your shoulders lighten just a little.

Deuce reached out, gently taking your hand in his. “You don’t have to do this alone. I’ll help you, okay? Whatever you need, just say the word.”

You squeezed his hand, your heart swelling with gratitude. “Thank you, Deuce.”

He smiled, a soft, reassuring smile that made you feel like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t as alone as you thought.

And in that moment, sitting by the fountain with Deuce by your side, you finally felt like you could breathe again.

Leona Kingscholar:

Leona was lounging in his usual spot in the botanical garden, eyes half-lidded as he observed you marching around like some overworked servant. It had been days since your overblot, but not much had changed for you. The requests from students, the impossible deadlines from professors, the teasing from those who had the nerve to think your meekness made you an easy target—it was all still there. But now, there was something else in you too: a biting cynicism that wasn’t there before.

And Leona noticed.

“You’re looking different these days, Herbivore,” Leona drawled from his spot, smirking when you paused to look at him. “I like it. That whole ‘cynical, done-with-everyone’s-bullshit’ vibe suits you.”

You scoffed, shaking your head and trying to ignore him. “Yeah, well. I guess you could say I’ve had a change in perspective.”

Leona raised a brow, sitting up slightly. “About time. You were way too nice, always letting people walk all over you. This version of you? It’s more interesting.”

You should’ve been fine with his words. Normally, you would’ve brushed it off, even if the new cynicism was a product of your exhaustion and burnout. But hearing Leona praise you for being this way, like the months of silent suffering were a badge of honor—it was too much.

You dropped your books and spun around, the words spilling out before you could stop yourself. “Interesting?! You think this is interesting? I’ve been running myself into the ground, doing everything everyone asks of me because I’m too tired to say no. I’m burned out, Leona. I’m not ‘more interesting,’ I’m barely holding it together!”

Your voice broke at the end, and before you knew it, you were trembling. All the stress, all the exhaustion, it came pouring out in one unguarded moment.

Leona blinked, taken aback by your outburst. He hadn’t expected you to break down like this. Slowly, he stood up from his spot and approached you, his usual lazy expression replaced by something more serious.

“Hey,” he said, his voice lower now, gentler. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You tried to hold back the tears, but it was too late. Your whole body was shaking with the weight of everything you’d been carrying, and the stress of it all finally crashed over you like a wave. You covered your face with your hands, overwhelmed and embarrassed.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Leona sighed, running a hand through his hair as he stood there awkwardly for a moment. Comforting people wasn’t exactly his strong suit, but seeing you like this—it stirred something in him.

“Alright, alright, come here,” he muttered, pulling you into a loose hug, his arms warm and strong around you. “You don’t gotta keep doing everything, you know? I know I give you a hard time, but even I don’t think you should burn out like this.”

You hesitated, but then let yourself lean into him, your tears soaking into his shirt as you tried to calm down.

“I just… I don’t know how to stop,” you whispered.

Leona sighed again, holding you a little tighter. “Then maybe it’s time to start saying no. And if people give you grief, send ‘em my way. I’ll take care of it.”

You let out a shaky laugh, the absurdity of Leona offering to help in his own gruff way almost making you feel a little better. Almost.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, your voice still small but a little more steady. “I… I needed that.”

He didn’t respond, just held you a little longer until your breathing finally evened out. And though he didn’t say it, you could tell—despite his teasing, despite his indifference—Leona wasn’t about to let you crumble under the pressure. Not on his watch.

Ruggie Bucchi:

Ruggie had always been good at picking up on little details. As someone who thrived on reading people, it wasn’t hard for him to notice that something was up with you. The way you dragged your feet through the halls, the forced smile you’d plaster on whenever someone asked you for a favor—it wasn’t hard to tell you were burning out.

“Oi, you look like you’ve been run over by a stampede,” Ruggie commented, popping up beside you in the cafeteria one afternoon. He snatched a bite of your sandwich before you could react, grinning when you barely even protested. “What’s up with you? You’re usually a little more, I dunno, lively.”

You glanced at him, too tired to even scold him for stealing your food. “I’m just tired, Ruggie. Really tired.”

Ruggie raised a brow, his grin faltering a little. “Tired? Like, you haven’t slept? Or tired like ‘I’m about to drop dead from all the stuff I’ve been doing for other people’ tired?”

You gave him a look, and he immediately understood. “Ahh, the second one, huh? That’s rough, man.”

You sighed, pushing your tray away. “It’s just… it’s a lot. I keep doing everything everyone asks, and no one ever stops to think that maybe I need a break. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.”

Ruggie frowned, his usual mischievous expression softening. He wasn’t one for heartfelt speeches, but he knew what it was like to be overworked and overlooked. He had spent most of his life like that, after all.

“Hey, look, you don’t gotta do everything, y’know?” he said, leaning back in his chair. “People here? They’ll keep asking as long as you keep saying yes. But if you’re feeling wiped, maybe it’s time to start saying no. You’re not a machine.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Easier said than done.”

Ruggie shrugged, snatching another bite of your food before giving you a playful grin. “Well, if it helps, I’ll start saying no for you. Anyone bothers you, just send ‘em my way. I can be real convincing when I wanna be.”

You smiled, a small, genuine one this time. “Thanks, Ruggie.”

“No problem,” he said, his grin widening. “And hey, don’t stress. I’ve got your back.”

Jack Howl:

Jack had always been observant, especially when it came to his friends. So when you started acting different—quieter, more withdrawn—it didn’t take long for him to notice. He wasn’t the type to pry, but he couldn’t just stand by and do nothing.

One afternoon, he found you sitting outside the gym, your head in your hands. He approached cautiously, not wanting to startle you.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “You okay?”

You looked up, surprised to see him. “Oh, Jack. Yeah, I’m fine.”

He frowned, his golden eyes narrowing. “You don’t look fine.”

You sighed, leaning back against the wall. “I’m just… tired. It’s been a lot.”

Jack sat down beside you, his posture straight and steady. “A lot of what?”

You hesitated, but something about Jack’s calm presence made it easier to open up. “Everything. School, work, everyone asking me for favors. It’s like no one ever thinks I might need a break. I just… I don’t know how to keep up.”

Jack was quiet for a moment, his expression thoughtful. He had always admired your work ethic, but seeing you so worn out—it didn’t sit right with him.

“You don’t have to do it all alone, you know,” Jack said, his voice steady. “You’ve always been there for everyone else. Let me be there for you this time.”

You blinked, surprised by his words. Jack wasn’t usually one for grand gestures, but his sincerity was unmistakable.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you murmured.

“You’re not a burden,” Jack said firmly, his eyes meeting yours. “You’re one of the strongest people I know. But even the strongest need help sometimes.”

The weight of his words hit you, and for the first time in days, you felt like you didn’t have to carry everything alone.

“Thanks, Jack,” you said softly, your heart feeling a little lighter.

He nodded, his usual serious expression softening into a small, reassuring smile. “Anytime.”

Azul Ashengrotto:

Azul was a businessman at heart, sharp-eyed and always aware of people’s shifts in demeanor. He had noticed, of course, that your usually skittish nature had dulled over the past few weeks. At first, he’d dismissed it as another bout of anxiety, something he could handle with a few soft words or requests framed as favors. But now, after your overblot, he couldn’t ignore the change.

The sharp edge of your exhaustion was a palpable thing.

He found you in the library, surrounded by textbooks, scribbling notes with a frenetic energy that felt more like desperation than focus. He watched you for a moment, eyes narrowing behind his glasses as he adjusted them.

“Ah, there you are,” he said smoothly, striding over to you. “I’ve been meaning to discuss our little arrangement. It seems you haven’t fulfilled your duties as of late.”

You didn’t even look up. “Not now, Azul.”

Azul blinked. That was… new. Usually, your nervousness kicked in the moment you even thought you’d disappointed him. Now? Nothing. Just tired resignation.

He sat down across from you, leaning forward. “You seem… different, lately.”

You sighed, setting your pen down with a shaky hand. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

Azul’s confidence faltered. “You’re… not going to elaborate?”

Finally, you met his eyes. “What do you want me to say, Azul? That I’m fine? That everything is just peachy? Because it’s not. I’m tired. And not in the ‘oh, I need a nap’ way. In the ‘I don’t know how to keep going’ way.”

His brows furrowed. That wasn’t what he expected. Azul wasn’t always the best at handling raw emotion, especially when it wasn’t something he could exploit or fix with a contract. But for some reason, hearing you say that struck a chord in him he didn’t often feel.

“Have you… considered taking a break?” he offered, almost hesitant.

You laughed, a bitter sound that made his stomach twist uncomfortably. “A break? When? Between the assignments, the favors, the expectations? When would I possibly have time for that?”

Azul was silent, watching the weight of your words settle in the air between you. For once, he didn’t have a calculated response. He didn’t know what to say to someone who was clearly at the end of their rope.

After a moment, he placed his hands on the table, fingers lacing together. “Perhaps I’ve asked too much of you. I… didn’t realize the extent.”

You shook your head, eyes distant. “It’s not just you, Azul. It’s everything.”

And for the first time, Azul didn’t know how to respond with anything but quiet understanding.

Jade Leech:

Jade had always been observant. His eyes tracked your movements from the moment you entered the lounge, slower, more deliberate than usual. Your once-anxious energy had dulled into something colder, more cynical. There was no hesitation in your step now, but there was no spark either.

He approached you, ever the gentleman, with a soft smile. “Ah, Prefect, it’s good to see you. I hope you’re not overworking yourself.”

You gave him a look, flat and unimpressed. “Funny.”

Jade raised an eyebrow at your tone. “I was being sincere.”

“Yeah, sure.” You walked past him, barely acknowledging his presence. Jade felt something akin to amusement, though there was an edge of concern to it. He followed after you, steps as smooth as ever.

“I must say, your demeanor has changed since the… incident.”

You turned to face him, crossing your arms. “You mean the overblot? Yeah, I guess that’ll change a person.”

Jade’s eyes gleamed with curiosity. “You seem less… timid.”

“Maybe I’m just tired of being scared,” you muttered, rubbing the back of your neck. “It’s exhausting.”

Jade tilted his head, studying you with a quiet intensity. “I see. And this exhaustion—how do you plan to handle it?”

You let out a sharp laugh, devoid of humor. “Handle it? I don’t know, Jade. How do you handle it when you’re expected to do everything and still be okay?”

He paused, not expecting such bluntness from you. His smile softened just a fraction. “Perhaps you should give yourself permission to fail once in a while.”

You looked at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. Jade rarely dropped his formal, polite mask, but there was something almost… genuine in his suggestion. For once, he wasn’t teasing or testing you. He was offering something that felt like understanding.

“I’ll try,” you said softly, feeling a lump in your throat. “I’ll try.”

Floyd Leech:

Floyd had always loved messing with you. You were jumpy, reactive, and so easy to fluster. It was fun, in the way that poking at a small, defenseless animal was fun to a predator. But now? Now you didn’t react at all.

He leaned over your shoulder one day in the cafeteria, poking your cheek. “Heyyyy, Rabbity, whatcha doin’? You’re not runnin’ away from me today?”

You barely spared him a glance. “Not today, Floyd.”

Floyd blinked, frowning at your monotone response. Usually, you’d stammer, scurry away, or at least give him something fun to work with. Now? Nothing.

“What’s wrong with you? You’re no fun anymore.” He flopped down beside you, pouting dramatically. “You’re always so serious now.”

You sighed, not even looking up from your food. “Maybe I’m tired of being the punchline, Floyd.”

That made him pause. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “Huh?”

“I said,” you turned to face him, eyes weary and tired, “I’m tired, Floyd. I’m tired of always being the one everyone messes with. I’m tired of being everyone’s joke.”

Floyd’s pout deepened, but now there was confusion in his eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that… It’s just fun, y’know?”

“Well, it’s not fun for me anymore,” you said quietly, turning back to your food.

Floyd didn’t say anything for a long moment, his usual mischievous energy fizzling out. He wasn’t good at dealing with… feelings. But something about the way you looked—so small, so tired—made his chest feel tight in a way he didn’t like.

He leaned back, crossing his arms. “You’re no fun when you’re all sad like this.”

You snorted softly. “Yeah, well. Life isn’t always fun.”

Floyd stayed silent for a while, the frown still on his face. Then, suddenly, he draped his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. “Don’t get all boring on me, okay? I like it when Shrimpy’s feisty.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle, just a little. It was a weak sound, but it was something. Floyd grinned at that, squeezing you tighter.

“See? There’s the Rabbity I like.”

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim had always been sunshine, too bright for his own good. He’d been one of the few who never seemed to notice how much the constant pressure was getting to you. His joy and excitement for life often overshadowed the quieter struggles of those around him, including you.

After your overblot, Kalim’s usual exuberance had dimmed. He’d been visibly shaken, his bright smile faltering when he saw you again. He greeted you with his usual enthusiasm, but there was a tremor of uncertainty in his voice.

“Hey! How are you feeling? Do you want to have a party? To celebrate you feeling better?”

You glanced up at him, eyes hollow. “I’m fine, Kalim.”

He tilted his head, concerned. “Are you sure? You don’t sound fine. Maybe some music and dancing will cheer you up!”

Normally, his carefree energy might’ve been endearing, but today it grated on your nerves. You shook your head, feeling the weight of your exhaustion press down harder. “I’m tired, Kalim.”

His smile wavered. “Oh… well, we can have a quiet party then! Just you, me, and Jamil. We don’t even have to dance if you don’t want to.”

You sighed, finally looking at him, and the moment he saw the weariness in your eyes, his face fell. The ever-bubbly Kalim looked… lost.

“Kalim,” you said, rubbing your temples, “I’m tired. Really tired. And it’s not the kind of tired that a party can fix.”

Kalim’s eyes widened. “Oh… I didn’t realize you were that tired.” He shifted, fidgeting with his bracelets. “I don’t like seeing you like this. You’re always working so hard, and I thought maybe I could make you smile...”

Your heart clenched at the sincerity in his voice. Kalim, for all his obliviousness, genuinely cared. His way of expressing it might have been overwhelming, but there was no doubt that his concern was real.

“I appreciate it,” you said softly, giving him a small, tired smile. “But right now, I just need to rest.”

Kalim’s shoulders slumped, but he nodded. “Okay, no party then. Just… let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, alright?”

You reached out, placing a hand on his arm. “Thank you, Kalim.”

He smiled again, softer this time, but still as warm as ever. “Anything for you.”

Jamil Viper:

Jamil was observant—painfully so. Unlike Kalim, he’d seen the signs of your burnout long before you reached the point of overblotting. But Jamil, being Jamil, hadn’t stepped in. Not because he didn’t care, but because he knew what it was like to carry the weight of responsibilities without complaint. In his eyes, everyone had their burdens to bear.

Still, seeing you now, after everything, was unsettling.

You were in Scarabia, helping Kalim with some menial task that Jamil knew could’ve been handled by literally anyone else. Your once jittery energy had dulled to something almost robotic, and Jamil couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong.

He approached you cautiously, arms crossed. “You’ve been quieter than usual.”

You didn’t look up from your work. “Just tired.”

Jamil’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been ‘just tired’ for a while now.”

You sighed, finally pausing and turning to face him. “I overblotted, Jamil. What do you expect?”

He didn’t flinch at your words, but the tension in the air thickened. Jamil had always been blunt, but seeing you like this stirred something in him that he didn’t quite like.

“Overblot or not, you’re still here, doing things that aren’t your responsibility,” he said, voice flat. “Why?”

“Because if I don’t, who will?” you snapped, the bitterness in your voice surprising even yourself. You were sick of it. Sick of doing everything and being noticed for nothing. “Everyone expects me to keep going, so I keep going.”

Jamil’s expression remained impassive, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—guilt, perhaps. He had been part of that cycle, hadn’t he? Always asking, always expecting, never really considering how much you were carrying on your own.

After a moment, he sighed, his voice softer than usual. “You don’t have to keep going like this, you know.”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden gentleness in his tone. “What?”

“You don’t have to be everything to everyone,” Jamil continued, glancing away for a moment before meeting your eyes again. “I know what it’s like to feel like you’re trapped in expectations, but… burning yourself out won’t fix anything.”

For a moment, you were silent, the weight of his words settling over you. It wasn’t like Jamil to be so direct about emotions—at least, not with you. He always kept a safe distance, but now, he was offering something more genuine.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. “I don’t know how to stop.”

Jamil’s gaze softened, just slightly. “You’re not alone in this. You have people who care. You don’t have to carry it all by yourself.”

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to crack the walls you’d built around yourself. The exhaustion, the stress, it all felt a little lighter in that moment.

“Thanks, Jamil,” you said quietly, giving him a tired smile.

Jamil gave a small nod, his usual stoicism returning. “Just… try not to overwork yourself again. I have enough on my plate with Kalim.”

You chuckled, the sound weak but genuine. “I’ll try.”

Vil Schoenheit:

Vil had always been a stickler for perfection. His eyes caught every flaw, every imperfection, even the ones that others didn’t notice—or couldn’t care about. So, it was no surprise when he caught you slouching, your hair slightly disheveled, and your usual anxious attention to detail completely absent.

You were exhausted—burnt out to the point where nothing seemed to matter anymore.

Vil clicked his tongue in disapproval as he crossed his arms. “You’ve really let yourself go, haven’t you?”

His tone was sharp, but the comment barely made a dent in your shell of apathy. You just blinked up at him, too tired to even flinch at the judgment.

“Yeah,” you muttered, barely audible. “I guess I have.”

Vil’s violet eyes narrowed, and he placed a perfectly manicured hand on his hip. “This isn’t like you. The White Rabbit I know was always meticulous, even when the rest of you was a mess.”

The words echoed in the air, but you didn’t respond. You knew he wasn’t wrong. The old you would’ve scrambled to fix your appearance, to make sure you lived up to Vil’s impossible standards. But now, you felt too tired to care. What did it matter?

Vil’s frown deepened as he studied you, and something flickered in his gaze—something like concern. “You’re not even going to argue?” he asked, voice softer than before.

You shrugged, staring at your hands. “What’s the point?”

For a moment, there was silence. Vil wasn’t used to this—this version of you that didn’t rise to meet his expectations or bristle under his critiques. The fire that once kept you moving, always trying to prove yourself, was gone.

And it scared him.

Vil stepped closer, his sharpness fading as he crouched slightly to meet your gaze. “What’s going on with you?”

You finally looked up at him, your eyes hollow and tired. “I’m just… tired, Vil. I don’t care anymore. About any of it.”

His eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, the perfect image of Vil Schoenheit cracked. He saw the depth of your exhaustion—the weight you’d been carrying for so long. He realized, maybe for the first time, that your relentless need to keep up with him had finally broken you.

Without a word, he reached out, placing a hand on your shoulder, his touch uncharacteristically gentle. “You don’t have to keep doing this. Not for me, not for anyone.”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat growing as the apathy began to crumble. Tears welled up in your eyes, and you shook your head. “But if I don’t, who will?”

Vil’s expression softened in a way that you rarely saw. “I’m not asking for perfection. Not from you.” He paused, squeezing your shoulder lightly. “I just want you to be okay.”

That was it. The dam broke, and tears streamed down your face as you finally let go of the weight you’d been carrying. Vil didn’t say anything more, just stayed by your side, offering a silent presence as you let yourself fall apart.

Rook Hunt:

Rook Hunt was, in every way, overwhelming. His poetic flair, his dramatic declarations of admiration, and his constant observations—usually about things you wished he wouldn’t notice—had been a source of both irritation and amusement in your life. But now, you found yourself unable to muster even the faintest reaction to his eccentricity.

He had been watching you, of course. Rook always noticed everything, and this time was no different. He approached you with a grin, as though he had a secret only the two of you would understand.

“Mon lapin! You seem to have taken on a new air of mystery, how delightful!” His voice was filled with excitement, expecting a reaction—your usual nervous laughter or maybe a shy protest.

But instead, you just stared blankly at him. “Yeah. Sure, Rook.”

For a brief second, his smile faltered, his eyes scanning your face carefully. You weren’t biting back, weren’t stammering nervously or trying to evade his intense gaze. You were just… blank.

“Something is amiss, non?” His voice softened, a rare gentleness creeping in as he knelt beside you, lowering himself to your eye level. “You’re not yourself today, mon ami.”

You sighed, your shoulders slumping. “I don’t know if I even know who that is anymore.”

Rook tilted his head, his usual theatrics fading. “Ah, you are weary… far too weary for someone so full of life.” His words were soft, his voice no longer teasing but understanding.

“I’m just… tired, Rook. Of everything.” You rubbed your face, trying to shake off the numbness, but it clung to you like a second skin.

Rook, for once, didn’t offer a poetic response or some elaborate metaphor. Instead, he reached out and gently took your hand, his thumb brushing against your knuckles in a quiet gesture of comfort. “You don’t need to explain,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “But you don’t have to carry it alone, either.”

Something in his words broke through the wall you’d built around yourself, and you looked at him, your eyes burning with unshed tears. “I don’t know what to do, Rook. I’m so tired.”

Rook’s expression softened even further, and he smiled, a tender, genuine smile that made your heart ache. “Then rest. You are not a failure for needing time, mon lapin. Even the moon takes its time to rise.”

The tears finally spilled over, and Rook pulled you into a gentle embrace, his arms wrapping around you in a way that felt both comforting and protective. “You are not alone,” he whispered. “Not while I am here.”

Epel Felmier:

Epel had always admired your resilience. To him, you were someone who, despite being shy and quiet, had a certain strength that he respected. But lately, he noticed that something was different. You weren’t reacting the way you used to. You weren’t as anxious or jumpy, but… you weren’t really you either.

One afternoon, Epel found you sitting in the courtyard, staring blankly at the sky. He approached with a grin, his usual proud, determined expression in place. “You’re not lettin’ anyone push ya around anymore, huh? I’m proud of ya for that."

You glanced at him, managing a weak smile. “Yeah, I guess.”

Epel sat down next to you, his smile fading as he looked at you more closely. “But... somethin’ ain’t right, is it?”

You exhaled slowly, leaning back against the bench. “I’m just… tired, Epel. I don’t know how to keep going.”

Epel frowned, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Tired? What do ya mean? You’re always so… strong.”

You chuckled bitterly, shaking your head. “I don’t feel strong. I feel like I’m falling apart.”

Epel’s frown deepened, and he scratched the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable but trying his best to understand. “I get it, kinda. You’ve been workin’ hard, probably too hard.” He paused, glancing at you with concern. “You don’t have to be tough all the time, ya know. It’s okay to ask for help.”

You smiled sadly at him. “I don’t even know how to do that.”

Epel shifted closer, his usual rough-and-tumble demeanor softening. “Well, ya don’t have to do it alone. We’re friends, right? So, if ya need me, I’m here. Even if it’s just to sit with ya.”

For the first time in a while, you felt a flicker of warmth. Epel wasn’t the most eloquent, but his words carried a sincerity that hit you in all

Idia Shroud:

You hadn’t meant to snap at Idia. Honestly, you didn’t. But everything had been building for so long, like a pressure cooker about to blow, and when he made the comment—one that should have been harmless—it all came crashing down.

“Uh… you’re kinda different lately,” Idia had muttered, his eyes glued to his tablet as usual. His tone wasn’t accusatory, more like an observation, but the words felt like a match thrown onto the pile of kindling that had been building inside you.

Different? Was that what he thought? As if you had just woken up one day and decided to be different. As if all the stress, all the constant work and the endless expectations hadn’t eaten away at you until there was nothing left.

Your chest tightened, and before you could stop yourself, you snapped.

“Of course, I’m different! Do you think I want to be like this? That I’m enjoying any of this?” The words tumbled out, sharp and cutting, and you could see Idia flinch slightly, his usual wide-eyed, panicked expression flickering across his face.

He shrunk further into his hoodie, his hair dimming a little at your outburst. “I-I didn’t mean it like that. I just—”

“You just what?” you interrupted, your voice trembling with the weight of frustration and exhaustion. “You think it’s fun being constantly overwhelmed? Do you think I like the fact that I don’t even recognize myself anymore?”

Idia blinked, his hair now a dull, nervous blue as he fumbled with the edges of his sleeves. “N-No, I—sorry. I didn’t realize—”

The sight of him looking so rattled, so unsure, finally made you pause. Your anger began to fade, replaced by a wave of guilt. He wasn’t trying to upset you—he was just being his usual, awkward self. You sighed heavily, running a hand through your hair as you sank onto a nearby chair.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered, staring at the ground. “I didn’t mean to yell. I’m just… tired.”

Idia glanced up at you, his hair flickering back to a soft blue. “No, I get it. I mean… I don’t get it get it, but… I can see you’ve been stressed. I didn’t mean to make it worse.”

You looked up at him, the frustration and exhaustion still simmering under the surface but no longer directed at him. “I just… I feel like I’m falling apart, and I don’t know how to stop it.”

Idia shifted uncomfortably, clearly out of his depth when it came to emotional stuff. But he nodded, his fingers tapping nervously on his tablet. “That… sounds like a total nightmare, honestly. If you wanna talk or, like, not talk… I can just sit here. No pressure.”

You smiled weakly at him, grateful for the gesture even though you knew talking wouldn’t fix everything. Still, the offer meant something, especially coming from someone like Idia, who was as socially awkward as they came. “Thanks, Idia.”

He nodded quickly, his hair flickering brighter. “Yeah, no prob.”

Ortho Shroud:

Ortho was a bright little ball of sunshine, a constant source of cheerfulness that sometimes felt like too much when you were in the state you were now. But he was also hard to ignore, especially when he zoomed over to greet you, his cheerful voice ringing out the second he spotted you.

"Hi! How are you doing today? Is there anything I can help you with?” Ortho’s voice was filled with such eager energy that it almost made you wince.

Normally, his enthusiasm would have been endearing, but today, it was just too much. You forced a tired smile. “I’m fine, Ortho. Just… tired.”

His sensors seemed to pick up on your low energy, and he tilted his head, his mechanical eyes glowing softly. “You don’t seem fine. Maybe you need some rest! Or maybe I could get you something to eat, or—”

“Ortho,” you interrupted, rubbing your temple as a wave of exhaustion hit you. “I just… I just want to be left alone for a little while, okay?”

There was a pause as Ortho processed your request. His cheerful smile faltered for a moment, and his eyes dimmed slightly, but then he nodded, his voice softening. “Okay, if that’s what you want.”

You almost regretted snapping at him, but to his credit, Ortho didn’t push. Instead, he hovered nearby, his presence quiet but still there, like a little brother who didn’t want to leave your side even when you asked for space. He wasn’t overbearing—just a silent, watchful figure in the background, making sure you were okay.

After a few minutes, you glanced at him. He was still there, his eyes watching you with concern, but he hadn’t said a word since you asked to be alone.

A small, tired smile tugged at your lips. “You can stay, you know. Just… maybe tone it down a little.”

Ortho’s eyes brightened, and he floated a little closer, his voice quiet and soft now. “I’ll be here if you need anything.”

Despite your exhaustion, you found comfort in Ortho’s presence. He wasn’t pushy or demanding—just there, offering quiet support. And for now, that was enough.

Malleus Draconia:

Malleus had a way of appearing at the most unexpected times. One moment you were alone, wallowing in your overwhelming responsibilities, and the next, he was there, his presence like a calm, steady force that momentarily took the weight off your shoulders.

"You have a heavy burden," he said softly, his glowing eyes watching you with concern.

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. "I don't have a choice, Malleus. I have to do it all. There's no one else."

He was silent for a moment, his expression thoughtful, before he spoke again, his voice gentle but firm. "You always have a choice."

His words struck you, and you looked up at him, tired and skeptical. "What choice do I have, really? If I don’t do it, who will?"

Malleus stepped closer, his large hand reaching out to gently take yours. The warmth of his touch was comforting, grounding. "I will help you," he said, his voice steady, full of promise. "You do not have to carry this burden alone. I would be honored if you would share it with me."

The sincerity in his words broke something inside of you, and you felt a lump rise in your throat. You hadn’t realized how much you needed to hear that, how much you needed someone to acknowledge your struggle and offer their support. Tears welled up in your eyes, and you tried to blink them away, but it was no use.

Malleus gently pulled you into an embrace, his arms wrapping around you in a way that made you feel safe for the first time in what felt like forever. "I am here," he whispered. "Always."

You buried your face in his chest, letting the tears fall as you clung to him. For the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel so alone.

Lilia Vanrouge:

Lilia always seemed to know when something was wrong, even when you tried to hide it. He found you sitting alone, your shoulders slumped, your mind racing with thoughts of everything you still had to do. The old fae’s eyes softened as he approached, crouching down to your level.

“Ah, my little rabbit, it’s important not to lose yourself in all of this,” he said gently, his tone light but with a hint of seriousness. “You’ve been running yourself ragged.”

You sighed, feeling too tired to argue. “What choice do I have? It never stops.”

Lilia gave you a knowing smile, his eyes twinkling despite the concern behind them. “Even so, it’s vital to take care of yourself. If you get lost, who will be there to find you?”

You stared at him, your eyes stinging with unshed tears. You hadn’t realized how much you had lost yourself until now, how much you had forgotten who you were amidst the endless demands and expectations.

“I don’t know,” you whispered, your voice cracking slightly. “I don’t know how to find myself again.”

Lilia reached out, placing a hand on your shoulder. “You won’t have to do it alone. I’ll be there, whenever you need me. You’ve got someone who will always come looking for you, no matter how far you wander.”

The tears spilled over then, and Lilia gently pulled you into a hug, his arms surprisingly strong for his small frame. “Cry if you need to, little rabbit. It’s alright to be tired.”

You sobbed quietly into his shoulder, grateful for the comfort, for the promise that you weren’t completely lost.

Silver:

Silver was different from the others. He didn’t always have the right words, but his presence was comforting in its own way. You found him waiting for you one evening, his eyes calm and steady as always, and yet… there was a softness there that told you he understood more than he let on.

"You should rest," Silver said simply, his tone gentle but firm. "You’ve been pushing yourself too hard."

You wanted to argue, to tell him that you couldn’t afford to rest, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you just nodded, feeling a tear slip down your cheek.

Silver watched you for a moment, and then, in his quiet way, he stepped closer. "I can stand guard for you," he offered softly. "While you rest. No one will bother you."

Something about the offer made your heart ache, and you swallowed the lump in your throat. “Silver, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he interrupted, his voice gentle but resolute. “It’s okay to let someone else take over, even if it’s just for a little while.”

His words, so simple and sincere, broke the dam, and before you knew it, tears were streaming down your face. Silver, ever so calm, wrapped an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into a hug that was both protective and comforting.

“I’ll be here,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

For the first time in days, you allowed yourself to lean on someone, feeling the exhaustion finally take over as you cried quietly into his chest.

Sebek Zigvolt:

Sebek was the last person you’d expect to understand. When he first saw you, looking worn out and drained, his immediate reaction was his usual loud, indignant self.

"Human! How could you let yourself become so... unkempt?!" Sebek had barked, his voice echoing in the corridor. "You have responsibilities! Standards to uphold!"

You barely reacted, your energy too drained to even muster a response. You just stood there, staring at him with tired, glassy eyes. Normally, you might have snapped back at him, might have told him off for being so overbearing. But today… you didn’t even have that in you.

Sebek stopped, his expression shifting as he took in your hollow look. For the first time, he seemed to realize that something was deeply wrong. His usual bluster faded, and his voice softened, though it still held that familiar Sebek intensity. “Are… are you alright?”

It was such a simple question, and yet it broke something inside of you. You shook your head, unable to hold back the tears any longer. “No. I’m not.”

Sebek’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked completely at a loss. But then, to your surprise, he stepped closer, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard it. “You… you should not bear this burden alone.”

You sniffed, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. “I don’t have a choice.”

Sebek hesitated, then awkwardly placed a hand on your shoulder, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone so loud. “You do. And you must let someone help you.”

You looked up at him, surprised by the sudden shift in his demeanor. Sebek, the loud and proud half-fae, was comforting you. And despite how awkward he was about it, you found it strangely reassuring.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion.

Sebek’s grip tightened slightly, and he nodded, his eyes full of determination. “I will not let you falter.”

You smiled weakly through your tears, and before you knew it, Sebek had pulled you into a clumsy, but genuine hug. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough. You held onto him, letting the tears flow, feeling a little less alone in the world.

And for the first time in a long while, you felt like maybe—just maybe—you didn’t have to carry everything by yourself.

Rollo Flamme:

Rollo’s sharp eyes caught you as you wandered through the dimly lit halls, your steps slow and heavy. His brow furrowed slightly, the ever-present judgmental edge in his voice as he approached.

“You’re not really alive anymore, are you?”

It was such a blunt statement, cutting straight through the haze of your exhaustion. For a moment, you stood there, frozen, unsure if you had even heard him correctly. Then, something inside you cracked. All at once, the weight of everything you had been carrying overwhelmed you, and you felt your knees buckle.

“I’m trying,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I’m trying so hard, but… it’s never enough. I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

You expected him to scoff, to make some cold remark about duty and responsibility. But instead, Rollo’s usually sharp expression softened. He hesitated for a moment, clearly unsure of how to proceed, but then—so awkwardly it almost startled you—he reached out and gently took your hand in his.

“I… didn’t mean to cause more distress,” he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “You have been shouldering too much.”

The simple contact, the warmth of his hand in yours, sent a flood of emotion through you. Tears welled up in your eyes, and you squeezed his hand, your lip trembling. “I don’t know what to do anymore…”

Rollo’s grip tightened, a silent promise that he wouldn’t let you fall any further. “Then perhaps it’s time to stop trying to carry it all alone.”

Neige LeBlanche:

You hadn’t expected to run into Neige when you did—his usual bright demeanor an overwhelming contrast to the exhaustion you felt pressing down on your every move. When he saw you, his eyes widened with immediate concern.

“Oh no… have you been running yourself ragged?” Neige asked, his voice soft and full of sympathy.

You tried to smile, tried to brush it off like you always did. “It’s fine, really. I’m just… tired.”

But the moment you said it, you felt the tears rising again. The weight of everything you’d been trying to handle was too much, and now, in front of someone as kind and gentle as Neige, it was impossible to keep the façade up any longer.

Neige, sensing the shift in your mood, stepped closer, his expression full of worry. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know.” He gently took your arm, guiding you to sit on a nearby bench. “Come on, let’s rest for a bit.”

As soon as you sat down, the dam broke, and you buried your face in your hands, sobbing quietly. Neige didn’t say anything for a moment, but his presence was soothing, like a warm blanket on a cold day. Slowly, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a comforting hug.

“You’ve done so much already,” he whispered, his voice gentle. “You deserve to rest.”

The tears came faster, but this time, they felt like a release. Neige held you, stroking your hair softly as you cried into his shoulder. He didn’t try to fix everything or offer any grand solutions. He just stayed there, offering quiet comfort, and in that moment, it was exactly what you needed.

Che’nya

Che’nya’s grin was as wide as ever when he appeared beside you, hanging upside down from a tree branch like it was the most natural thing in the world. But there was something in his eyes as he looked at you, something that said he knew something was different.

“Well, well, well,” he teased, his voice lilting with amusement. “Looks like you’ve finally become like the rest of them—cynical and all that.”

His words were meant to be lighthearted, a joke, but they hit too close to home. You felt your breath hitch, the ache in your chest tightening. The teasing that once might have been playful now only highlighted the exhaustion, the bitterness you had tried to hide for so long.

“I… I didn’t want to become like this,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I didn’t want to be so… tired.”

Che’nya blinked, his grin fading slightly as he flipped down from the branch to stand beside you. “Hey now… I didn’t mean to make you upset, little rabbit.”

But it was too late. The tears were already spilling down your cheeks, your body shaking with the weight of everything you had been holding in. You covered your face with your hands, embarrassed by how easily you had broken down.

Without a word, Che’nya crouched beside you, his playful demeanor slipping away as he gently touched your arm. “It’s alright, you know? You don’t have to hide it.”

You sniffled, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. “I’m just… I’m so tired of trying to keep up with everything.”

Che’nya gave a soft chuckle, but there was no teasing in it now. “That’s because you’re not supposed to do it all by yourself.”

Before you could say anything, he pulled you into a tight hug, his arms wrapping around you in a way that felt both comforting and protective. “You’re not alone, little rabbit. Not with me around.”

Grim:

Grim had been his usual self at first, bounding around and bragging about his latest escapades. But then he noticed how quiet you had been lately, how you didn’t respond to his antics with your usual snark. He had brushed it off at first, but the more he thought about it, the more it gnawed at him.

Finally, Grim came up to you, his tail flicking nervously as he tried to gauge your mood. “Hey… henchhuman. You’ve been actin’ real weird lately.”

You glanced at him, too tired to even muster a proper response. “I’m just tired, Grim.”

“Tired?” Grim huffed, crossing his little arms. “You’re always tired! But this is different, ain’t it?”

You didn’t say anything, and that’s when Grim’s expression shifted. He stepped closer, his eyes wide and full of concern. “Henchhuman… did I do somethin’? Did I make things worse?”

The sound of his worried voice, of Grim actually not being selfish for once, broke you. You had been holding it in for so long, trying to be strong, but now, with Grim looking at you with those big, worried eyes, you couldn’t hold back anymore. The tears came, fast and unstoppable, and you buried your face in your hands.

Grim panicked for a moment, unsure of what to do, but then he scrambled onto your lap, pressing his little head against your chest. “Hey, hey! Don’t cry! I didn’t mean to make ya upset!”

You sobbed harder, your hands shaking as you tried to get a hold of yourself. “I’m sorry, Grim. I’ve just… I’ve been so overwhelmed, and I didn’t want to bother you…”

“Bother me?” Grim scoffed, but there was no bite to his words. “You’re my henchhuman! If somethin’s wrong, you tell me, got it?”

You nodded, tears still streaming down your face as you hugged Grim tightly. He grumbled a little, but then he nuzzled against you, his small form warm and comforting in your arms. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice sooner,” he muttered. “But you’re gonna be okay. ‘Cause you’ve got me.”

Despite everything, you smiled through your tears. Grim wasn’t perfect, but in his own way, he was trying to help. And for now, that was enough.

Crowley:

"Ah, my ever-reliable little rabbit!" Crowley called from across the hallway, his cloak billowing dramatically behind him. He approached with his usual flourish, clearly in one of his grandiose moods. "I couldn't help but notice that your posture is rather… less upright than usual. No doubt due to your recent lack of respect and enthusiasm! You simply must—"

You barely looked up. Everything was gray. Crowley’s usual barrage of demands and flowery speeches washed over you like distant noise, and for the first time, you didn’t even flinch.

“I don’t care.”

The words came out before you could stop them, low and exhausted. You didn’t even bother to meet his eyes.

Crowley paused, blinking in confusion. “Pardon? Did you just—?” His voice faltered as he saw the deep bags under your eyes, the way your shoulders slumped, and how utterly defeated you looked. The bravado drained from his expression as he realized just how far he had pushed you.

“Oh… oh dear,” he stammered, clearly flustered. “I… I hadn’t realized you were feeling this way.” His hands flapped awkwardly, and he shifted on his feet, the image of a man utterly lost in uncharted waters. “Perhaps I’ve… overworked you. Just a smidge! But worry not! Crowley is here to—erm—assist! Yes, assist!”

You stared blankly at him. “I don’t need assistance. I need you to stop.”

Crowley’s face fell, and after a moment of visible panic, he hesitantly reached out, patting your shoulder in what he clearly thought was a comforting gesture. “There, there… You’re very… valuable to us all. Truly. Perhaps… a bit of a break? I will—uh—take care of things while you rest. Just… please don’t break down.”

Though his attempt at comfort was clumsy and awkward, the thought behind it made your eyes well up with tears. Despite everything, he was trying.

“Okay,” you whispered, and Crowley gave an exaggerated nod, as if this small victory had restored his usual bravado.

“Very well! I’ll expect to see you back when you’re ready, my precious little rabbit. Take your time!”

Divus Crewel:

Professor Crewel’s sharp gaze pinned you the moment you entered his classroom. He noted the new tension in your shoulders, the lack of bounce in your step, and the weary drag in your eyes.

“Well, well, looks like you’ve finally grown some grit,” Crewel said, his lips curling into a smirk. “It’s about time you toughened up. I was beginning to think I had a little herbivore in my class, but I see now you’ve developed a thicker hide.”

Those words—meant to be encouragement, or perhaps a compliment—broke the last bit of strength you had left. The tears you had been holding back spilled over, and your breath hitched as you tried, and failed, to keep your emotions in check.

Crewel’s eyes widened in alarm, his smirk vanishing in an instant. “Whoa, whoa, now—what’s this?” His tone softened, and he quickly put down the lesson plan he’d been holding. He crossed the room, placing a surprisingly gentle hand on your shoulder. “I didn’t mean… I wasn’t trying to push you that far.”

You shook your head, choking back sobs. “I just… I can’t anymore. I can’t keep up with everything.”

For a moment, Crewel stood there, clearly at a loss. But then his paternal instincts kicked in, and he sighed, pulling you into a firm but comforting hug. “You’ve been doing too much, haven’t you, pup? Trying to shoulder all of it on your own.”

You nodded, tears soaking into his coat, but he didn’t seem to mind. He gently stroked your back in soothing motions. “You’ve proven yourself time and again,” he murmured. “But you don’t have to break yourself to do it. Let me handle some of the load.”

His words, so uncharacteristically gentle, made you cry harder. And Crewel, despite his tough exterior, let you. “It’s okay, pup. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

Mozus Trein:

Professor Trein glanced over his spectacles at you as you entered his classroom, late, looking disheveled and utterly drained. He gave a soft ‘tsk,’ his usual sternness evident. “I hope this recent behavior won’t affect your studies,” he remarked, a hint of disappointment in his voice.

You didn’t even have the energy to reply, simply nodding and sitting down heavily at your desk. Trein continued to watch you for a moment, then his brow furrowed as he took in the full extent of your exhaustion—the dark circles under your eyes, the slumped posture, the way you barely moved.

He put down the parchment he’d been grading and approached you, his voice quieter, more concerned. “You’re not yourself.”

You felt tears prick your eyes, but you stubbornly kept them at bay. “I’m… trying.”

Trein sighed, and for the first time, his stern exterior softened. “You’ve always been diligent. But there comes a time when even the most diligent students need rest.”

Before you could respond, you felt a soft weight land in your lap. Lucius, Trein’s ever-grumpy cat, had jumped up onto your desk, curling up as if offering you silent comfort.

Trein gave a rare, faint smile. “Even Lucius seems to think you’ve had enough. Take some time for yourself, and… don’t hesitate to ask for help.”

It was the first time you felt truly seen in a while. And though Trein wasn’t the warmest, his quiet concern—and Lucius’s uncharacteristic kindness—were enough to make you finally exhale the breath you’d been holding.

Sam:

Sam’s wide grin greeted you as you wandered into his shop, his usual cheerful energy practically bouncing off the walls. “Well hey there, little rabbit! What brings you to my corner of the world today?”

You mustered a half-hearted smile, trying to match his energy, but it fell flat. “Just… looking.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed, sharp as ever. “Just lookin’, huh? C’mon now, I know you better than that! Somethin’s got you down, I can see it from a mile away.”

You shrugged, not really wanting to get into it, but before you could think of a reply, Sam leaned in closer, his tone still playful but a bit more serious. “You look like you’ve been runnin’ on empty, little rabbit. What’s goin’ on?”

For some reason, the concern in his voice broke through the walls you’d been trying to keep up. The tears welled up without warning, and you bit your lip, shaking your head as if you could will them away.

Sam’s grin faltered, and his usual jokes fell silent. He quickly stepped around the counter, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “Hey, hey… none of that now. You’re too important to be runnin’ yourself into the ground like this.”

You sniffled, wiping at your eyes. “I just… I don’t know how to keep going, Sam.”

Without a word, Sam pulled you into a hug, his big arms wrapping around you protectively. “You’ve been strong for a long time, little rabbit. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with leanin’ on someone else every once in a while.”

Ashton Vargas:

“Hey! What’s up, champ?” Vargas greeted you with his usual booming enthusiasm as you dragged yourself into the gym. His muscular arms were crossed over his chest, and he was clearly expecting you to give some sort of equally enthusiastic reply.

Instead, you just shrugged, your energy completely sapped. “Nothing much.”

Vargas frowned, his usually boisterous demeanor faltering slightly as he noticed how worn out you looked. “Hey, you alright? You’re lookin’ a little worse for wear.”

You tried to laugh it off, but it came out weak. “Just tired.”

“Tired?” Vargas echoed, his concern growing. “You’re a fighter! You don’t get tired, right?” He tried to give you an encouraging slap on the back, but when you didn’t respond, his smile dropped completely. “Okay, something’s really wrong.”

You sighed, the exhaustion creeping into every part of you. “I can’t keep up anymore, I’m just… done.”

For a moment, Vargas looked completely out of his depth. He wasn’t exactly the go-to guy for emotional support. But he wasn’t going to let you suffer alone either. He awkwardly reached out, putting a hand on your shoulder.

“Look, uh… I’m not the best with words, but… you don’t have to be strong all the time, okay? Everyone needs a break. Even you.”

His sincerity, even through the awkwardness, made your heart clench. And before you knew it, you were leaning into his surprisingly gentle hold as tears finally escaped.

“Alright, alright,” Vargas muttered, patting your back like a dad who didn’t really know what he was doing but was trying his best. “We’ll get you through this, alright? Just… breathe.”

Masterlist

[asumofwords]

Unsought Betrothal - Part 2 - Part One Here

Dark!Aemond x Reader Velaryon x Cregan Stark

Summary: After attempting to humilate your betrothed by laying with Lord Cregan Stark the night before your wedding in the hopes that Aemond would call the wedding off, you find that not only is he determined to still wed you, but also to punish you for your indiscretions. Part One Here

Pairings: Dark!Aemond x Reader, Cregan x Reader, Cregan x Aemond

Warnings: Arranged marriage, threats of violence, acts of violence, forced voyeurism, dubcon, elements of noncon, naked reader, clothed men, fingering, finger fucking, pussy slapping, p in v sex, creampie, pussy eating, cum eating, degradation, praise, voyeur.

Word Count: 13k oops... sorry

Notes: Wow, whelp, its been a while since I have posted some of my writing, and even longer since I wrote the first part of this abomination, but when you get the urge, you just gotta scratch it. Thank you all for all your beautiful messages of kindness as usual, I'm sorry I've been gone a while. I have had a bit of a rough time this year but hopes for a brighter future! Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this, and I hope I can write again very soon for you, hehe ;) Enjoy! <3

The wedding came just as it was planned. Just as it was arranged. Sleep had evaded you, anger and confusion clouding your mind with memories of the night before, ache still throbbing between your thighs. Your little attempt at stopping the engagement had no affect on your betrothed. No affect on the uncle you had grown up with. On the man you would now call husband. 

You had thought that if you could humiliate Aemond in court by flirting with Lord Cregan Stark that he would call off the engagement. That the embarrassment would be too much for the pious prince. That the shame would turn him away from you, making him demand to his mother that they call off the engagement. 

You had thought that maybe if you lost your maidenhead to the Northerner, Aemond would be so disgusted, so filled with rage, that he would call the engagement off, what with him being a dedicated follower of the Seven. 

But you were wrong.

And so you spent an evening limping back into the Keep, escorted by none other than the One-eyed Prince himself and Ser Crispin. The front of your bodice had been ripped by Aemond's hands, but thankfully your hooded cloak covered up your sullied gown, the bottom of it dirtied with mud from where Aemond had bent you over in the alleyway and taken you roughly. With each step you took, you felt his seed slide down your legs, sticking to your inner thighs tackily. 

When you got to your chambers, you used the small basin at your dressing table filled with water to wipe and wash away the blood and seed from your body, pain and a lingering dull ache causing you to jerk with each swipe. 

You didn’t get much sleep that evening, staring blankly up at the ceiling. The urge to run was strong, to just leave out into the night through one of the secret passages and onto your dragons back, but the urge to stay was stronger. You hated him, truly hated him, but the way he had treated you that night, the fire in his eye, it lit something inside of you. It almost made you want him. 

Need him. 

Yet, there was another urge to stay, to make his life hell. To humiliate him at every turn, to ensure that he knew that forcing the engagement to continue would ensure him a life long marriage of discontent and disharmony. 

You were not going to bend to his will. You were not going to bend to his needs, to bow at the husband, and say ‘yes’, and ‘thank you’, and ‘please’. You were going to be who you have always been. 

A Valaryian. 

Your eyes stayed open, watching as the ceiling eventually became light with the sun, indicating the break of dawn, and soon enough your maids were entering your chambers to get you ready to be wed. You were thankful that none of them asked questions about the dirtied ripped gown, or the bloodied rag in the basin, though you knew they were likely already aware. 

The doors to your chambers opened as they pulled your hair back, pinning it atop your head in masses of braids with gold pins, tips glowing red with circular rubies. The colour of your mothers house dripping from you. Footsteps moved through your chambers, your head lifting to find Rhaenyra coming towards you, wearing a dress of black. Her silver hair half up, half down, small braids weaving around the back of her head beautifully. 

A soft smile pulled on her lips as she came towards you, causing you to turn in your seat to fully face her. She looked sad and also lovingly devoted all at once. And whilst you knew it was not her greatest wish to marry you off to her half-brother, you also both knew that it was the only way to prevent bloodshed.

“My sweet.” Rhaenyra cooed, a slender hand coming to brush against your cheek dotingly, the scar on her arm from Alicent peeking beneath the cuff of her dress.

Blood already shed.

“Muña.” You smiled back, pulling her hand down into your lap.

Your mother leant forward and placed a kiss atop your head, “You look so beautiful, my love.”

“Thank you, mother.”

“Are you ready?” Her tone was gentle, as though she didn’t wish to startle you. As though she didn’t want to break the bubble that was the safety of your chambers. 

The last time in your chambers as an unwed woman.

You gave her a reassuring smile, though it didn’t reach your eyes, and she could see it, “I must be.”

The small smile she had worn slid away, “This is not what I had intended for you. I did not wish to force you as I had been. I wish-“

“-I know.” You squeezed her hand, “I understand. It is my duty as your daughter to be wed to the Hightower’s to prevent bloodshed and war. To ensure your ascension to the throne. Let me perform my duty for you.”

“You know that we love you.” Rhaenyra squeezed your hand back, “Daemon has almost gone mad with rage. He does not wish to see you be wed to him. Luc feels that it is his fault.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from either of them.” You stood, still clutching her hand.

Her violet eyes roamed down your body. 

The dress you wore was similar to the one she had worn for her wedding to Laenor, white with gold and licks of red in the lining. The dress sat below your collarbones and drooped against your shoulders, pearlescent beads sewn onto the short sleeves like dragon scales with a red silk peaking underneath.

“I wish this could be different for you.” She came to your side, placing a white cloak atop your shoulders, the Velaryon House sigil embroidered on the back, readying you to leave your chambers.

You looped your arm in hers, steeling a breath before you gave her a confident smile, “I don’t.”

-

Your heart rattled in your chest as you tried to stop the anxiety that churned nauseatingly in your stomach. Your hand was clenched tightly against Daemons arm, who slowly walked you down the many tables filled with people towards the man who would soon be your husband. 

“Breathe.” Daemon cooed softly in your ear, his hand attempting to soothe you with soft brushes against yours. 

Your eyes had not once left Aemond, who watched you with a dark glare. 

The second son stood before the table, Viserys slumped behind him in his chair, the barest of smiles on his rotted face, half covered by a golden mask as you came towards them all. Your mother and Alicent sat on either sides of the King, followed by your brothers, your uncles, your cousins, and your aunt.

Aemond stood stiffly as he always did, the perfect posture with his shoulders back. He was higher on the stairs so that he looked down his nose at you, which wasn’t different to any other time he did. Each step towards him was nerve-wracking, the Lords and Ladies who had travelled far and wide watching you with keen eyes.

When finally you were standing before him, Daemon let go, coming to stand between you and Aemond momentarily, breaking your eye contact for the first time since you entered the room. Your uncle Daemon’s face was a kind one, and one you had grown to love as a step-father. He did not offer you a reassuring smile like your mother did, nor did he offer a consoling one. Instead, he leant forward to press a kiss to the side of your face before standing straight, towering over the both of you in both height and size before he moved back towards the table, sitting beside your mother. 

And so the ceremony began. 

In the light of the chambers Aemond looked sinister, shadows cast across his sharp face as he continued to look down his nose at you, chin still raised high. The Prince’s hair was styled in the way that it always was; straight and down his back, with two plain pieces pulled away from the sides of his face, tied neatly behind his head. He wore all black, the lining and undershirt the deepest of greens that was almost onyx. A symbol of his mother and her war that she had declared on a night such like this, many years ago. 

The room felt hot, the back of your neck sweating as you stared at each other, all eyes pinned on you as the Septon’s voice boomed throughout the room.

“Father, Mother, Warrior,” The old mans voice was so loud in your ear that you winced,  “Smith, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. Hear now their vows.”

You swallowed thickly, momentarily looking down at your hands before back into his sole lilac one, watching as his posture straightened further, surprised that he could even do so.

“I am yours, and you are mine.” Aemond’s voice dipped lower, “Whatever may come.”

Your throat felt dry, but your gut was filled with anticipation. You were frightened, but there was something else simmering beneath it all. A need for the danger he brought, a feeling of protection from him. Not from him and his anger, but from others.

A possessive desire.

The Septon looked at you impatiently to say your vows, and a small wave of quiet whispers spread across the room as you stood silently. The Prince shifted on his feet, muscles in his jaw clenching.

“I am yours,” You breathed softly, hands gripping each other tightly in front of your dress, “And you’re mine. Whatever may come.”

The purple of Aemond’s eye was half hidden by his lid, his gaze having softened at your short vow. You watched as the corner of his sharp lips twitched upwards lightly into a small smirk.

The Septon continued, “Here in the presence of Gods and Men, I proclaim Aemond of House Targaryen and Y/n of House Velaryon to be man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

Man and Wife.

Wed to Aemond Targaryen. 

Your husband.

Now and forever.

An eruption of congratulatory joy spread throughout the room, the noise almost deafening as everyone celebrated what could be your demise. And though the noise around you was distracting, you could not look away from him, even as he shifted closer.

Aemond’s hand lifted and you flinched, the only people having noticed was your family seated behind you. His hand continued despite your shock to cup the side of your face and jaw, and as quickly as it happened, it ended. Aemond’s face grew closer as his eye slid shut, pressing his lips tenderly to yours in a brief moment before he pulled away, hand dropping back down to his side. The hand that had cupped your face grasped your hand for all to see, before he led you around to your seat at the table. 

-

The night of celebrations became a blur, too in shock to really enjoy yourself, but wine still flowing heavily. Most of your evening you spent ignoring your new husband, opting to speak mostly to your mother and brothers, as well as Daemon and his daughters, who threw you pitying smiles, yet words of encouragement. 

Aemond sat by your side, though he made no effort to join your conversations or create ones of his own. He had always been the quiet of his siblings, always sticking to the shadows and tomes of the library, never quite fitting in. 

Helaena leant forward towards you, Otto eyeing her warily whilst Alicent looked as though she was about to chastise her daughter. In your aunts hand was a beetle, all black, though when the light of the candles shone on his shell, it seemed to glow. Greens and blues, and purples and pinks, danced across the beetles wings as it crawled atop her hand. 

Your aunt had always loved insects, and had always been a sweet and kind person. You loved Helaena, and if there was anything that could help you endure living in the Red Keep alone without your family, it would be her. 

“He appears dark,” She breathed watching as it crawled through a gap in her fingers and back towards her palm, “But if you look closely, you’ll find that he’s not.”

You shuffled in your seat, your shoulder pressed to hers as you ducked your head to look closer at the beetle, “He’s quite beautiful.”

Healaena lifted her face towards you, as she smiled at you dreamily, “He is, if you let him.”

Frowning, you looked back to the beetle, “How do I let a beetle be a beetle?”

Helaena did not answer you, instead continuing to twist and turn her hand as the bug crawled around on it. 

Aegon watched from above the rim of his cup, drunk with red rimmed eyes. His hair was oily and wavy, unbrushed atop his round face. You could not help but feel a shiver crawl over you as he smiled.

“Our sweet niece and brother are finally married.” Aegon purred, Helaena barely giving him a second glance as though over the years she had attuned herself into pretending that he did not exist.

“A joyous occasion, uncle.” You smiled falsely back, picking up your own goblet of wine, ready to go back to talking with Helaena. Or the beetle.

Anything to escape Aegon.

“Do you know what happens tonight? After the celebrations of course.” Your uncles voice creeped along the surface of the table like a snake, so that only you and his siblings could hear. 

You swallowed thickly. 

Of course you did. 

You had done it last night.

Bar a bed. Or walls.

In fact, it wasn’t even in the Keep, and instead in a dirty alley in Flea Bottom, hidden amongst the shadows.

“I’m aware.” Your voice was clipped, which seemed to goad Aegon.

“And how does our sweet little niece know of such things?”

You swallowed thickly, head turning to look at Aemond, whose eye was trained on his brother.

“My Septa.” You tuned back to face him, “And your whoring.”

Aegon chuckled, filling up his goblet with wine once more, “I suppose then you know what to expect.”

“Yes.”

“Should you ever be in want of a demonstration-"

“-Leave her be.” Came Aemond’s voice, almost a growl. His hand was clutched tightly around his own goblet as he challenged his older brother to say something more. 

Aegon laughed loudly, eyes on his brothers clenched hand before looking up to watch him, “I only jest, brother! It is a night of celebrations!” He thrust his goblet towards the One-Eyed Prince, “It’s not everyday that my little brother is married off to such a beautiful princess. The daughter of the Realm’s Delight, no less. Do you think-“

Helaena shifted, turning her body towards you, “It isn’t so bad.” She spoke emotionlessly into your ear to distract you from Aegon, “It only hurts the first few times.” Your aunt paused in thought, lavender eyes still on the beetle as it moved, before looking at you, “Or when he’s angry. Or drunk.” She added as an afterthought, “But mostly when he’s drunk.”

Sorrow coursed through you for your aunt, your gaze immediately staring into Aegon’s angrily. How could he do this to her? How could he treat her like one of his whores? If not because she is his wife, but because she is his sister. Aegon seemed to sink into his chair after Helaena’s comment, soft anger simmering off of him in small waves.

But Aegon has never truly known when to stop.

“I am sure my brother here will barely draw blood.” 

“I am sure your interest in your brothers cock speaks loudly.”

Elbows sloppily placed on the table he leant towards you, “I tried to take him once you know, to a whorehouse.” His voice became more hushed, “He hated it. Made me think that maybe our dear Aemond was perhaps like your father, Laenor.”

Blinding rage shot through you, “Don’t speak about my father.” You hissed, “He was more man than you shall ever be.”

A cruel smirk pulled at Aegon’s lips, “I am sure he has had more men than I ever shall.”

Your hand shot forward to grasp your goblet, ready to hurl it across the table at him, peace be damned, but Aemond was quicker and snatched your wrist before the tips of your fingers could even reach the cup. 

A quiet fell over your table as all watched the interaction, your wrist in Aemond’s hand, Aegon smirking cruelly at you, and your face hot with anger.

“I pity you.” You quietly seethed, “Always so desperate to get a reaction out of the people around you, because if you didn’t you would simply cease to exist. Though you are the first son of Viserys, a peasant bastard from Flea Bottom would garner more respect.” 

Aegon’s gassed darkened, his mouth readying to fire back at you.

“Aemond.” Alicent called to her son, a questioning and yet chastising tone in her voice. 

Aemond looked at his mother, and then back to you, checking to see if you were going to continue on with your thought. But you had grown tired of the grip he had on you, his large hand squeezing your bones painfully as they shifted beneath the skin. 

“Don’t touch me.” You sneered at him, snatching your hand away as you stood, chair scraping loudly against the flagstones.

The throne room quietened, all stilling to watch as you stood at the table, seething down at your husband. The rest of your family all watched warily, except for the Rogue Prince who smirked broadly at you. Your chest heaved with anger as you looked down at Aemond, who stared up at you with similar rage. 

King Viserys sensing the tension smiled, though it looked more like a grimace, “Our young lovers wish to dance!” A distraction on his end, and a clever one at that. 

The room erupted into cheers and clapping, and the musicians in the corner began playing music loudly for all. Lords and Ladies stood from their seats and moved into the centre of the room to dance together.

Glaring down at your husband, your hands clenched into fists, waiting for him. Aemond slowly stood, towering over you, a large hand stretched out towards you, palm up. 

“Wife.”

“Husband.” You growled, taking his hand roughly, digging your nails into his skin as you led him down the stairs towards the people.

The court parted to the sides like a wave, creating a path for you straight to the centre as you lead Aemond down to it, almost like a dog. Each man and woman watched with excitement, either for the celebrations or the rising tension between the two of you. You’d be a fool to think that the court wouldn’t love a quarrel to arise so that they may whisper about it in corridors later to come. 

It could be a way to press the wound so to speak with Aemond later.

You stopped in the centre, finally letting go of your husband as you spun to face him. 

He stood as he always did, stiff, emotionless with a hint of arrogance, watching you with a cool glare. The court waited for you to begin, as the music continued to play, but even then you couldn’t push yourself to touch him. To feel his hands on you once more, alighting a fire within you that you did not know was possible, the embers still burning from the night before.

Would they be able to tell?

That he had already deflowered you in Flea Bottom?

In a dirty alley like one of Aegon’s whores?

In a way, you hoped they would. Let it bring him dishonour. Let it bring him humiliation from the court that his wife would take him in such a filthy, commoner way. You wished for his disdain, you wished for his anger, anything but the clear desire which seemed to move through him as he watched you from down his nose. 

“Well?” You snipped, waiting for him to make the first move.

Aemond came forward swiftly, much like he had in the alley, and you had to bite your cheeks to stop the gasp that would have escaped your mouth. 

It came to him so naturally to touch you, to hold you. One large hand immediately grasping yours by your side pulling it up, the other skating up your hip, over your collar bone, slowly down your shoulder, and down, down, down your arm. 

Goosebumps rose on your skin, a shiver running down your back as his other hand connected with yours, and slowly but surely, the dance began. Even with the noise of the room, the music playing, the talking, and laughter, and joy from the guests, you could still hear the small little gasps and breaths you let free as you danced with Aemond. 

It was likely one of the only times you hadn’t bickered after so long in his presence, let alone whilst touching him. The two of you stayed silent, moving this way and that, your gaze occasionally flitting to the table to your mother and Daemon, who watched with kind eyes. 

“Don’t let Aegon goad you.” Aemond finally spoke. 

His hand brushed against your shoulders, and round the back of your neck, a heat beginning to simmer in your gut from his touch. You turned to face him, watching as he observed you closely.

“He won’t stop if you show it bothers you.”

“He always bothers me.” You snipped, but this time with much less anger, “He is like a fly you wish to swat but can never reach."

Aemond’s lip twitched as he looked at you, turning around you slowly, “Mm.” 

“Mm.” You mimicked, turning away from him.

“Behave yourself, wife.” Aemond purred, irritation flitting through you momentarily.

“What? Like how behaved yourself last night?” 

“I could say much the same to you.”

“A shame then.” You sighed, moving to come chest to chest with him, your breath stilling in your lungs as you looked up at him. You would never get used to how tall he had grown over the years, “You bring much dishonour to your mother.”

“As do you. Whoring yourself to a Lord of the North-“

“-King of the North-“

“-In a dirty, whore riddled tavern.”

“A dirty, whore riddled tavern that you knew about.”

Aemond stilled, his head dipping towards you, “Did you think that I wouldn’t know of your movements in Kings Landing? Did you truly believe that I would be so foolish as to think that you would come to me willingly?”

You swallowed thickly.

“No.” He continued, sucking on his teeth, “You forget that I know you. You are much like your brothers. Getting into places where you don’t belong.”

“And what of yours?” You became defensive at the mention of your brothers, remembering how he and his would call you all bastards, “Loudly and brazenly whoring himself to any and all who would dare risk fucking him.”

“My brothers whoring does not concern me.”

“Then I suppose I am not a concern either.” You sniffed, “You needn’t worry, I am sure that he should find his way into our chambers one way or another.”

The hand on your arm tightened to the point of pain, your cheek twitching as you tried to hold in a wince, “I told you, he is not of concern.”

“I know Aegon. I have heard of what he does-“

“-And you know me. Know that he will not-“

“-He will not, what? Sully me? Taint our marital bed? It is already tainted. You made sure of that last night.” You stood closer to him, still as the others danced around you, your gaze peering up into his as your chest heaved, “But what if I want him to? What if I willingly invite him to take me? I’m sure you do not mind sharing after all, he is your brother.”

Aemond’s eye flashed with anger, before his head slowly ducked beside your ear, “If you think I am fool enough to stoop to your provocations then you must forget that we grew up together, side by side. I know your tricks.” The hand on your arm released its strong grip, coming to brush against the back of your neck, “I know that you despise him just as much as I. I know that you used to cry at the Godswood when he called you bastard.”

You bristled, purposely stepping back as you stared at him angrily. You hated that word. You hated what it meant for you and your siblings. You hated that he and his brother and his mother and the court whispered about all of your parentage. You hated that once, when you had been young, despite all of this, you had been friends.

Rage bubbled up inside of you, and before you could stop yourself you leant forward, hand coming to touch the side of Aemond’s face with his one seeing eye, the other covered by his leather patch.

You rubbed your thumb atop his cheek, “Imply that I am bastard once more, and I shall blind you with the purpose that Lucerys lacked.”

Aemond’s chest rose and fell jaggedly, inhaling breaths faster than yours, anger coursing through his veins. His sharp lips twitched as he watched you, “I wouldn’t dare. I know just how Strong you are, Princess.”

Your thumb moved fast, but Aemond was faster, anticipating your movements. His hand caught yours against his cheek, trapping your fingers between his hand so that they may not move further to pluck his remaining eye from its socket like intended. 

“People are watching, ābrazȳrys.” Wife, He purred, though there was a lick of danger behind it. 

A warning.

“Ivestragī zirȳ urnēbagon.” Let them watch, You sneered, “Nyke kessa laesdaor ao hae iā dīnilūks irudy.” I shall blind you as a wedding gift.

Aemond’s silver brow lifted, “Skoros iā sȳz irudy.” What a good gift, His eye turned dangerous, “Eman iā irudy syt ao, mēre nyke gōntan daor jaelagon naejot tepagon.” I have a gift for you, one I did not wish to give.

“Is it your death?” You countered cheerily, not wanting to show him that the way he spoke to you set your hair on end.

“No. I think it will be much better than that. We will both come to enjoy it.” The danger in his eye still flickered like a flame, “I was considering not giving it to you, but since you are behaving so wonderfully, I simply must insist.”

You turned away from him, moving to go back to your seat, “I want nothing from you.”

“And yet, you'll have everything.”

-

As the night grew long, your fears grew larger. And though he had taken you the night before in an alley, his subtle threat of what may come tonight lingered in the back of your mind. Each cup of wine was drained eagerly by your lips, hoping and wishing that you could somehow make yourself sick enough to not have the bedding ceremony. 

But it came all the same, just as the wedding had.

Aegon was the one who initiated the beginning of the end.

A large clap came from in front of you, the short haired Prince leaning towards you on the tables with his hands clasped together, silver and gold rings adorning them. A sinister smile pulled at his lips as he beamed at you and his brother. 

“The night is late!” He proclaimed loudly to the chambers, many Lords and Ladies turning their heads to watch, “I think we have held these two young lovers hostage for far too long!” Aegon smiled out to the room and then stood, lifting his goblet. 

His shirt was untucked, his gait unsteady and he swayed on his feet as he continued, ���My brother is too polite to remove himself from festivities such as these! But brother,” He thrusted his cup towards you, “I can see that you wish to take your new wife to bed! The love these two share is a tale for story books, though they are too polite to say a thing.” He chuckled, and laughter followed from the Lords behind you, “Worry not! We will continue the festivities without you!”

Cheers were heard from about the room, though none came from your own table. Aegon sipped his wine greedily, eyes watching you from above the rim of his cup. The Prince took the goblet from his lips and clicked his fingers impatiently beside him, pointing at an uncomfortable Criston Cole who came to his side like a well trained mutt.

“Ser Criston, take these newly weds to my brothers chambers. It seems it is time for the bedding ceremony.”

Ceremony. 

Your blood ran cold. 

Aemond stood abruptly beside you, head on with his brother. 

“No need, Ser Cole.” His smooth voice icy, “I shall escort the Princess there myself.”

Aemond pushed his chair backwards as you continued to stare at Aegon, not quite ready to be alone with the Prince. 

Your husband.

You blinked, turning your head towards your family, who all gave you pained smiles. But it was your duty. And you had given your mother your word. Slowly you stood, letting your eyes scan the table, softly landing on your grandsire before meeting with a pair of large brown eyes. Alicent Hightower watched on with a nervous energy, her hands shifting on her lap as you assumed she picked at the skin around her fingers. The look in her eyes almost held empathy. 

Almost. 

You bowed your head to the King and Queen, ignoring Aegon’s shit eating grin. 

“Your Grace.”

Pushing your chair back you ignored the outstretched arm of Aemond and made your way down the stairs, Lords and Ladies watching as you made your slow exit from the room, taking false prideful steps through the court to delay the inevitable, giving all who watched smiles and nods of your head. 

The shifting of armour moved loudly behind you, before soon enough, Ser Criston Cole was overtaking your step to lead you out of the chambers and soon to Aemond’s. The white cape attached to his shoulders billowed behind him as he speedily kept on.

The skin on your elbow burned, a hand gripping it tightly as you were momentarily slowed as Aemond came to your side. You refused to meet his eye, feeling his gaze upon the side of your face as you exited the chambers, the sounds of cheering and laughter loud behind you. The chamber doors shut with a thump, the sound dampened and muffled, footsteps echoing down the darkened corridors of the Red Keep.

“Does Ser Criston not wish to watch you bed me?” You sneered, eyes flickering to the lit lamps on the walls as Aemond led you down a wing of the Keep you had scarcely been down. 

“I have instructed him to prepare my chambers for your arrival.” Aemond replied, his strides long and rigid as he almost hauled you with him. 

“Do not pull me.” You yanked your arm back, halting your steps, “I am not your dog.”

Aemond stilled, looking down his nose at you as he towered above, “Dogs are better behaved.”

The Prince’s head snapped to the side, pain spreading through your palm as you sneered at him. The side of his cheek bloomed an angry red, yet Aemond did not react to your slap, nor did he hit you back, instead, a slow smirk pulled at his lips. 

“I shall allow that, but only because I know you will regret it.”

Rising to your tiptoes you tried to make yourself come to eye level, “I regret nothing.”

“Mm.” He looked at you blankly, “I shall give you a choice.” Anger rose within your chest, heat creeping up your neck and into your cheeks, “Come with me to the Godswood.” Your brows furrowed, “Pray to the Gods for forgivingness for striking your husband, kneel and apologise. Swear obeisance to me-”

“-If you think-“

“-And I shall let you go to your own chambers alone. No need for a bedding ceremony after last night.”

You flushed, swallowing thickly, “I would never lower myself to apologising to a second son. And especially not to a Prince who is owed no inkling of respect.”

Aemond watched you for a beat, eye scanning your face as his held flat, “Then we continue to my chambers.” The hand that pulled you began again, and your feet struggled to keep up with his, bruises no doubt to be on the tender flesh of your arm in the morning. 

Your heart raced in your chest as you felt yourself get closer to his chambers, his strides not once slowing down, though you tried to dig your heels into the flagstones to slow him. 

“You care not to have a woman enthusiastic in your bed?” You tugged fruitlessly at your arm, “You wish to drag me to a night of suffering, like a savage. Like your brother, Aegon.” You sneered, fruitlessly tugging your arm to escape his grip.

“A savage would have had you atop the table before all to see when you first defied me. I gave you a chance to apologise, remember that you scorned it.”

“A chance? What chance was I given? A loveless marriage with a man who is not my equal? A burden I am forced to bear as I am forced to lay beneath him!”

Aemond’s steps halted once more, almost causing you to crash into him, his fingers tightening against your arm as he yanked you against his chest angrily, “You needlessly make this more difficult. I extended an offering to you of peace, and you burnt it.”

“Peace?” You screeched incredulously, “You have done naught but provoke me! Naught but push and prod and goad me into reaction so that you may justify your sick desires.”

“Provoke you? I seem to recall you sneaking into Flea Bottom to try and lay with a Lord to spite me.”

“I was trying to save us from a loveless and cruel union.”

“Us? Or yourself?”

You paused, mouth feeling dry. Anger and fear swirled within your gut viscously as you stared at him. The both of you panting heavily at one another. Aemond shifted, moving away from the wall beside you, revealing two large wooden doors. 

You were there.

And you had not even realised.

“Wife.” Aemond purred sarcastically before pushing open the door, the smell of his room engulfing you. 

It smelt of him, but far more intensely. Of leather and smoke, and spices which he dabbed his skin with, and still, behind all of this, the natural scent of him. The smell that was only his and his alone. A scent that had wrapped around you in that alleyway the night before. 

The fireplace raged wildly, the room filled with dark mahogany furniture. There was a chaise, arm chairs, a table seated for six, a large bed on the other end, a reading desk with piles of books and scrolls, and candles sitting on every surface, lighting the room. 

The second thing you observed as your eyes roamed the space was that you were not alone. 

Your heart skipped in your chest. 

There by the bed, was a man sat in a chair. Arms tied down to it as his feet were tightly bound to the legs. His long dark hair was knotted atop his head as he stared at you in shock, and beside him, Ser Criston Cole.

“Cregan?” You breathed in shock, running towards the Northerner as you dropped to your knees, hand reaching out to cup his face as he only looked at you with sorrow, “Are you hurt?”

“I did warn you,” Aemond growled from behind, “That you would regret it. I had a plan, you see. A moment of mercy to let you apologise at the Godswood, for you to go-“

“-Let him go!”

“-To your chambers untouched and unscathed. I had given you a choice, and this is the one you have chosen.”

You turned your head sharply to face Aemond, “What have you done?”

“This man was caught conspiring against the crown. He planned to take the Princess’ honour and humiliate her betrothed. A Prince.” His lilac eye held Cregan’s icy blue ones, “I have done my duty by capturing this traitor to the realm.”

Fear began to bubble inside of you, eyes looking back to Cregan. The left side of his face was bruised, small cuts littered across his cheek and brow. His soft lips were swollen and split, and dried blood had gathered in one corner.

“He is innocent.” Your knees ached as they dug into the stones below, your upper body turning to face Aemond again, “He knew naught of what I was doing. Punish me. Let him go.”

Aemond hummed and walked towards you, “Brave. Admirable if it wasn’t for nothing. No. I gave you a choice before, and you have made your choice. I gave you the option to apologise, to bend to me as your husband, to go to your chambers alone, but this is what you have chosen. This was your choice.”

“You gave me no choice!” You sneered, moving to stand, shielding Cregan’s body with your own, “All this talk of choices when all you have gave was an unknown ultimatum.”

“A choice nonetheless. Godswood or chambers. And so here we are. The consequences of your actions.” The Prince came closer, shadows cast across his face, “I told you that you would regret it.”

“You’re a savage! A foul beast.”

A smile pulled at Aemond’s lips, “Choose your words carefully, wife. I have no qualm with slitting his throat where he sits should you continue to defy me.”

Cregan pulled against his restraints, angrily sneering at Aemond, who simply hummed once more as he came to stand before you, looking down at you with false pity, “But, it is the night of our union, and the betrayal is still fresh and something I am willing to move past. I shall give you another choice. One that I feel may be far too lenient.”

Tears began to well in your eyes.

This was all your fault.

“The Lord of Winterfell shall sit where he is, and watch as I fuck you in ways that he never shall-“

“-You disgust me!”

“-Or he shall be tried and hung for treason.” Aemond came closer, his chest almost brushing against yours as he stared at you, “The choice is yours.”

You sneered upwards at your uncle, tears gathering in your eyes, “I would rather die than let you touch me again.”

“I recall you seeming to enjoy it, wetting my cock in that filthy alley as you begged for it.” He purred, hand lifting to brush hair from your face as he sighed, “I don’t mind what you choose, I could simply slit his throat myself right now? If you'd prefer it?”

A lone tear fell down your cheek as you turned and held Cregan’s gaze, his brows furrowing as he saw you come to your decision. 

“Y/n, don’t-“ Cregan’s head was jerked back roughly, Ser Coles hand in his hair as he stuck a blade beneath his chin. The edge of the blade nicked the skin lightly, a small bead of blood travelling down his neck. 

He would die.

He would die and it would be all your fault.

“Please, Aemond.” You begged, “Please do not do this. Let him go. Let him go and I swear to you I will obey your commands. Let him free and I am yours.”

The silver haired mans head tilted as he cooed you, “I am sorry, my love. But it is too late to beg for my mercy as I offered it to you before. What kind of man would I be if I excused such treason?”

You stepped forward swiftly, “A strong one. A merciful one. A man who can see the error of my way. That I am repentant.” You tried to cajole him, “I promise you I will be good. I will perform my duty and do what is expected of me.”

“You are sweet when you beg, but it is too late.”

“Uncle, please! I will do anything! Anything you ask of me. I swear to the Seven.”

Aemond smiled at you, “I know you will. And that is why you will do this.” Aemond swallowed, eye roaming down your wedding gown hungrily, defiantly. 

Angrily. 

“Strip.”

“Aemond-“

“-Strip, or he dies.”

Tears rolled down your cheek, your stomach rolling in disgust and fear. 

“Please do not make me do this.” You sobbed, arms limp by your side as you looked down at the flagstones, feeling defeated.

Your husband tutted you, long slender finger brushing the tears that fell from your eyes away, “Do not waste your tears on him, my love. I can be gentle, and soon you will come to love my touch. This, I promise you.”

Pain bloomed in your jaw as you ground your teeth together, wary to not trigger Criston’s excitable hand. Short breaths puffed from your nose as fury and sorrow rose within you like a tide, little by little building in a wave. In your periphery, Aemond stepped back, a pale hand presented in front of you, palm outstretched for you to take.

Slowly, you let your gaze meet his, heated glare ignoring his offering as you refused to move. One last act of defiance. And one Aemond did not take lightly. Pain bloomed in your shoulder as you were roughly yanked forwards, and thrown backwards against the bed. Cregan shouted from behind you, the chair creaking beneath him. 

“I said, strip.” Aemond growled.

Your eyes flicked to Cregan, and then up towards Ser Cole who watched with conflicted eyes.

“Please,” You begged softly again, keeping your eyes on Ser Criston, “Not him too. Not Ser Cole.”

A shifting of armour moved from behind Aemond, and a small ‘Your Grace’ fell from the knights lips. 

Aemond spun, momentarily ignoring you as he turned to the knight standing awkwardly beside Cregan Stark, “You may leave, Ser Cole.” Aemond sniffed, “I am certain our guest will behave accordingly.”

Ser Criston’s eyes flickered to yours and then to the Prince as you tried to plead to him with yours for help. 

To help the daughter of the woman he was once sworn to. 

But no help came. 

The Dornish knight bowed his head and left without another word. 

“Let her go-“

“-Ah.” Aemond turned slowly towards Cregan, slow steps coming forward until he stood towering over the northerner, “Speak again and I’ll cut out your tongue.”

“Kepus,” You stood from the bed, grasping Aemond’s elbow tightly, hoping, praying that if you asked once more that he could see reason, “Please, let him go. I am yours. I will always be yours.”

Aemond stared at you, his pupil dilated as he stared at you intently.

“Strip.”

You fought the sob that threaten to rise up your throat and slowly lifted your chin. 

You would not show weakness. 

You would be strong. 

With shaking hands, you let your fingers find the strings at the back of your dress, and slowly but surely you pulled the laces, keeping your eyes on your husband who watched with intent. 

The gown sagged against your frame, the soft material falling down your chest slowly as you held it for one last moment, hoping that it was all a test, that he would change his mind and stop this madness. 

But he didn’t. 

Breath held in your chest, you let the gown fall to the floor below you, leaving you in your thin shift before the two men. Cregan looked away, his eyes focusing on the stones of the wall in shame, his hands tucked into tight fists against the arm of the arm of the chair, knuckles turning white.

A shiver ran down your back as the cool of the chambers stiffened your nipples into peaks, brushing against the white of your chemise. Aemond took a slow step towards you and then another, hand lifting to brush under your chin, an attempt to direct your gaze to him. You turned your head defiantly; looking to the wall where Cregan’s gaze laid. 

“Y/n.” Aemond warned softly, thumb and forefinger pinching your chin as he turned your face towards him, “Look at me.” 

Reluctantly you let yourself, and all you saw was the black of his pupil as he devoured you with his darkened gaze, “You’re so beautiful.” He cooed, “My wife.”

You swallowed thickly, his hand slowly skimming down your neck raising goosebumps along your skin as his fingers came to rest against the edge of your chemise. The tips of his nails scraped softly against your skin as it slipped beneath, and with an even slower movement, he tugged the chemise down off of your shoulders, the thin material floating down to the floor below leaving you completely exposed to the two men in his chambers. 

“I will not harm you, though you would deserve it.” Aemond purred, his eye roaming your exposed body, your stomach and core clenching in anticipation, “I plan to make you beg for it.”

You opened your mouth to snap at him, but in the moment his long fingers came to brush under your breast, fingers teasing your nipple softly, your mouth clamped shut. You shyly glanced at Cregan, who’s eyes were scrunched tight. Aemond followed your line of sight, sighing.

“If you do not watch,” Aemond fully turned to Cregan, “I will take out your eyes.” 

Even at the One-Eyed Princes threat, Cregan did not lift his gaze from the wall. The Lord of Winterfell willing to risk his sight so that you may keep your dignity.

“Fine.” Aemond grunted, pulling the blade from his belt, “Then I shall take hers.”

Fear shot through you as you stared at Aemond tearfully, watching in your periphery as Cregan’s head turned towards you and yelled. 

“No!”

“Then,” Aemond sneered, “Watch.” 

With eyes filled with shame, Cregan looked up at you. You didn’t know what to do, what could make it better. What could make any of this not what it was, and so you tried to offer him a reassuring nod. A small promise that it was okay to look when all you knew was how very much it wasn’t.

“Good.” The Prince hummed. 

Aemond resumed his touch against you, hand coming to cup your breast fully as he rolled your nipple between his fingers. His touch sent sparks across your chest, shame washing over you in a wave. 

Aemond ducked his head towards your face, beckoning you to kiss him. Would he be gentle as he was when you were married? Would it soften his actions? Or would it only make him worse?

Deciding that you didn’t want to push what little patience he had, your eyes slid shut, breath stuck deep in your chest as you felt the heat of his body come closer, the hand on your breast skating around your ribs to pull you closer to him. 

When his lips pressed against yours it was light, gentle, almost cautious, your hands staying stiff by your sides. But that softness was short lived, and soon Aemond deepened the kiss, his teeth clashing against yours roughly. 

You gasped softly as his other hand wound into your hair, tugging you closer as he nipped your bottom lip roughly. Your hands instinctually came up to his chest, gripping onto his jacket tightly to steady yourself. Anger poured into the kiss, and from behind you could feel the reluctant glare of Cregan. 

Aemond pulled away, your eyes fluttering open to look at him. His lips were swollen, having turned a rosy pink as a blush settled across his cheeks. His chest heaved against yours, the stitching on his coat brushing roughly against your stiffened peaks. 

“Have you ever bed a woman, Stark?” Aemond asked smugly, brushing the back of your neck as you turned you to face the Northerner again, your back to Aemond’s chest.

Even as exposed as you were, Cregan’s eyes did not shift to look at your body, keeping his simmering glare on Aemond.

Clicking his tongue, Aemond continued, “I’m sure you’ve fucked wildlings and mudmen alike, being a man of the North.” An arm wrapped around the front of your chest, breasts squeezed beneath the toned arm of your uncle behind you, “Tell me, are Winterfells brothels full of sheep like the Vale? Or maybe they’re full of pigs since you’re both fond of the mud.”

The chair beneath Cregan creaked, his jaw tensing in anger as Aemond taunted him. His pale eyes narrowed, lips tensed together in a sneer as his nostrils flared, breathing heavily whilst his hands gripped the arms of the chair tightly.

“No? Hm.” Aemond’s other hand slid across the skin of your back, travelling around to the front of your stomach slowly, brushing his fingertips along your hip bone as he continued, “You see, Stark, mudmen of the North have no place with the blood of Valyria. The Blood of the Dragon would never sully itself by laying with a Northerner. Nor would a Princess.” His hand continued to dip down, fingers brushing into the hair atop your mound. 

Your back arched in instinct, trying to escape his hand, but it only pushed your backside into his clearly hardened member, “Targaryens don’t fuck like animals,” His voice dipped lower, “We bring pleasure to our lovers.”

Aemond’s hand continued down, parting your folds with a finger, seeking out the heat and slick that had gathered at your entrance. Once found, Aemond’s chest vibrated from behind with an appreciative hum, dragging a long slender finger from your entrance, back up to your pearl. You jerked in his hold as he pushed lightly against it, slowly and torturously swirling the digit against your bud, your arousal aiding his movements. 

You watched Cregan curiously, the urge to hide yourself strong. His eyes never once left Aemond as he continued to bring you soft pleasure. The Stark’s chest rose and fell shallowly as he glared at the man behind you, who watched back with impatience. 

“I won’t tell you again.” Aemond purred, fingers dipping down to your entrance as he suddenly shoved one long finger inside of you, causing you to gasp at the small sting, “Watch her, or I blind her.”

Cregan’s eyes shut as he took a shaky breath, Aemond’s finger crooking inside of you, pressing against your front wall roughly. A whine fell from your lips causing the icy blue eyes to catch yours finally. Cregan swallowed thickly as you stared at one another, your hands gripping the sleeve of Aemond’s arm across your chest, twisting the material between your fingers as you shifted your hips back, pressing against him as he sped up his fingers movement. 

Cregan’s stare was hard, his eyes apologetic, watching you shift against your husband behind you as he began to fuck his finger inside of you, the sound of your slick filling the room. Your face flushed with embarrassment. 

“She’s quite reactive,” Aemond purred, slipping his finger from within you to rub at your bud again, causing you to jerk in his hold, his arm tightening further around your chest, “Her body knows what it wants, even when she tries to fight it. Do you hear how she needs me?” 

Aemond’s finger moved back to your entrance, but instead of one, he forced in a second, the ache from the night before settling within you again.

“Gods.” You whispered softly, pain and pleasure mixing into a confusing blend. Your head fell back against Aemond’s shoulder as he sped up his hand, fucking his fingers inside of you roughly. All you could do was lean your weight back against him, his arm the only thing that held you upright as his arousal pressed into the small of your back.

A familiar warmth began to build within you quickly, a coil rapidly tightening within your gut as Aemond switched from fucking you with his hand, to rubbing slick circles against your pearl. You scrunched your eyes shut, mouth going slack as your breath hitched. You were so close, so close, to reaching your peak, but each time you would almost get there, Aemond would slow his hand down. 

You whined in his arms, shifting as you just wished it would end, wishing he would let you peak. It was torture. And with each time he did it, the frustration and desperation built, a light sheen of sweat covering your skin.

“What is the matter?” Aemond cooed into your ear, his fingers slowing to almost a halt, “Did you need something?”

You huffed a breath through your nose, eyes scrunching shut as you tried to thrust your hips into his hand, anything to alleviate the pressure that was strung to snap at any moment. You didn’t care anymore, you just needed it to end. Aemond’s fingers stopped, hovering over your pearl.

You didn’t even want to think of what you must have looked like, bare, hair likely a mess, and body aching for release.

All while Cregan Stark watched.

“If you want something,” Aemond’s lips came to the side of your ear, pressing a ghostly kiss to them, “You need only ask.”

You bit on your bottom lip, willing yourself to not give in, to not give him what he wanted, but all you could think about was reaching your peak. Logically, you told yourself it was for Cregan’s sake so that it could all end quickly, but in reality, it was so that the throbbing in your core would cease, and the sweet feeling of relief could wash over you like it had the night before. 

“Come now, you’re not one to hold your tongue. Ask.”

You wet your lips timidly, keeping your eyes shut in shame, not wanting to see Cregan’s face as you begged for the man behind you to touch you again as he watched. 

A sharp sting shot through your centre, your eyes springing open as you gasped, you gaze immediately meeting the cold icy glare of Cregan, who’s fists tightened around the arms of the chair.

“Speak.” Aemond commanded, voice sharper in your ear as he watched Cregan tensing to the chair he was tied to.

Your mouth felt dry, and you licked at your lips once more before you softly whispered, “Please.”

“Please what?”

Cregan’s gaze looked back to yours, his eyes softened.

“Please,” You begged softly, “Touch me.”

You heard Aemond hummed from behind you, his finger slowly pressing into your cunt as he gathered slick from your entrance to drag back up to your bud.

“Like this?” He purred, slowly making circles against you, the coil within tightening again.

All you could do was nod, but that was not the answer that Aemond demanded. His fingers left your pearl as he waited, and you huffed in frustration.

“Touch me. Please, Aemond.” You weakly begged, eyes darting to the floor in embarrassment, not wanting to see Cregan’s face. 

His touched resumed once more, but the arm wrapped around your chest shifted, his hand coming to grasp your chin as he lifted your head to look squarely at Cregan, a soft blush spreading across his cheeks.

“All you needed to do was ask, sweet wife.” Aemond purred, the movement speeding up, bringing you closer and closer to your peak, “I want you to wet my hand, and watch him whilst you do it. If you do not,” His voice dipped low, fingers pressing almost painfully against you, “I will know.”

You swallowed dryly and nodded your head in his grasp, feeling your peak begin to barrel towards you. Cregan watched your face, his own a soft pink and ice blue eyes half lidded. 

“Does this feel good? Am I making you nice and wet?” Aemond cooed, hand plucking pleasure from you in ways you didn’t know was possible.

You nodded weakly, “Yes.”

“You can do better than that. Tell him what it feels like.”

Your eyes widened, embarrassment flaring inside of you.

“Tell him or I’ll stop.”

“It-“ You paused, swallowing the last of your pride, “It feels good.”

“What feels good?”

“When you touch me.”

“How so?”

You exhaled shakily, shifting in his arm as his fingers softened their movements, “It feels good when you touch my cunt.”

“Sȳz riña.” Good girl, Aemond praised you, causing arousal to spark inside, “That wasn’t so hard, now was it? Does it feel good when I fuck you with my hand?”

“Yes, uncle.” You whined weakly.

“Tell Cregan that it feels good when I fuck you with my hand.”

Blinking at the man tied in the chair, you grit your teeth, “It feels good when he fucks me with his hand.”

Cregans nostrils flared as he shifted in his seat, and your head fell back against Aemond once more, “I’m close.” You panted.

You were so close, so, so close to just tipping over the edge, the smell of Aemond behind you suffocating you as heat began to rise through your body. The gaze of the man before you wavered, his eyes momentarily dipping to where Aemond’s hand was rubbing swift and slick circles. That was all it took for you to feel yourself fall undone.

You writhed against Aemond as your peak washed over you, the Northerner watching on as Aemond’s fingers became wet with your release, his gaze darting up to watch your face, jaw slack as he breathed shallowly.

“Shh, shh, shh. Good girl.” Aemond praised you, his hand finally stopping as he smoothed up and down your sides. 

A warm glow settled over your body and your eyes slid shut, head lolling to Aemond’s chest behind you as you breathed deeply, the pulsing of your cunt halting any and all thoughts that you had. 

But as quick as the calm had come, the quicker it left, your world tilting as you were spun and pushed back onto the bed. Your eyes shot open as you watched Aemond step towards you, Cregan observing with slight concern before you were yanked back down the bed towards the Prince by your ankles, legs splayed open. 

On instinct they tried to close, too exposed to the room, but your husband wouldn’t allow it, standing between them as he held them open with his hand, his lone eye commanding you to stay still from above. 

Would it be painful like the night before? Would he bring you pleasure as well? Or would it be something entirely different now that you lay down on a bed, the way that your Septa’s had told you it would happen, and certainly not inside a dirty alley in Flea Bottom?

But what your Septa’s had not informed you of was that your husband, who seemed to be more concerned with punishing you than bringing you any reward, began to kneel before the bed, his back to his prisoner.

“I need to taste how sweet you are, and then I shall fuck you.” 

With a broad swipe of his tongue, Aemond parted your folds from your entrance to your bud, collecting your release on it as he went. His eye closed as he hummed, coming to lap at your folds once more, pleasure sparking up through you. 

You gasped softly, the feeling foreign but not unwelcome. It was more intense than you had thought it could be, but perhaps you were over sensitive from the release you just had. You watched Aemond, his lilac eye opening to look up at you with a smirk.

He pulled away from your centre, lips wet with your slick, “You are as sweet as I thought you would be.”

Aemond stood, towering over you as he began to pull at his belt and breeches, wherein he began untying them, lace after lace ripped from its eyelet until they sagged. His shirt was pulled away, revealing the pale skin of his lower stomach, and the dusting of hair that trailed down from navel to pubis.

The Prince’s length strained against his breeches, the base of it just showing, a purple vein standing out against his starkly pale skin. You hadn’t gotten to see it properly the night before, and the sight of it made your core clench around nothing. 

Before he pulled himself from the confines of his pants, Aemond grabbed you once more and shifted you to lay sideways atop his bed, the plush green sheets soft beneath your skin. Your eyes rose to the ceiling, looking at the soft canopy that lay atop before the screeching of a chair on stone caught your attention.

You snapped your head to the side, watching as Aemond effortlessly dragged Cregan by the chair closer to the bed, only an arms length away. He towered over the man from Winterfell who looked up at him with nothing but contempt.

“You’ll watch me fuck her,” Aemond began smugly, “And know that it could never be you. Know that it will never be you.” Cregan attempted to sit up higher in the seat, chest pulling at the ropes that held him back, “You’ll watch me bring peak after peak from her as she wets my cock and likes it, and you’ll remember that it was me doing it.”

“Aemond.” You tried to distract him, try to take the attention away from Cregan, who watched with burning eyes, “Please.”

The silver haired Prince turned his head towards you and smirked before looking back at Cregan, “You see? She already begs for more.” Aemond walked back towards you, only two short steps from the bed as his eye roamed your naked body, gaze settling into the crux of your thighs, “She only had me last night, and already she begs so nicely.”

With jerky movements, Aemond pulled his length from his breeches, the length and girth large and intimidating. The tip was a rosy pink, and long veins travelled up its length. A bead of arousal had begun to form on top, slowly leaking down the base as he knelt on the bed, pulling you down to meet his hips, and had you not already experienced it, you would have been filled with fear. 

Aemond thrust into you quickly and sharply, pain filling you before a feeling of fullness, his tip pressing at the end of your walls. You hissed softly, hands having raised to grasp his arms, nails biting into his skin beneath his shirts.

Your husband leant down, lips brushing against your cheek as it moved to your ear, “Do you like when I spear you on my cock?” He purred, his breath tickling your neck. 

With clenched teeth you nodded, willing your body to adjust to his size quickly.

“Use your words, you’re not a mute.”

“Yes.” You grit out, turning your head away from him as he loomed above you, arms on either side of your head as he lay between your parted thighs.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Aemond.”

“Close.

You swallowed, “Yes, Husband.”

“Good.” Aemond pulled out of you swiftly before he thrust back in, “Girl.”

You exhaled sharply, the angle so far different from the night before. He felt deeper, more intense, everywhere all at once. 

It was overwhelming. 

You scrunched your eyes shut as Aemond began to rut into you, your hands not once leaving his arms as you clutched onto him, shifting your hips to alleviate the way his tip pressed harshly against your cervix with each thrust. 

His hips clapped against yours brutally, speeding up, the movement shifting you up the bed as you squeaked with each impact, a warmth beginning to pool in your gut once more. The hair at the base of his cock brushed against your pearl roughly as his pelvis slid against yours, the stimulation winding that all too familiar coil again.

A moan broke free from your lips as Aemond shook a hand free, hoisting up one of your legs atop his hip, shifting the angle entirely so that his cock brushed against the small spongey patch within you deliciously, pleasure sending sparks through your limbs. Your eyes were shut so tightly, you could see stars behind them, your bottom lip gnawed between teeth. 

“Open your eyes.” Aemond breathed from above, his pace not once faltering. 

Your head tipped to the side, away from where Cregan sat, eyes still scrunched shut as you whined beneath him. 

“I said,” Aemond grunted, hand roughly coming to grasp your chin as he turned your head back towards Cregan, “Open.”His fingers squeezed painfully against your jaw, bruises likely to show in the morning, your eyes finally opening to find Cregan watching you already.

“Lord Stark knows how to follow orders. He’s not once taken his eyes off you.” Aemond purred, thrusting particularly sharply into you causing you to wince, “Do you think he wishes he were I?”

Your mouth felt dry again, and all you could do was watch as the blush on Cregan’s cheeks depend and his eyes momentarily flashed away form you before returning, remembering Aemond’s threat. 

“I think he does, sweet wife. I think he wishes that he was in your tight, wet, cunt as I am now. Don’t you agree?” 

Your breasts moved with each thrust, the sound of your slick sliding against his length loud as it was before as you huffed beneath your husband.

Aemond’s fingers tightened against your jaw, “I asked you a question.”

“Yes.”

Another squeeze.

“I do.” You breathed, your face suddenly feeling flushed. 

The man on top of you pulled out suddenly, hands moving under your sides to flip you over onto your stomach.

“Do not-“ You began angrily.

“-Quiet.” Aemond snapped, grabbing your hips as he pulled you up onto your knees, your hands fisting the sheets as you looked ahead, uncertainty filling your features before you felt the head of Aemond cock slide through your folds, and push straight back inside. 

“Fuck you.” You hissed as he began to fuck into you, “Gods.” The angle made you feel even fuller than before, but shallower too, his length constantly batting against your walls as his hips clapped against your ass.

You struggled to stay upright as he continued, his grip on your hips painful as he pulled you back onto him, the air being punched from your lungs each time, making you gasp out small little high pitched huffs. A hand in your hair wrenched your head back and then to the side, directing your face to meet the Stark’s who’s eyes were not on your own, but instead upon your body.

The heat of his gaze caused you to clamp down on Aemond’s length, the Lord’s roaming eyes watching as the Princes cock buried itself over and over inside of you, before slowly roaming back up your body, catching sight of your breasts below you as they moved, and then finally to your face. 

Seeing that he was caught, Cregan flushed, eyes casting down briefly before looking back up at you. He shifted against the chair, hands still tightly clenched against the arm, chest heaving, his thick muscled thighs clenching against the seat, and to-

Oh.

Cregan shifted again, knowing where your gaze had fallen, his hips trying to shift back against the wooden chair, but there was nothing to hide the hardening length within his dark leathered breeches, which pressed painfully to the front of his pants.

Your core clenched again, and from behind you heard Aemond grunt. 

You should have been upset, you should have been horrified, but all it did was set the heat that was already simmering in your gut ablaze, your nipples stiffening to peaks. Instinctually you arched your back, hoping to better the view, which got another grunt of appreciation from your husband, who’s pace was yet to falter, his stamina owed to years of hard work in the training yard with Ser Criston Cole. 

Cregan’s lips parted as he watched you, the pink of his tongue coming out to wet his lips, and that was all it took for you to come undone. You cried out loudly, keeping your eyes on Cregan as Aemond fucked you through your release, triggering his own. He came with a growl, his hips slowing to a halt as you felt his seed pulse inside of you. 

You collapsed against the bed, eyes half lidded as you watched Cregan shift again against his chair as Aemond slowly pulled out of you with a hiss. Warmth dripped from your folds and down your thighs as you felt the soft press of kiss against your shoulder blades. 

Your uncle manoeuvred you on the bed again, your body pliant in his hands as he pulled you to the edge of the bed, legs spread wide for Cregan to see. The man’s pale eyes drifted down to between your thighs, watching hungrily as Aemond’s spend dripped out from within you. 

“Tell me Cregan,” Aemond stood by the bed panting, tucking his length back into his breeches whilst he brushed a loose hair over your shoulder, “Did you enjoy watching me fuck my wife?”

The taunt earnt him a sneer. 

“An honest question deserving of an honest answer. I thought Stark’s were known for the honesty and oaths?” Aemond pressed.

You breathed heavily as you watched Cregan’s gaze fell to you and only you in that moment as his answer was given. 

“Yes.”

There was no denying the edge of arousal that roughened the edge of his answer. 

“Hm.” A beat, “Would you like a taste?”

You brows furrowed as you looked up to your husband, who kept his eye on Cregan, his hand atop your shoulder brushing gently in thought. 

A taste?

Did he mean to-

Your heart leapt into your throat, watching as Aemond took his blade from his side and moved towards the Stark man. 

“Stop!” You yelled, watching as Cregan did not flinch when Aemond approached him. 

“Worry not, I mean no harm. I am feeling generous.” Aemond purred, lifting the blade towards Cregan, “He watched dutifully as I put my seed inside of you.” His lilac eye dropped to Cregan’s hardened member, “And it seems that he has enjoyed it.” The Prince turned to face you, “I only wish to give him a parting gift. Something to remember… to agonise over for years to come.”

With a swift hand, Aemond sliced the ropes that bound Cregan's chest to the back of the chair, the Northerner staying still in his seat. The tall Targaryen bent down and cut the ropes on the mans legs loose, one by one.

“Now,” Aemond stood to his full height again, pointing his blade towards Cregan’s wrists, still tied to the chair, “Know that I have your men in a holding cell, and should you try anything, I shall have them all cut into seven pieces and strung about the gates.” Aemond paused, his gaze hardening, “And then I will stay true to my word.”

Cregan’s chest heaved with anger as he watched the prince, still not speaking a word.

“Do we understand each other?” Aemond questioned him, one silver brow lifted in challenge. 

Cregan’s jaw clenched, a click audible to the chambers, “Yes.” He growled.

Aemond hummed in acknowledgement and released his hands, taking a step back as Cregan stood slowly, rubbing at his raw wrists as he looked at you on the bed. His head turned back towards your husband, uncertain of what he meant. 

Impatiently Aemond thrust his arm towards you, blade still in hand, “Go to her. Taste how sweet she is, and know that you will never taste her again.”

Cregan shifted on his feet uncomfortably, looking to you for permission, for denial. 

You didn’t know what to do, or what to say, so instead, you widened your legs in invitation, feeling desire begin to stir in you once more. 

It was wrong. 

But Gods did you need it. 

“Clean her up.” Aemond commanded, and with slow and cautious steps, Cregan walked towards you.

The scent of Aemond was overpowered by that of Cregan’s. He smelt of cedar wood and fur, and the soft smell of musk beneath it all that just felt right for a Northerner. 

It felt as if each stepped dragged on for days. You shifted against the bed nervously, casting your eyes to Aemond, who watched with a desire of his own.

Cregan dropped to his knees, his hands twitching by the side of your hips on the bed, cautious to even touch you, a stark difference to the way Aemond simply took. The dark haired man looked up at you breathlessly as you gave him a nod, shifting your hips towards him again, likings the way his eyes dropped down to your centre and then back up. 

His large calloused hands grasped the soft meat of your hips, his eyes keeping on yours as he leant froward slowly, the heat of his breath fanning across your sensitive folds. Your mouth parted as you panted above him, watching as he wet his lips before finally pressing a chaste kiss to your core. 

A soft moan escaped your mouth, head dropping back momentarily, giving him a strike of confidence before burying his tongue between your folds. You dropped back onto the bed, hands coming to grasp his hair as he licked and suckled at your folds, lapping at both your and Aemond’s release which only served to spark your desire further, that same familiar coil winding rapidly.

You tilted your head to watch him, his eyes still on you as you began to come undone on his tongue. Your name pulled you away from his stare, and you turned your head to face Aemond who watched hungrily from beside, his jaw tensed. 

Already sensitive from such an intense night already, you writhed against Cregan’s mouth with a moan, his ministrations bringing you to your peak swiftly, your slick gushing into his mouth. You kept your eyes on Aemond this time, watching as he breathed deeply, his cock already beginning to swell in his breeches.

You panted and whined as the pleasure became too much, and only then did Cregan remove his face from between your thighs, roughly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

The chambers became still as you all breathed deeply, warmth spreading through your limbs as you couldn’t decide who to look at for longest. 

Your husband.

Or the Northerner.

All you could think about was what you had done. 

What had just transpired.

Your husband had trapped a Lord of the North in his chambers and forced him to watch you be fucked by him, and not only that, commanded that he cleaned you after. But what was the most confusing part of all, was that all in the chambers seemed to have liked it.

“Cole.” Aemond’s voice broke the stillness of the room, the door to the chambers opening swiftly. 

Cregan stepped in front of you to shield your body from Ser Cole at the same time Aemond did, his back turning to his knight as he grabbed the sheet of the bed to drape over your exposed body.

The knight entered, flagged by two guards.

Confusion flashed across Cregan’s face as he stiffened, body gearing itself up for a fight.

“Relax, Stark.” Aemond mused, not even bothering to look at the man as he observed the guards, eye landing on Ser Cole again, “Take Cregan and his men to the travel roads. Ensure they have food for travel and water for the ride. They are to leave Kings Landing immediately to return back to Winterfell.” 

Ser Cole nodded, as did the guards who swiftly approached Cregan, grabbing each arm as they began to remove him from Aemond’s chambers. The dark haired man looked back at you in confusion as you clutched the sheet your chest, unsure of what to do.

“Stark.” Aemond called out before the dark haired mans foot could cross the threshold. The Northerner stilled, eyes suspicious, “Expect a raven.”

Without another word, the guards pulled Cregan out of the room, Criston shutting the door behind them. The silence in the chambers was nerve-racking, and you turned to look at your uncle, who was already making his way to fill two goblets of wine. 

Your mouth opened, a myriad of questions ready to pour out your mouth, but as usual, Aemond seemed to be one step ahead.

“You’re my wife.” He began, the sound of wine filling goblets. He turned with them in hand, coming to stand beside the bed as he handed you one. 

You kept one hand with the sheets against your breast, the other shakily grasping the goblet, fatigue weighing your body down. Aemond spun to sit in the very chair that Cregan had been tied to, the ropes still on the floor in a heap.

“Our marriage is one of a prospect of peace, not love.” His words stung you in a way you didn’t realise they could, “Though, I do hope to change that one day. I wish to make you happy,” He paused, taking a sip from his goblet as he thought carefully, “And it would be remiss of me to say that what just happened didn’t spark something within me.”

You frowned, “I do not understand.”

“You looked like a Queen having him kneel before you.”

A beat.

“My Queen."

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to any tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! <3

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[raewritesfiction]

Ride [Daryl Dixon X Reader]

A/N: This… came to me? Enjoy? Not betad.

Plot: Daryl takes you out on a supply run on the bike. (Inexperienced but not totally innocent Daryl… he knows what he does to you but doesn’t quite know how to handle it…. Or you).

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x female!reader

Warnings: Smut. Masturbation with a bike??? Oral (F&M receiving).

[[ Lemme know if you wanna be added or removed from tags; no questions asked ♥️ likes are amazing however I really appreciate Reblogs to help spread my writing further! Thank you 🌈😘]]

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—

The crossbow wielding, bike riding, backwoods redneck had been teasing you for weeks now. The man hadn’t made his move on you but it was obvious to everyone around that you were both flirting with each other and it was getting on everyone’s nerves.

This particular morning you had been having a very good dream that had ended right before the best part could happen; you awoke panting and sweating to a yell from Daryl at your open front door telling you to get dressed, you were going on a run together. As much as you had been flirting, he still wouldn’t come to your room to wake you.

You swallow hard and call back you’ll be right down as you run a hand through your hair and hope it wasn’t obvious you were flustered by the time you got outside.

“C’mon..” Daryl leans against his bike outside your house.

“No truck?” You ask.

“Don’ need it… bike’s fine.” He drawls and puts out his cigarette.

You nod and climb on the back of the bike; this has to be Rick’s doing, pairing you up like this again for another run when you’d only recently done one.

The bike roars to life and you have to bite your lip to hold back a squeak as it vibrates through you. You’re still sensitive as hell from your dream and frustrated you never got the happy ending part; that woulda been a way to wake up for sure.

Daryl steers off and you head out the gates down the road; you’re usually so relaxed riding pillion with Daryl but this morning you’re tense and trying to hold yourself together. Daryl seems to notice your tension and looks back over his shoulder as he stops at a junction.

“Ya okay?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah… yeah I’m fine.”

“Ya sure? Relax then will ya..?”

You nod “sorry… didn’t realise I wasn’t.” You lie and wrap your arms around his waist as he rides off. You keep your face hidden against his back as the bike continues to rumble through you; it’s having a very specific effect and you find it hard to keep quiet, opting to bite your lip and feign yawns as the undeniable pleasure starts building between your legs.

By the time Daryl comes to a stop you can’t hide the fact you’re panting against him and you were so damn close to where you wanted to be but he turns off the bike.

“What’s wrong wit’ ya..? Panting like a damn dog.”

“Uh…” you try to come up with an answer but fail, instead you carefully climb off the bike and immediately sink into a squat beside it.

“Oh…” Daryl may have been inexperienced but he wasn’t stupid, he figured out exactly what was happening and stands smirking at you; he watches for a few seconds and then steps over “want a hand?”

“Why? What you offering?” The words had left your mouth before you could stop them and now there was really no taking them back.

Daryl holds out his hand for you to take, you do so and squeak as he quickly pushes you back against the bike to sit on the edge with your legs spread.

Now? Now he decides to make his move? In the middle of run down buildings where anything could appear?

You look up at the man standing between your legs as he speaks “I said… d’ya want a hand…?” You fail to find words and instead just nod before looking around the area.

Daryl smirks again and nods “.. ‘s what I thought..” he makes quick work of undoing your jeans and pulling them down your legs with your panties before sinking to his knees “Looks like ya made a mess..” he remarks and spreads your knees as far as the denim at your ankles would allow. You blush and have no time to say anything before Daryl has pushed his face between your legs, licking and sucking over you with fervour.

“Oh… fuck!” You grip the bike as he tips you back and growls against you. You’re already a panting mess again and you’re embarrassed by how little work it takes from Daryl to bring you to the brink again.

His hands move over your thighs and hips, up under your tee to your ribs and you arch to wherever his hands find themselves until he takes the hint and reaches up a little further to knead and massage your breasts; his fingers teasing your nipples until they’re hard and aching.

“Fuck… Daryl!” You moan and drop your head back, holding back a louder moan as you hit your peak and finally hit the climax you’d been desperately chasing in your dream.

Daryl laps over you and hums, his hands gliding over you soothingly as you relax and look down at him. He pulls away slowly and kisses over your inner thighs before standing. After a few moments you redress yourself and lick your lips.

“How about… I give you a hand now?” You run a hand through your messy hair.

“Wha?” Daryl frowns and then looks down as you motion to the tent in his pants.

You look around again and nothing has appeared from the many hiding places so you sink down into a squat, leaning back against the bike as you unzip Daryl’s pants; pulling them down with his boxers to free him.

Daryl leans forward and places his hands on the bike when you lick along the underside of his exposed cock.

“Fuck…” he groans.

You slowly close your mouth around him, hollowing out your cheeks as you take him deeper and suck hard pulling another low groan from him.

“Woman…” he gasps and closes his eyes.

Your hands travel up his thighs to his hips and ass, squeezing as you move your head faster. You weren’t sure how long Daryl would last but at this pace you didn’t think it would be long.

“I…” he grunts and pants roughly.

Taking this to mean you were right you suck harder, squeezing his ass and moaning around him as you worked him. His grunts and moans mix until they become a simple mantra of “Fuck” as he reaches his own climax, his release coating your tongue.

You swallow around him, looking up under your lashes to catch the expression of ecstasy on his face as you do so before pulling away and wiping the corners of your mouth.

Daryl takes a few moments and then shakily pulls up his clothes to redress himself.

“That mouth is gon’ get ya in ta trouble..” he breathes.

You wink and stand “so… we’d better… look for supplies or they’ll get suspicious.”

“Let ‘em be… there’s more I wanna do ta ya..”

[coquitokisses]

Oh, baby! | Dean Winchester

Pairings: Dean Winchester x female!reader

Summary: reader had a one night stand with Dean and they find out she’s pregnant

Word count: 1.4k

A/n: I gotta be honest, this is from a fanfic lmao, which is supposed to be a crossover of Teen Wolf and Supernatural, but I haven’t published it yet and I’ve been wanting to write something about Dean for a whileee so I decided to just edit this lil thing I had and post it here cuz why not?

“Hey, Cas, you’re back.” You smile sweetly at him once you saw him as you made your way to the library to help Sam with research

“Hi, y/n.” He replied with a small smile that soon turned into a confused frown

You noticed. “Everything okay?”

“How do you feel?” He asks

“I’m fine.” You replied, not understanding his sudden worry

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Cas, why? What’s wrong?” You questioned feeling a little alarmed by the way he was asking

“It’s just that I feel another presence.” He said

“Another presence?” Sam took his eyes off the laptop to look at Castiel

“What do you mean another presence?” Dean’s voice was soon heard throughout the library

“Is it bad?” You ask

“No,” Castiel shook his head. “It’s inside you.”

“Inside me?!” You were so confused right now “But what is it? Is it bad?”

“Is she okay?” Sam asked somewhat worried after hearing Castiel’s words

“She’s fine,” he replied and then looked at you “Can I?” he raised his hand

You nodded giving him permission to do whatever he had to do. Castiel put a hand on your forehead and then began to lower it down your body, but without actually touching it, until it reached your belly.

“Can I?” he looked at you, you just nodded

He placed his hand on your belly and that’s when he realized what was the presence he was feeling.

“It’s a baby,” he said, removing his hand

You almost choked. “I’m sorry, WHAT?!”

“A.. baby?” Sam was dumbfounded

“Wait, wait, are you sure?” Dean looked at Castiel

“Very sure,” the angel nodded

“It can’t be...” you put one of your hands on your chest. “Oh my God..”

“Are you really sure?” Dean asked again

“Yes, Dean, I am one hundred percent sure that I feel a baby’s presence.” Castiel snapped back

“This isn’t happening.” Dean ran his hands over his face “This is.. this is simply not happening.”

“Please don’t tell me you guys…” Sam looked at you both

“Sam, just shut up for a minute, okay?” Dean replied

“I- I need to get some air.” You muttered as you walked backwards like three steps and then turned around heading to the stairs

“Y/n wait!” Sam called out but you ignored him

You got out of the bunker and you took a deep breath trying to calm yourself down and not have a panic attack.

“This can’t be real..” you murmured to yourself

You raised your hands to your belly and you’re just standing there in shock.

Of course you wanted a family, but you knew that it was probably not going to happen due to the fact that you’re a hunter and you’ve been hunting basically your whole life. You knew how your life was gonna end. And you made your peace with that. Kinda.

Worst thing about all of this is the fact that Dean is the one who got you pregnant. You two used to hate each other, but throughout the years, you’ve learned to tolerate each other and well, you’ve basically been working with them since they had to deal with the angels pretty much.

He’s always had a crush on you and you knew it, but it wasn’t really that serious. He usually just flirted with you and most of the time you just ignored him.

Until a few weeks ago, while you guys were finishing up a case that Sam decided to let you two handle so you could work on your communication and your anger issues, because the week before that, you have to admit that you were both butting heads every five minutes, and it was driving Sam insane. So he sent you both to deal with a vampire case in Wyoming and with a little assignment to work on your issues and stop behaving like kids. His words.

And you did worked your issues out. You just didn’t think it was gonna be by having sex, but hey, you weren’t complaining at all. He was perfect. And it was the best night you’ve ever had in a while.

And here are the results of that hook up.

It’s clear to say that neither of you are prepared, mentally nor physically prepared to have a kid.

And besides, how were you gonna raise a kid together if you can’t even get along for more than two days?

You got on your car and decided to go for a ride, just to clear your head. And while you were at it, you bought like two boxes of pregnancy tests just to be one thousand percent sure and because you would believe it more once you see it yourself.

You got something to eat after that and decided to use the bathroom at a gas station so you could take the pregnancy tests.

While you waited on the results, you were walking around in the small bathroom, thinking what the hell you were gonna do.

After a few minutes of talking to yourself internally, you decided to take a look at the four pregnancy tests.

“Oh god..” you muttered under your breath seeing the plus sign on the tests

(…)

After a while of just driving around, you finally decided to get back to the bunker. Once you open the door, Dean’s head turned to look at you immediately.

“Where were you?” He asked, leaving the book he was reading on the table

“I was getting rid of the little creature,” you replied

“Y/n.” Dean gave your a stern look

“I’m kidding.” You rolled your eyes. “I went for a ride and to get something to eat, anything else you want to know?”

You walked to where he was and put your hand inside the pocket of your jacket.

“In case you thought Castiel was lying...” you took the pregnancy tests out of your jacket pocket and placed them on the table. “It’s quite real.”

Dean looked at the tests in front of him realizing that this was really happening. He did believe Cas, but seeing the positive pregnancy tests, definitely made his mind finally fall into the acceptance that this was real. Very real.

Dean sighed. “Look, I know you’re not completely happy with this situation, believe me, I’m not either, but..-

“But we already did it and now we have to take responsibility, I know,” you said taking off your jacket “What I’m still trying to figure out is how you and I are going to raise a baby”

“I don’t know either.” He sighed

“This wasn’t supposed to happen” you pulled out a chair so you could sit and then you brought your hands to you face

“I know...” Dean said in a soft voice and leaned a little so he could look at you. “Hey,” he gently took you by the wrists, removing your hands from your face. “You’re not going to be alone, I’m not going for a pack of cigarettes and never come back.”

That made you laugh a little. “I know you won’t.”

“I’m just.. scared.” He admitted “Scared to raise a kid, scared that I might turn out like my dad and I don’t want that..”

“You’re not going to be like your father, Dean.” You said softly “And I’m scared too, like, I’m gonna be carrying a baby inside of me for the next nine months, I’m terrified that I won’t be a good mom.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re going to be an amazing mom.”

You smiled a little. “That’s kinda comforting.”

“I think we can make it work if we make the effort.”

“We hate each other.” You roll your eyes

He scoffs. “Speak for yourself, I don’t hate you, sweetheart, like, at all.”

You chuckle. “Don’t lie to yourself, you only wanted to get in my pants.” You joked

“Well yeah, but I don’t hate you.” He shrugged

“I don’t hate you either, you’re just.. very annoying.” You said

“You are too.”

You roll your eyes. “Right.”

“In all seriousness,” he started saying “I think we should give it a try.” He looked into your eyes “And you know, we would also be getting out of this life and finally getting a normal one.”

“That does sound nice.” You nodded

“It’s up to you, babe.” He said

You could see in his eyes that he was dead serious about this. He wanted this. He wanted to give it a try with you.

And after a few seconds of thinking, you finally responded.

“Let’s do it then.” You said and he smiled “But we’re not getting married.”

“I’m fine with that.” He said with a shrug which made you smile

part two • main masterlist

A/n: I think I can make this into a small series, should I? 👀

Likes, comments and reblogs will be appreciated! <3

divider creds @hyuneskkami

[weird-is-life]

If you're open to aaron hotchner x reader requests, what about being a consultant/detective etc and Hotch has an obvious crush and trying to play it cool? Maybe with the team noticing but reader is totally oblivious! Thanks

Hiii, lovely!🥰 I'm soo sorry that it took me so long..... hope this is okay. Warnings: fluff, mentions of food, Derek being a wingman, (1k)

Aaron is staring. And he doesn't even realise it. You are standing just across the room chatting with JJ, and Aaron can't keep his eyes off of you.

He doesn't know what's happening to him. He hasn't felt this way in a long long time. He can't even remember the last time he wanted to ask someone out.

There's an attempt to stifle a laugh behind Aaron, and he doesn't even need to turn around to know it's Derek.

"What?" Aaron asks bitely, frowning at Derek in his usual way.

"Nothing," Derek puts his hands up, but the stupid smirk stays on his face. "Nothing, just that you should ask her out."

Aaron doesn't react immediately, not wanting to out himself. He tries to play it cool (too late for that), "ask who out?"

Derek laughs again," C'mon, Hotch. You're not really being discreet about it."

Aaron just glares at him in warning. He doesn't feel like having this conversation with him, like at all. Aaron doesn't even want to admit these feelings to himself let alone Derek.

"You really should, Hotch. It would be good for you. And she obviously likes you too," your red cheeks around Hotch, and the stolen glances tell Derek enough of your feelings towards Aaron.

"Thank you for you suggestion, Derek. But I don't think you're right about it," Aaron tells him, not wanting to get his hopes up.

"No Hotch, you are wrong about it." Derek says, and pats him on the back, ready to leave Aaron be.

Aaron turns back to the paperwork that he definitely should be filling out instead of looking at you. The case is over, so the team only needs to sign off a few papers, and then they can go home.

They're not even very far from Quantico just a few minutes drive. So everyone is even more eager to get home, and Aaron doesn't want to keep them all here just because he can't stop staring at you.

"Derek," Aaron calls after him just as he is about to leave," tell everyone that you can go home. I'm not even halfway through the paperwork."

"You sure? I can help."

"Yes, I'm sure. Go home." Aaron leaves no room for argument, Derek just nods and heads to tell it to JJ. Aaron tries to push you out of his mind, and goes back to writing.

-

"Hello, ladies," Derek greets you and JJ," sorry to interrupt you, but Hotch send me to tell you that we can all go home. That he's going to finish the papers alone."

You scowl at Derek, "alone?"

"Yeah, you know Hotch, he's always working hard, too hard," JJ adds with a sad smile," but sometimes he lets us help him. It's not often though."

Derek nods in agreement, knowing there's nothing to do with Aaron's stubbornness. They both give you one last small smile before you say your goodbyes.

When it's only a few officers, you and Aaron left in your station, you drift towards where he sits.

He looks up at you as you approach, his eyes immediately softening. "Hey," you say, peeking over his shoulder to the papers in front of him.

"Hey, what are u still doing here?" Aaron asks, he wonders if you are staying late because of paper work, too. He hopes you don't.

"You know, just finishing everything. Better question is why are you still here, agent. You should go home. You and your team worked your asses off for the last few days."

Aaron stretches his back as he tells you," so did you and your station, and I don't see you going home."

You laugh, and you say, " touché." It makes Aaron chuckle, too. Smile wrinkles complimenting his already too handsome face.

"I wanted to ask if you need help with it?" you offer once your chuckling dies down.

Aaron shakes his head before he speaks," thank you for the offer, but no. You should go home. I got this."

Aaron is sending you home not only because it's late, but also out of pure selfish thoughts. He wouldn't be able to work with you sitting next to him, that's for sure.

"If you aren't leaving, Agent Hotchner, then neither am I," you murmur, and dissappear into your office. You emerge from there after a few seconds with a few papers in your hands.

You sit down directly next to Aaron, and suddenly it's like he can't function properly. Words lost in his mind, unable to write one proper sentence.

It takes him a good while to recover while you happily sit next to him, finishing up your own papers. Every now and then you sneak a glance at Aaron. His focused face makes you smile, because he looks so handsome and so adorable at the same time.

Aaron can feel your eyes everytime, but right when he returns the stare you avert your eyes, cheeks rosy. It kills him even more.

You sit like that for almost an hour, but both of you finish the papers. You stand up, stretching your stiff back, "it's been a pleasure doing paperwork with you, agent Hotchner."

Your kind smile is catching, and Aaron smiles at you too," it's just Aaron, please." He tells you, and you beam sheepishly at him, asking him to call you by your first name as well.

Maybe it's your smile or your pretty eyes, but suddenly Aaron asks boldly, "are you hungry?"

You think about it for a split of a second," definitely. I haven't really eaten anything the whole day. Why?"

"Would you like to get something to eat right now? With me?" Aaron quickly blurts out before his sudden courage about this runs out. If he Derek was there to see him right now, he'd be pissing himself laughing at Aaron's poor attempt.

Your eyes go wide, "like...-like a date?"

"Yes. Exactly like a date," Aaron leaves no room for doubt that he likes you like that. He's sure you know already, though.

"I would like that very much," you say quietly, bashfully.

It's Aaron's time to beam at you," great, then let's go. I know a place."

You manage to grab your coat before you are ushered to Aaron's car. Both of you as excited as one can get about a date.

[nickeverdeen]

Lion’s Den | Hermione Granger x Hufflepuff fem!reader

Pairings: Hermione x reader (romantic), Harry x reader (platonic), Hermione x Harry (platonic)

Type of fic: Comedy, Fluff (?)

Warnings: None

Summary (this one is described so bad): While hanging out in the common room with your girlfriend and friend Harry finds out that you don’t only carry books and studied in your school bag, yet Hermione is kidna used to it

Ps: This fic may be a bit wobly as I’m feeling highly sick and couldn’t really focus while writing it, sorry cariños if it wasn’t worth the wait

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The Gryffindor common room was a comforting haven that evening, its roaring fire casting golden light over the scattered couches and armchairs. The winter chill seeped through the castle walls, but the warmth inside gave the room a cozy glow. Hermione sat in her usual spot, her legs crossed and a thick book balanced in her lap. You, her Hufflepuff girlfriend, were stretched out on the couch with your head resting on her lap, a serene smile on your face as you listened to Harry chatter about Quidditch.

“Really, Harry, I’m not that good yet,” you said, your voice soft but earnest. “I’ve only been practicing as a Chaser for a few months.”

Harry shook his head, leaning forward with enthusiasm. “You’re selling yourself short. You made the team, didn’t you? That means you’ve got talent. Trust me, if you want to throw off a Keeper, fake left, then go for a sharp right. It works almost every time.”

You hummed thoughtfully, glancing up at Hermione, who had yet to look up from her book. Her fingers idly played with your hair, her touch soothing and gentle. “What do you think, Hermione?”

Hermione finally tore her eyes from the page, her lips curving into a small smile as she glanced between you and Harry. “I think you should trust your instincts. But if you’re asking me to analyze Quidditch strategy, I’m afraid you’re asking the wrong person.”

Harry grinned. “That’s true. Hermione would rather analyze—what are you reading? Magical law?”

“Magical Creatures’ Rights in the Modern Age,” she corrected, a faint note of pride in her voice. “But don’t let me interrupt your strategy session.”

As the conversation continued, Harry leaned back and sighed. “You know what would be perfect right now? Hot chocolate. I’d kill for a cup.”

Your eyes lit up, and you sat up slightly, reaching for the bag you’d brought along. “Funny you should mention that,” you said, pulling out a thermos and a cup.

Harry’s jaw dropped as you poured a generous serving of steaming hot chocolate and topped it with a handful of marshmallows from your bag. You handed the cup to him with a grin. “Here you go.”

Harry stared at the cup in disbelief. “How… why…? Why do you have it in your school bag?”

You shrugged, a playful glint in your eyes. “I had a hunch.”

Still baffled, Harry opened his mouth to question you further, but Hermione put her book aside and gave him a knowing look. “Don’t bother, Harry. She’s always like this. Her bag and pockets are full of surprises. It’s best not to ask.”

Harry shook his head with a laugh. “You’re a legend, you know that?”

“I try” you yawned, your eyes growing heavier as you leaned back into Hermione’s lap. She adjusted her position slightly, making sure you were comfortable, and draped an arm over your shoulders.

The fire crackled softly as the room grew quieter. Harry and Hermione lowered their voices, their conversation becoming a hushed murmur. Before long, you drifted off, your breathing steady and peaceful.

Hermione glanced down at you, her expression softening. She reached for a blanket draped over the back of the couch and gently covered you with it.

“Harry,” she said quietly, “can you do me a favor? Go find someone from Hufflepuff and let them know she might stay here tonight. Last time she stayed too late, they nearly gave heart attack to the Fat Lady looking for her.”

Harry winced at the memory. “Right. The Hufflepuff Search Party. I’ll make sure to tell them before things get… intense again.”

He got up and slipped out of the common room, leaving Hermione alone with you. She brushed a strand of hair from your face, her gaze lingering on your peaceful expression.

“You really are something else,” she murmured, a fond smile curving her lips.

The warmth of the fire and the quiet comfort of the room wrapped around you both, and Hermione settled back into the couch, her fingers gently tracing patterns on your shoulder as you slept.

[perrywrites]

Aaaaahhhhhh!!!! Your writings are so good! Can I ask for Ness, Kunigami, and Nagi to fill out the roster for the “mumbling ‘i want you inside me’” blurbs you got going on? If you’re not too busy of course! Idk which characters exactly you write for tho so it’s cool if you forego Ness or smth

YES, I was already writing Shidou, so I wrote Nagi and Kunigami with him as well. The cutie Ness will have to wait his turn (if there is one, I'll see if I'm inspired) 😞😞😞 BUT ALSO, having Kunigami and Shidou on one list feels illegal and wrong ngl LOLOL, thank you so much for liking my writing 🥺🥺🥺

Absentmindedly murmuring that you want him inside of you during practice part 4;

NSFW 

Includes; Nagi, Kunigami, Shidou

Part 1 (Isagi, Hiori, Bachira) and part 2 (Chigiri, Reo) and part 3 (Barou, Kaiser) and part 5 (Sae, Rin, Karasu, Otoya, Yukimiya)

Nagi: he only knows you’re here when Reo elbows him, telling him that you’re here, except this time Reo is snickering in a way that confuses him. Why is he laughing? What’s so funny about you being here? Nevertheless, unanswered questions fading away in his head, he turns to see you across the field, and he waves at you - but there’s something weird about you. Although you wave back, like you would usually do, it’s not an energetic kind of wave. It’s more lethargic, hand barely raised, and something about you seems like you’re not really there. Right now you kind of seem like the zombies he shoots in his games. Concerned and confused, he blinks at your weird behaviour, but he saves it until his break. The moment he gets his chance, he’s making his way over to you, but the closer he gets to you, the more… confused he starts to feel; your state doesn’t seem as similar to a zombie’s as he initially thought. You’re certainly seeing him, that’s for sure, but your eyes are weird. They’re all opaque and dazed, as if you’re delirious from a fever of sorts. He doesn’t know why, but something about your glassy eyes makes him antsy. “... You there?” And it’s when your dreamy smile widens, your head tilting, that he realizes even before the words leave your mouth exactly what is up with you. Ah, so that’s it. You need him right now. That’s what those eyes are for, yes, he remembers. That’s how you look up at him sometimes when he’s trying to get you into bed. Except, you’ve never said the kind of thing you just said, and those sultry words send heat straight down to his cock. Something in that breathy tone of yours tugs at his heart and he becomes restless. What are you doing to him? He shifts on his feet slightly. You can’t do this to him right now. Not right now. Don’t look at him like that right now, it’s making him think of you in a way that’s going to make going back to practice really hard - pun intended. The only kind of thoughts that are sitting in his head now are all images of him making you cry on his cock, using that pussy of yours until you pass out, pounding away until your voice is ruined. And, ah, shit, well. He can no longer deny himself, it’s too hard to resist this urge and go back to practice. So when Reo comes to tell him that practice is about to start, all he mutters is a quiet “sorry Reo” before he grabs you by the arm and drags you off somewhere. You’re the one that started this, you can take responsibility by letting him go as many times as he wants, right? 

Shidou: the moment he catches that hazy gaze of yours, he’s busting his ass laughing right on the field, yelling to his teammates something about how he’s eager to score even harder with his girl looking all cute for him. Rin is the one that tells him to shut up - both of them somehow seem destined to stick together, joining the same exact league, both bemoaning their misfortune. All Shidou does is almost start a fight, taunting Rin back in response, telling him that if he’s so jealous he should stop being loveless and go get with someone already so he can hop off of Shidou’s dick already. Of course, the rest of their teammates and coach have to get involved to calm both of their asses down, and so there’s an unplanned break. Immediately, first things first, he heads over to you, all amused, noting how you’re still looking at him like that, all lovesick and yearning. Shit, damn, you’re gonna make him catch a public indecency case. “Shit sweetheart, you’re looking like you want to milk my cock, huh? Want me to bust my load inside of you or something?” Turns out, that’s exactly what you wanted, because you say that - say that you want him inside of you. Well then, he didn’t expect that - usually in the face of his desire (for you, you, only you), you had a tendency to be a bit more shy. That was nice, getting to tease you and watch you get flustered, then have you make all of those lewd sounds and faces for him - but… There was something about you being all bold and blunt like this about wanting him to fuck you that got his blood pumping. It made him want to go the extra mile in fucking you - even though he already always goes full out when fucking you -  try out new positions and breed you in each and every single one, shoot his burning hot cum right into your womb as he holds you down and your perfect pussy flutters around his cock again and again. He won’t even take his cock out this time, leave it in until he gets hard enough to fuck you again and again and again - he’ll give it all to you, he’ll get you fucking pregnant, fuck his cum into you until he’s sure of conception, shit. You want that, don’t you? Just the same as him, yeah? Of course you do, you’re just as much of a fucking pervert as him. So within a moment of you saying something that hot, he has already made the decision of pumping his seed into you right then and there. That’s why he immediately picks you up, throwing you onto his shoulder and you yelp - confused and disoriented as he starts carrying you off, warning everyone to not enter the showers for the next hour or so unless they want to hear him giving it to you good. Rin scoffs from the side, glaring, saying something about practice, but Shidou laughs, having none of it. “Fuck off virgin eyelashes, impregnating my girl takes priority~” You hear Rin muttering something about him not being a virgin beneath his breath, but that’s no longer your concern. You’ve lent fuel to a forest fire and now it’s going to burn through the whole country, don’t think you can walk after how hard he fucks you. After all, Shidou Ryusei loves invitations, especially if it’s the kind you give. Although, your biggest concern soon will definitely be how you’re going to face the rest of his teammates after they inevitably hear all those raunchy sounds you’re 100% sure Shidou will make sure you’re unable to suppress...

Kunigami: although he’s not exactly an oblivious guy, he’s not exactly the most conscious guy either when it comes to this kind of stuff. He never really knew when a girl crushed on him or swooned over his gentlemanly behaviour up until he got a confession. That still holds true even now, but you’re not exactly ever ‘subtle’ - case in point, those very obvious bedroom eyes you’re giving him at the moment. He feels his ears burn, face warm - not because of physical exertion - as he tries to ignore your eyes absolutely burning through his back. Why are you looking at him like that right now? Are you even aware of the kind of dreamy expression you’re making? You don’t seem like it. God, you’re distracting him, completely. The things he’d do to be alone with you right now - goddammit, he feels like a pervert now. When his break arrives and he goes over to you, the fervent blush only deepens - you’re still looking at him like you want him to claim you, eyes all hooded and dazed, pouty lips parted open. “Hey…” He curses himself for his awkwardness even with his own girlfriend, keeping his eyes averted from you as he rubs the back of his neck. “… You good?” Is that all he can say? Really? Wow, great going Kunigami, what a great job. But before he can berate himself any further for his awkwardness - he’s always a little shy when it comes to the more intimate side of your relationship - you say something that has him sputtering, eyes wide as he looks at you. Did you - did you really just say that? The way your lips twitch up into a small smile is enough of a confirmation, and he feels his heart beat intensely beneath his broad ribcage. How do you - how do you just… say things like that. “You… You sure do love to tease me, huh…?” And then he falls silent, shifting on his leg as you giggle lightly at his words, the sound of your voice making him shiver slightly now. Do you even know what you do to him? How you make him want to push your legs up right into your chest and just pound away? Fuck you into the bed as you cry out his name? Claim you, over and over again, make you sore and exhausted as he uses your body until you’re full of his cum. Fuck, god. He should be thinking of kicking balls right now, scoring goals, but instead his head grows empty and blood rushes down to the wrong head. Why are you like this? Why do you do this to him? He curses beneath his breath, willing the wrong head to go back to sleep, and he catches you staring at the bulge all yearningly and - ah fuck, he can’t play like this. He grabs your hand and pulls you up. You’re coming with him and helping him deal with the ‘problem’ you caused, okay? Hopefully he can get a quick round in before the break finishes, or well, if he can’t… He might as well fuck you for as long as he pleases.

Also I finally realized there's a character limit per block thingy LMFAO, I couldn't figure out what was the problem the last two times and just did 2 characters I'm such an idiot 😭😭😭

[flamingpudding]

do you still take requests? if you do can you write your take on this idea https://www.tumblr.com/ilydana/746501696852819968/cloneclonedbatman?source=share

Thanks for the Ask! That's is an interesting one!

Also as long as I can write something to it I don't mind getting requests, if I can't I will let people know if I can. So no worries about that K?

Out of courtesy and because I believe its is the right thing to do here the Link and a Tag to the original writer @ilydana I hope you don't mind that I am taking inspiration from you for this.

Also I don't know Conners Timeline well and I like to base my writings on the Wayne Family Adventures settings so.... yea sorry if I got some facts wrong....

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Clone double Wamy

Thinks were never easy for the Waynes, Bruce realised that when he sat in the meeting room. Usually he would have confronted his best friend in a more private setting, like when it was just the two of them or only Diana with them. But his best friend had been grating on his nerves with this for a while now. Bruce had honestly believed Clark had gotten better with the whole Clone thing but apparently he hadn't.

"All I am saying is that Conner is a person and to stop referring to him as 'it'." Bruce wasn't sure what had this brought on but maybe it was also having listened to his own kids rants about the way Conner had been and sometimes still was treated by Clark. Usually when someone called his friend out on it he would laugh awkwardly and say it was a slip of the tongue. That he still wasn't completely used to the idea of having a clone.

It's been years and Bruce wasn't buying that excuse anymore.

Well his persistent nagging had now caused this petty fight in front of everyone. He knew his children present, Dick and Tim, would have his back as well as most of their friends. But he also knew that those that prefer to keep the peace would try to argue in Clarks favor to sweep this hole problem under the rug once more.

"You don't get what it is like to be cloned or how long it takes to get used to it!"

His eye twitched under his cowl, he could also feel his kids tense up, especially Tim. His entire family had expirence when it came to cloning. The number of labs from the LoA they had shut down and destroyed was a testament to it. But there was one thing his entire Family aside from Alfred didn't know either.

"I actually do."

He stated calmly watching Clarks reaction as he stared unwaveringly at his best friend. He could see the colour drain, the paling and the pure look of disbelief he was getting, while Nightwing and Red Robin stood up to stand behind him with crossed arms. They probably thought he was referencing the time they had to fight Damian's Clones that sadly couldn't be saved like Conner had been.

"What do you....?" His best friend started but wasn't able to finish his question as Bruce decided to rip the bandaid off.

"The original Bruce Wayne died before he even was one month old. My parents, unable to cope with the loss cloned the baby with the help of a pair of scientist from Illinois." If the situation was different he might have laughed into the faces the people around him were making, not very Batman like of him but it was kind of funny. Still he was thankful for the comforting hand his son, Dick, placed on his shoulder or the way his other son, Tim inched closer protectively like. These two while probably shocked still stood by his side.

"And i was not the only clone that resulted from my parents original grief."

He left it at that as he stood and left the meeting without any further explanation. Bruce had made his point clear, now the ball was in his friends court. He was thankful that his kids followed him out as he went straight to the Zeta-Tubes to return to the Batcave. He knew his kids had questions for him, but he was not willing to answer them in front of the other heroes and thankfully his kids knew that that. So they silently followed him until they were back to the cave.

"B?" Dick asked tentatively once they were back in the came.

"It is as simply as I stated. My parents grieved the loss of their original son and unable to cope they cloned their own child with the help of a pair of scientist." He reiterated his earlier statement not looking at the two at first. For a brief moment he was thankful his other kids were out and about busy with other things.

"A pair of scientists?" Tim propped further and Bruce sighed wondering how much he should tell or if he could keep some things secret.

"Family actually. Estranged but they were... are family." He nodded. "The Fentons. Jack Fenton was my fathers cousin. Because of his field of research he got estranged from the family, not fitting into the perfect image my great grandparents had in mind for the Waynes originally. My father contacted him for help regarding the cloning back then."

"You said you weren't the only one?" He gave Tim a small smile, it was just like him to catch on to the small details and focus his questions on that.

"I didn't know until many years later when my parents died." He smiled a little remembering back to his training with Lady Gotham and how she asked him if he had siblings and then proceeded to introduce him to his clone twin. Ever since then Danny had become quite the fixture in his life, a reconnected family member. Though they had needed a lot of help when it came to actually speaking with each other but that thankfully Danny's sister Jazz helped.

He couldn't help the laugh that escaped him when he noticed Dick's stare of realisation. "Uncle Danny!"

Bruce just smirked, chuckling lightly as he gave his eldest a slight nod. "Danny."

Dick was the most familiar with Danny having meet the other a couple of times when he was younger and just started out as Robin. Bruce wasn't ashamed to say that Danny and Alfred had been the two he had asked for advice the most when he had taken Dick in back then. Danny had already expirence in raising kids from an even younger age than Bruce had. That their two cousins Dan and Danielle were in a way clones too was however something he would not be telling his kids yet. Frankly it wasn't his place and honestly if Danny hadn't become as comfortable as he had with this fact over the year he wouldn't have outed his clone twin to his kids either.

"So...." Tim started, rubbing the back of his head nervously. "...what now? Not that it will change anything now but uh...."

"Nothing really? I mean if Clark still got a problem then well I guess we don't have a super uncle anymore? But hey maybe we could introduce Uncle Danny to Conner?" Dick shrugged turning to Tim.

"But that would mean we admit to Uncle Danny that B let us in in the secret and that could make things awkward and..."

"Tim you are overthinking! It will be fine!"

Bruce smiled as he watched his two sons start to argue wether or not to introduce Danny to Conner. Well even if they did Danny wouldn't mind it. In fact Bruce had kept his clone twin updated on a lot of things that happened with his work as Batman. One of the reasons was that Danny had started out in the hero business way sooner than Bruce had but also because Danny was his last resort contingency plan against everything.

His twin would probably laugh in their faces and ask why it took them so long to introduce them and then drag his own daughter to meet Conner so they could have some 'clone'-bonding time and knowing Danielle, she was going to drag Dan along and then Bruce himself too. Bruce chuckled at that thought, he also knew that if Clark doesn't clean up his act than Danny would most likely swoop in and adopt Conner right out of under Clarks nose.

Well all he had to say if it came to that was that his best friend wouldn't be able to blame anyone but himself then.